"Grass, gas, or ass. No one rides for free." I looked over at him. "I've seen the T-shirt."
"I don't think you're taking this seriously, Olivia. Do you know what a one-percenter is?"
I sighed. "Yes, Gabriel. It refers to the portion of bikers who belong to a professional motorcycle club. A gang. Ricky is one. As such, I'm going to guess that the only women who get to ride his bike are also riding him. Am I right?"
His mouth tightened as if he didn't appreciate the crass phrasing. "I'm afraid you're under some illusions about Ricky because he does not fit the stereotype."
"Oh, I'm not fooled. He may appear to be the heir to a criminal empire, but he's really an undercover cop, working tirelessly to overthrow his father's evil empire and restore justice and goodness to the land." I glanced over. "Am I close?"
Not even a hint of a smile.
"Oh, please," I said. "I know he's not studying part-time because school interferes with his commitment to Greenpeace. His family business is drugs, with a little murder and mayhem thrown in on the side."
"No, it is not. Mr. Gallagher runs a legitimate motorcycle club and operates a series of auto repair shops. However, he is constantly under suspicion of criminal activity, which means a relationship with his son would not be wise."
"Can we skip this conversation? I really don't think your legal services cover--"
"As representative for both yourself and Don Gallagher, anything between you and his son concerns me. I understand that you're undergoing a great deal of upheaval in your life. You've discovered things about yourself that have thrown your perspective--"
"Stop."
"--and your sense of identity off balance. You aren't who you thought you were and that may lead you to consider reckless--"
"Stop. Really. I only rehired you a few hours ago. Since then, you've done nothing to make me regret that decision. Quit while you're ahead."
"I believe it needs to be said--"
"No, it does not. See this?" I tugged a hank of my hair. "Contrary to popular opinion, blond hair does not feed off brain cells."
"I never suggested--"
"You were about to. Yes, I'm having identity issues. Can't blame me really. Wake up the daughter of respected pillars of Chicago and go to bed as the child of its most notorious serial killers. Maybe I'm making some choices that you think are silly and immature, like insisting on living in a smelly apartment and working at a small-town diner. But if I was single, would I have flirted with a cute biker before all this happened? Absolutely. Would I have done more than flirt? Probably not. Too many complications. Would I do it now? Maybe. Not for a walk on the wild side, but as a conscious decision to try something different. My choice. One that has nothing to do with you."
"Yes, it does, because you are my client and Ricky--"
"God, it's like talking to a cyborg sometimes. You pretend to listen, but really, you've just gone on pause, waiting for me to stop so you can reiterate your original point."
Gabriel's phone rang, saving him from an answer. It was Ricky. Gray's girlfriend was ready for us.
When Gabriel knocked on Josh Gray's door, Ricky answered. He came out and pulled it almost shut behind him.
"Her name's Desiree Barbosa. She should talk, but if she tries to stonewall you, just remind her I'll be back." He walked past with a smile for me and a whispered, "See you later."
As Gabriel pushed open the door, I glanced at him. I'd been sure they weren't resorting to physical violence to persuade Gray's girlfriend. Was I being naive? Telling her that Ricky would come back if she refused to talk sure as hell sounded like a threat.
We found Desiree in the tiny living room. She was on the couch, her legs pulled up. When we walked in, she didn't even tense, just said, "Hey," and waited for us to sit.
As soon as I stepped into that room, I could feel the difference in her. Earlier, it'd been like walking across a carpet in a dry room, her anxiety, her fear, condensing into nervous static-like energy. Now it felt like an island breeze wafting through the room, gentle and warm, telling me to just sit down, relax.
As soon as I felt that, I stiffened, because I'd felt this sensation before, at the shelter. I didn't need omens or signs to understand what it meant.
As we crossed the room, I studied Desiree. Her pupils were dilated, her jaw slack, her eyelids listing, as if struggling to stay awake.
Ricky hadn't threatened her. He'd given her drugs.
My gut tightened, and I glanced at Gabriel. His gaze flitted across Desiree and the look he gave was satisfaction mixed with contempt. He knew. Of course he did. He'd set it up.
We'd known Desiree was a recovering addict. After Gray ran and we showed up, she'd been scared and anxious and alone. Vulnerable. When Gabriel saw that, he'd known exactly how to get her to talk. That's what Ricky meant about telling her he'd come back--he'd given her a hit and promised another if she cooperated.