He wasn’t aware of shoving the phone in his pocket, didn’t see the people he threaded his bike around and between, only noting a few faces of the brave ones, the ones who ran towards the noise and chaos and not away. Then he was on the highway and in third gear, eyes locked on the back end of the van already a half a mile up the road. Fourth and fifth, jamming his foot up to catch the next gear, hands working in thought-free harmony, the back doors of the van growing larger and larger until he was directly behind the vehicle. He swooped towards the line, angling for a view of coming traffic, knowing the road ran straight for several miles. Seeing a semi in the distance, he fell back behind the van, waiting.
Before the truck drove past in the other lane, the van’s brake lights came on. It slowed, then turned right onto a small country road. Po’Boy grinned, thinking, Perfect. Reaching to the small of his back, he pulled his pistol out, letting his arm drop until the gun rested on one thigh, keeping his grip loose but steady. His thumb twirled the throttle set, aiming for just slower than he was running right now. Then he shifted the gun to his right hand, left on the handlebars keeping the bike straight, waiting to lift the gun until he angled out into oncoming to see nothing. Perfect. He leaned a little further left, and then lined things up, taking out the front tire on the driver side with a single shot. Still rolling at speed, the van weaved, the driver fighting for control. Po’Boy jammed the gun between his leg and the seat, thumb again working the throttle set on the bike, letting his speed slowly bleed off. Waiting. Half a mile, no more, before the van pulled to a stop, the shredded tire gone, bare rim grinding on the chip seal surface of the road, digging furrows, gouging deep. Po’Boy put the bike in neutral and stopped before the van did, letting it gain a few dozen yards on his position.
He was ready when the men appeared, gun in hand, each of his shots hitting the intended mark, the entire encounter over in moments. “Fuckin’ liked this gun,” he muttered, ejecting the magazine and shoving it in his pocket. Kickstand down, he dismounted the bike, stalking towards the inoperable van where even over the ringing in his ears he could hear the child screaming. Po’Boy wiped his gun clean with the inside of his shirt before swapping it for a similar make one of the men had in hand, taking that magazine with him, too.
He approached the van and peered in through the open side door. The child was a little girl, blonde and desperately cute, if you overlooked the blood coating the front of her outfit where she’d been pressed up against her mother.
“Hey now,” he crooned, lifting her into his arms, bouncing her gently. “Hey now, little one. It’s okay.”
I’m a fucking liar.
“It’s gonna be okay.” Her screams trailed off into hiccups as she stared up into his face.
It’ll never be okay again.
“Hey now, I got you.” Blinking at him, her eyes framed by impossibly long eyelashes clumped with tears.
Please, God, let her have a decent family.
“You’re gonna be all right.” She pulled in a deep breath, her tiny body shuddering in the aftermath of her screaming terror.
Please, God, let her be all right.
He turned to walk back to his bike, still bouncing the shuddering toddler against his chest, leaving the unmoving men sprawled in the glaring sun, van doors wide open to the elements. “Those bad men won’t hurt you.” Straddling the bike, he reached behind him and opened a bag one-handed, pulling out a long sleeve shirt. Tying it like a makeshift sling, he anchored the compliant child to his body. She was so small he could fasten his vest over the top of her, cocooning her safely. “I got you, darlin’.” She rested her cheek against his chest, every breath coming easier.
“Retro,” he said as soon as the call connected. “Need a safe place in Tangipahoa Parish to drop a kid.” Silence greeted his statement, and Po’Boy rolled his eyes. “Fuck, man. I got a kid here and need somewhere to drop her. You got a place to gimme or not?”
“How did we go from that—” Retro paused, clearly having problems putting words to his thoughts for once. “—to this?” Po’Boy sighed, hoping it was audible. “Tangipahoa. Okay. Gimme a minute.”
Po’Boy stared at the bodies, seeing a cloud of flies already starting to gather. Nature is efficient, even if people are assholes. “Anytime here, man. Gonna say it’s kinda urgent. Dude, I’m sittin’ on the side of the road. Not even callin’ a service for this one. Fuckers can rot.”
“You got something else you need me to finesse, brother?” Retro cleared his throat. “You cut me off in the middle of what sounded like an interesting situation. I looked it up, so I got you. And I get what you’ve got. That package? I get it. Can you get to Ponchatoula?” Po’Boy grunted, tipping his chin down as the child squirmed against him, seeing those wide, blue eyes staring up at him. “Okay, go there and stop at the car wash on the south side of town. Trevarborn’s is the name on the sign. I’ll have someone waiting.” He grunted again, and Retro continued. “Are you okay, brother?”
“As okay as I’ve ever been, man. Trevarborn car wash. Copy. I’ll be there in probably twenty. You got me covered?”
“I got you. Already rolling the pickup. Where are they going?” Retro’s voice was low and steady, calming in a way Po’Boy knew was intentional.
“Fuck, I don’t know. Hospital?” Po’Boy shook his head. “Morgue? No fuckin’ idea. Just know I can’t roll like this for long.”
“I’ll sort it out, brother. You get there, you hear me?” Retro sounded so certain, so convinced he would have Po’Boy covered, it never occurred to him to doubt the man.
“I hear you.” Phone back in his pocket, he started the bike and then swung in a tight turn, heading back the way he had come. Thirty minutes later he stood beside his bike, blood-caked clothing sticking to his torso, watching as a pretty brunette buckled the sleeping child into a car seat in the back of a small sedan.
“She’s not hurt, right?”
He’d already asked the same question three times and hated the warm sympathy he saw in the woman’s eyes when she looked at him and answered for the third time. “She’s fine, physically.” The woman, whose name he’d never know, said, “Don’t worry. I’ll get her to her family. The news is blowing up over this. Sounds like her father’s a good man. He’s going to be sure she gets everything she needs.” The brunette smiled at him, the edges of her mouth soft with an emotion he didn’t understand. “You saved the day, but no one will ever know. That’s the measure of a true hero, isn’t it?”
Po’Boy snorted. “Not hardly. Just saw something needed fixing. Kids don’t deserve most of what happens to them. I’m glad her daddy’s decent. It’ll go a long way.” Stripping off his cut, he removed the shirt and crude sling and passed the bloody garments to her, slipping the vest back onto his shoulders. She stuffed them into a grocery store bag, tying the top and placing it behind her seat. He didn’t wait for her to pull away, just climbed back on his bike and kicked it into gear. He did keep watch in his mirrors, seeing when the sedan finally left the carwash headed the other way, deeper into downtown. Safe. Coulda used a daddy.
Picking up speed, he rode past the convenience store, seeing official cars parked at every angle in the parking lot. Instead, I got Grover.
Grover had been his stepfather, and after his mother’s death had become the monster a twelve-year-old Ralphie feared more than death. Shoving thoughts of those years from his mind, he focused on the road in front of him, running through the things Retro had told him before everything went sideways.
***
Wrench
“Y’all good?” Wrench narrowed his eyes, casting his gaze around the large room. The pole barn at the back of Ace’s place outside Baton Rouge had stood as the CoBos clubhouse for decades. For prospects and members who happened to be between living quarters, there were bunk beds lining the walls of the open upstairs loft, stretching half the length of the building. The space was equipped with a full kitchen inside for the winter, as well as a standard southern summer kitchen
on the screened-in porch along the back. With a full bath both upstairs and down among the amenities the building boasted, it served the club well.
Ace had deeded the building and two acres surrounding it to the club a few years ago, shortly after Bagger was murdered. He’d told the officers he didn’t want any confusion about what he wanted to be done after he was gone. Not that there were problems about the things Bagger had which were club. No, Penny’s aunt had held her head high and handed over everything they’d needed, no matter the pain visible on her features as item by item, everything that represented the club Bagger had helped found was removed from her house, leaving conspicuous empty spaces along the walls and shelves. It hadn’t taken any discussion at all for the club to let her keep her rags.
Some of the newer members hadn’t understood how everything club belonged to the club, which gave Ace time to fall into teaching mode about protocol. Something he well understood and appreciated, being an adjunct professor at a private Christian college.
They were preparing for a big fish fry tonight, and Wrench had spent half the day directing the prospects on how to hook up and set the fry rings and gas tanks to minimize the danger of an accident. Some of them were backwoods bayou boys and already held such knowledge, but a troubling number of them were from the city. He didn’t know why he found the fact troubling, just that the ones who had less self-reliance and survival skills seemed to be the ones most often pulling dramatic shit.
His phone had been annoying, dozens of calls and texts coming in with questions. They were to host the IMC tonight, and until a few minutes ago, only Wrench and the CoBos officers knew Retro was bringing some of his Bastards over from Alabama for the party, too. Now the announcement had been made, every member was scrambling to do those last-minute things which shouldn’t be last-minute, but other shit always got in the way.
Dismal, a member recently promoted from prospect, drove a truck up the dirt track reserved for the cages, dust sifting through the air in his wake. He wheeled the vehicle in a circle and backed up to the porch door. Swinging out the door, he lifted a hand to Wrench in greeting, then pulled the handle on the tailgate, letting it fall with a bounce. Without speaking or asking for help, Dismal reached in and grabbed one of the coolers stacked in the bed of the truck, pulling it to the edge and strained, lifting it in both arms with a grunt.
Wrench’s phone vibrated in his pocket, and he yanked it out as he yelled across the yard for one of the prospects. He pointed to the truck and got a chin lift in response, then glanced down at his phone. Po’Boy. A text, not a playful selfie.
Something happened yesterday, and Wrench had a glimmer of what it was, but he wasn’t certain he had the full picture. He’d come home from the extended dual club meeting to find Po’Boy sitting on his back deck, ass to the boards, leaning against the outside wall of the condo. Lewis—and Ty wasn’t sure how it came to be that their names reverted to government when they went into his condo, but he didn’t really care, just went with it—hadn’t said much, just stared at the TV screen regardless of what was on. Sat and stared until Crissy got home. They’d first heard her car, then had listened as her door opened and shut, which left them glancing at each other. Ty wasn’t sure what his expression had said, but Lewis’ had been inscrutable.
“She coming over?” Ty hated the way his voice sounded when he asked that. He’d fought against showing need for so long about Penny, hearing it in his words now sounded wrong. Weak.
“How the fuck should I know?” Lewis’ barked response didn’t sound any less needy to him, and at that moment Ty knew whatever had happened to Lewis today, he’d been barely holding it together. His hold was unraveling quickly, seemingly in direct correlation with the stretching moments without the sound of Crissy at the door.
He studied Lewis. Not directly, not in a way which would challenge the man, but sidelong. Since he’d been watching Lewis for weeks and was so familiar with him, the how didn’t matter. He could have been using the reflection on the curve of a chrome tailpipe and would still have seen the shaking hands, the shallow breaths. All signs of distress being brutally suppressed.
He ran every encounter through his head. Lewis had been careful not to touch him unless Crissy was within reach. Even with the first nonsexual incident in West Texas, Crissy had been the catalyst. Would Lewis push him away if she weren’t part of the equation? Pulling his phone out, he texted her a brief message and placed the phone on the wooden coffee table where they’d both hear if there was a response. Ty slipped down to the cushions from the arm of the couch where he’d been perched, awkwardly wanting to be close to Lewis, but stupidly afraid of sitting too close to him. How do people do this, he wondered. With women it was easy. You looked, and if they looked back, you approached to do a little verbal sparring. If the sparring stirred sparks, then you followed those to see where they led. He didn’t go to Crissy’s condo and wait for her, he came to mine. Sat on my back deck until I got home. Might be a spark to follow.
Ty considered his options, eyes on the TV screen, only half listening to the commentary of the game. Lewis liked to take care of both Ty and Crissy. He liked to touch and comfort. Seemed to enjoy the tactile sensation a lot. In bed and out of it, in the privacy of the condo, his hands had stroked and glanced off Ty’s arms and shoulders. That’s my in. Ty rolled his neck, shrugging with a groaning sigh. Making a fist, he flexed his arm, drawing it across his chest, stretching out his deltoid and triceps muscles. He groaned and did it again, then stretched his arm up over his head.
“You stiff?” Lewis’ voice had a ragged edge to it, a bleeding rawness which made Ty flinch.
“Yeah, man. Just a bit.” Ty flexed and repeated the motions with his other arm. Even ready for it, the moment Lewis’ hand skated up the bicep of the arm closest to where he sat, still startled him and sent a thrill arrowing straight to his dick. “Just tight. Long day, ya know?”
“Come here,” Lewis said, spreading his feet wide apart. “Get down there on the floor. Lemme see if I can help out.” Ty moved and settled between Lewis’ knees, leaning back. Lewis tugged Ty’s shirt over his head and off, tossing it on the coffee table beside the phone as Ty smoothed his ruffled hair back from his face.
At the first touch of Lewis’ hands on him, Ty’s breathing sped up, then as moments passed and there was only the pain and pleasure that came from a strong massage working tense muscles, he relaxed. Lewis rubbed deep with his thumbs and the heels of his hands, then stroked Ty’s neck and up into his scalp firmly. His fingers drew tiny circles along Ty’s jaw and in front of his ears, and with each touch Ty felt…better. Not that he’d felt bad before. It was just he’d been carrying tension he didn’t even recognize until it was gone. It almost seemed as if Lewis’ skin on his transferred something more than the massage. He remembered the night of Twisted’s party, when he’d lain side by side with Lewis, their shoulders touching. I felt a little bit of this that night, he realized.
Ty started to feel like an ass. He’d started this charade with the hopes of helping Lewis let go of whatever had him twisted up in knots, and here he was getting the most benefit out of it. “Lewis, why don’t I—”
“Shhhh.” Sharp and irritated, Lewis shushed him. “I like this.” Thumbs dug into his lats, deep, setting up an aching release of muscles grown tense again with his worrying. “I had a shit day. Didn’t know where I was headed until I wound up here.” Lewis’ tone softened, gentled as his fingers stroked up the back of Ty’s neck. When the tug came on his chin, he went with the demanding touch, turning his head sideways, tilting up. As Lewis’ lips brushed against his, he was eager for it, feeling the prickling scrub of scruff across his skin. Another soft caress of Lewis’ mouth trailed to the side of Ty’s, and then along his jaw to the skin just behind his ear. The threatening edge of teeth gripped his earlobe, tugging gently, heated breath gusting across his skin as Lewis released some of the tension he’d been carrying, too. Then the hands on Ty’s neck pushed until he was facing fro
nt again, thumbs digging into the long muscles running on either side of his spine.
Several minutes had passed before Lewis asked, “You hear about the gas station thing over in Ponchatoula?” Ty nodded. It had been on the radio all day. “What’d you hear?”
“Kidnapping gone bad. Three dead, little girl missing.” He tried to twist around and look at Lewis’ face, but the hands held him steady. “Were you there?” Ty wasn’t sure where Lewis had gone after they finished debriefing the IMC and CoBos. Not surprising, since they weren’t in the same club, and both clubs’ officers were keeping a lot of what they were finding out close to the vest. There was some sharing, of course. They had to if they were going to collaborate on taking down the VWMC. Less than Ty wanted, but asking after the whereabouts of any member of the other club would have been noted. Given who Lewis was in the IMC, Ty asking about him would have been a flashing neon sign of oddness. “It sounded ugly.”
“It was fuckin’ ugly. Shit like that always is, ya know? Little girl’s okay at least. They talking yet about the shooters?” Lewis’ hands stilled, becoming two stationary islands of heat on Ty’s shoulders. “You know, about finding ‘em? Where they found ‘em, and how?”
“Not that I know of. The little girl’s been located? That’s good, I hadn’t heard that.” The fingers squeezed tight, contracting in a painful grip. “I won’t ask why you were there, but are you okay?”
“They didn’t find her? What do you mean? She’s fine.” The cracks in Lewis’ composure resonated in his words, and Ty twisted against the hold on his shoulders to look up at him. Eyes locked in a blank stare, Lewis didn’t see the TV across the room. His vision was turned inwards. “She’s fuckin’ fine.”
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