CHAPTER SIX
*Coty “Coyote” - Vice President*
Shortly after Lace stormed away from her childhood home and Zane got to the saloon, my phone started vibrating every thirty minutes, as expected. Every vibration makes my entire body buzz with the need to check each message; unfortunately, other matters have required my full attention. As soon as we get out of this cage and Kal starts the order, I need to catch up.
Focus locked on the passenger side mirror, I keep a close eye out for the occasional bounce of light off the black bike attempting to trail us incognito in the far distance.
“Are we seriously going to just let him keep following?” I temporarily turn my attention to Kal, knowing there is at least an eight-count until the next light pole.
Kal flicks his gaze up to the rearview mirror, which is not aimed at the pitch-black road but tilted down at the loosely tarped body filling up the middle row. “Yeah. He already knows we’re headed to the cleaners. The outcome stays the same no matter if he follows us or not. As long as he is far enough away while we make the drop, and he remains unaware of the details, if trailing helps Vee burn through whatever has him so riled up lately, at least we know he is safe and not self-harming.”
My attention returns to the side mirror just in time to see the next glint. “Damn, Lace did a good job shining his bike. That gleam gives him away under every single streetlight. For anyone paying close enough attention. You know, maybe we should stop keeping them so clean.”
There is no way any of us would keep our girls filthy, but Kal surprisingly humors me. “How about investing in matte paint instead?”
That temporary lightness in such a dark situation helps distract me from the itch to compulsively check my phone. Barely.
The vehicle slows as we approach the one and only local business Kal owns without being under the thumb of his father. I watch for the last flash of reflective light giving Vee away before my focus drifts up to the illuminated pylon sign for All Washed Up Laundering.
“How does Stoney not know about this again?” I ask, trying hard to keep my mind in the present rather than stewing on the recent past or flipping out over what the near future will hold.
Kal pulls the branded company van around to the back where curbside orders are delivered. “I started an anonymous holding company then set this up as a subsidiary corporation.”
Nodding, I only pretend to understand what the hell that means. Kal can do business however he wants as long as any legal consequences down the road have zero to do with me.
Funny thing is, he has always insisted that if, while in the Panhandle, any of us need an actual professional laundering for our leather jackets or whatever, we are to use an unaffiliated business. Only when we need a special type of detailed cleaning do we use the shadow services All Washed Up provides. Even then, for those, Kal is required to be here during the identification and tagging stage as well as the final inspection.
Kal hits the automatic button for the sliding side door before even coming to a full stop, and by the time the van jolts into park, the driver door is already open. “Eyes on the front, and make sure Vee keeps his distance,” Kal instructs as management exits the rear entrance.
“Got it, Boss.” Abso-fuckin-lutely. My hand is already in my pocket to dig out my phone. Head up and eyes ahead while jogging along the side of the building before Vee should be due to catch up, I blindly trigger the phone screen, enter my passcode, and open the messages.
With the moon hidden behind thick clouds, the road and the gulf across the street are like a black abyss. If not for the streetlights, Vee might have gotten away with going unseen. Except for the fact that his Italian bike just so happens to be the loudest one out of all of ours. Ironic, considering he is the Road Captain. Perhaps I should pitch him the concept of all of us going electric like Kal and Brodi did along with the matte paint idea.
Since nothing more than the quiet whistle of the beach breeze and fizz of seafoam popping on the shore can be heard, Vee likely parked and is bridging the gap on foot. Now having more of a window before he gets this far, I zero in on my phone screen.
Several unread messages — with attachments — from Zane, fill his thread. Thumb lightly pressed on top of the screen, I start to slowly swipe downward to review everything he sent but stop faster than I started as my mind registers the most recent picture. Zane passed out with Lace fucking bratting in the worst possible way.
My entire body goes rigid as my hand clenches tightly around the phone, whitened fingers covering the press of her tongue against his cheek. My grip gets tighter and tighter until a tremor moves up my arm, down my torso, and through my legs. The only thing I can do to release the tension threatening to make my heart backfire is pitch the visual out of my hand.
As the phone explodes into pieces against the cracked, concrete driveway, the black night turns a murky red, and all the surrounding salty humidity makes the silky interior of my club jacket act like a leech against my skin. I should have never gone without wearing my hoodie under it. I fucking drown without that protective layer every time.
Fighting to breathe, hands trembling, I grapple with the zipper imprisoning me. Not just holding me hostage but containing my only weapon against a situation like this right now. My fingers wrap around my personal phone, and I suck in a shaky breath. Blinking to clear my vision, I deliriously open the application to access the special tracking software I installed before returning her phone. After years, I finally caved, needing to keep an eye on her now more than ever.
No new text messages.
Only outgoing call is to Jess.
Location still shows Tit for Tat.
The thundering in my head tames but only enough for me to barely pick up the rattle of an engine. A quick glance at the time tells me that I stood here, zoned out in my panic, for way longer than it felt. I put the phone back in my interior pocket and scramble to pick up the scattered pieces of my club phone. Kal catches me, though, standing here like a kid who dropped their ice cream rather than an assassin who kills people for a living.
In a rage, Kal reverses down the driveway like a bat outta hell, jerks to a stop, and barely waits long enough for me to get my entire body in before whipping backward around the front of the building and launching forward.
“This is not a fucking baseball game. You don’t get three strikes. One and done. You know that. You struck out, Coty. Lace took precedence over your club duties just now. Vee saw everything.”