I shove Matt’s arms away. I remember his name now. He’s four years older than me but I think he’s related to Lea Albertson who teaches tenth grade history.
Straightening my t-shirt, I pick up the phone I dropped and start the camera again. “Didn’t know you were so concerned about who got in my pants, Paulson.”
“I wouldn’t touch you if you paid me money,” he spits.
“Let’s go.” Matt places a hand on Paulson’s shoulder. “We’re done here.”
Paulson shrugs it off. “Gimme a minute. If you don’t tell me where the gun is that Harrison used, you could go down for accessory. He’s the one we want. Don’t waste your time on him.”
“Why the fake concern, Paulson? I’m not giving out pity fucks and even if I was, it wouldn’t be to you. Besides, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.” Accessory to fucking what? I need these two to leave so I can get to Judge. If he had Grant do wetwork for the club while on parole I will be…what? Hurt, afraid, angry as all hell? Yes, all of those things.
Matt corrals Paulson and hustles him out of the apartment before we can have another go at each other. “We’re leaving. Let’s go down to the station.”
Paulson resists at first but a quick look around the destroyed room reveals that there’s nothing else he can damage in here. Except me of course but to really ruin me, he’d have to get Grant and Grant’s down at the station.
I put on a brave, cocky face because I’d rather slice my fingers off than let these assholes think that I’m either worried or upset even though I’m dying inside. If Grant gets sent away again, I don’t know how I’ll survive it.
With shaky hands, I hurriedly throw on my sweats, a heavy jacket and my boots. Tears prick my eyes when I remember that they dragged Grant out of here in his boxers and bare feet. I stuff a bag full of stuff for him so when he’s released, he’ll have some clothes. I don’t bother locking the door behind me as I clamber down the apartment stairs. The truck is cold when I start it. I let the engine run while I dial Judge’s phone.
He picks up on the second ring. “What do you need?” he says in his deep voice, slightly scratchy from being woken up.
I almost lose it. Judge and I grew close when Grant was away for three years. I kept living with him even after I graduated because I couldn’t bear to be alone. I hadn’t had any father figure for the first fourteen years of my life, but Judge made up for that lack. And he’d given me Grant. I love him dearly and I’d give a lot to have a fatherly hug right now.
Damn Paulson for his gross comments. One of these days, when he least expects it, I am going to pay him back.
“They took Grant in,” I manage to choke out.
“Who and where?” Any trace of sleep is obliterated.
“Police station. Chief Schmidt showed up with four others. They had a warrant to search our apartment and they took Grant in. One of them mentioned Jessica Trainor being shot.”
“Trainor? That the woman you had the run in with at the grocery store today?”
Ugh. Small towns. “Yes.”
“Did they find anything at the apartment?”
“Nothing there to be found. I’ve got the Glock in my name and that’s all we have other than a lockbox with some cash in it. They took that and the gun.”
“What about the truck?”
“No.” A high pitched laugh escapes me. The truck’s in my name, part of a property transfer that the lawyer had us do when Grant’s case looked grim. But since Grant’s been out, this cage has been his winter ride and from Judge’s question, I’m guessing there is shit in here that belongs to the Club.
“Jesus.” His sigh is briefly muffled as if he was running a hand over his face. “Let me get dressed and I’ll go down to the station.”
“I’m already there.”
My one leg is halfway out of the truck when he tells me to stop. “No, honey, go back to your apartment. I’m going to send the new patch Abel over and he’ll help you clean up. Let me take care of Wrecker and the police.”
Unwelcome suspicion scratches at the back of my neck. Go home? Let Judge take care of Wrecker? “Is this Club business?” I ask even though I know better. If it is Club business I don’t have any right to know. I’m not a member of the Club. Ordinarily that doesn’t bother me. I’ve never wanted to be part of Death Lords. I’m not a fan of their sex fueled parties and their marginal respect for the law. The only motorcycle I care about is the one that Grant operates.
When I was younger, before my mom met Judge, she dragged me around from biker festival to biker festival with a few music stops thrown in for variety looking for some patch to sink her hooks into. How she ever caught Judge is a mystery to me although I’m starting to suspect he took her on so I could have a home rather than any warm feelings toward her. She took off soon enough when Judge refused to feed her drug habit and started finding relief in club bitches. He didn’t ever appear broken up about it but then again he had a steady stream of sweet butts to warm his dick whenever he needed it.
But my feelings toward the Club are going to turn from tolerance to antipathy if I hear Grant was out doing dirty work for the Club. Although what kind of dirty work involved offing a country club loud mouth, I couldn’t begin to guess.
“You’re upset so I’m not going to repeat you what you already know.” That’s Judge’s way of telling me it’s none of my business. “But I know how long Wrecker’s parole lasts as well as you and I’m not jeopardizing that.”
The gentleness in his voice makes me feel like shit. “I know. I’m sorry.” And then to my dismay I start crying. My hair is sticking up in five different directions. I’m wearing one of Wrecker’s barn coats, have no socks on, and it’s about ten degrees out. The tears turn ice cold the minute they leave my eyes.
“Go home, Chelsea. I’m going to call our lawyer and this will all go away. We both know Grant didn’t kill Trainor and the police don’t have anything on him.”
Wanting Judge to be right, I pull myself into the truck and turn it back to the apartment. Abel is already there when I arrive.
“Hey Chelsea.”
“Abel.” I raise my hand in a weak greeting to the former Marine who decided to throw his lot in with the Death Lords. I’m not sure who his sponsor was or where he’s from or how he found his way to us. Those are questions maybe only Judge knows. His military bearing along with his buzz cut gives away part of his background. He’s got a nasty scar that runs from his temple to the top of his earlobe but he’s never been anything but kind to me. “Come on up.”
The apartment looks worse than I remember.
“Shit.” Abel pulls out his phone and starts taking pictures. When he’s documented it to his satisfaction, we get to work putting the apartment back together.
“You like the winters, Abel?” I ask as I finish placing all the kitchen drawers into their runners. The dishes will need to be washed.
“Nope but I’m used to them. Come from Bemidji.”
“This must seem practically tropical.” Bemidji is about fo
ur hours north and close to the boundary waters. It’s cold up there nine months out of the year.
“I’ve seen worse.”
By the grim tone, I get that this applies to more than just the weather. I pull open the dishwasher and tear up when I see the clean dishes. Grant got up in the middle of the night and cleared the table and started the dishwasher. Shit, he’s a good man.
“You okay? You aren’t going to cry are you?” Abel says alarmed.
I swipe at my eyes. “Yeah. Just thinking about Wrecker in jail.” I start unloading the dishwasher.
“He’ll be out tomorrow,” Abel assures me.
I wish I was as confident as everyone else but Chief Schmidt has a thing for the Death Lords. I don’t know why it started. Some people attribute it to Schmidt wanting the new librarian, Pippa Lang, and her choosing Judge instead. But Schmidt’s hatred for Judge and the Death Lords ran far deeper than that.
My best guess is that Judge is the real power in Fortune. The town didn’t have a meth problem like so many other small rural towns and for the most part, the only crime around here is petty thievery. Plenty of people use drugs and drink too much around here because there isn’t much else to do, but it wasn’t cooked up here. We can pretend that we’re fucking Mayberry and it probably galls Schmidt that it’s more because of the Death Lords’ presence than any fear of the Fortune police.
And until Schmidt breaks the Death Lords’ hold on Fortune, he’ll keep coming after us and for now, Grant is his favorite target because Grant’s the Death Lords president’s son. Grant will always have a target on his back here. Always.
8
WRECKER
The Minneapolis attorney shows up close to dawn. By that time several other Death Lords have showed up and the jail lobby looks more like a club event, what with all the leather cuts and Harley’s sitting outside. Or at least that’s what Amelia tells me.