Protect (28 page)

It was obvious very few were interested in
the freeway slayings. And the Bakersfield reporters could give a
shit about the county sheriff; no one asked her anything. The
in-home homicides were fresher, still bloody. The assembled media
asked a few half-hearted questions about suspects and public
safety, then started packing up their gear. As that was happening,
and after he’d spelled his last name for one of the reporters, he
jerked his head toward Sharon’s office and headed in that
direction.

Still completely snowed on what her function
was supposed to be, she followed and let him close the door behind
her. Before she could say anything he was spitting out, “So what
the fuck, Sharon?” with such venom she didn’t take her seat. She
stayed standing at her desk.

“I beg your pardon?”

Hogan’s hand was on his hip, the other one
rubbing his chin hard enough to make it red. “You gotta back off
the Grainger case. You gotta let me handle it.”

She set her jaw. “No.”

“You have to. You can’t handle this one—this
department is not equipped for it.”

“That case is a Markham case. Robbery gone
wrong. That’s ours.”

“
Bullshit!
” he roared, slamming a fist
down on her desk. He leaned toward her on both hands. “Grainger’s
van is reported stolen as it’s involved in a freeway shootout, then
the owner of the place ends up dead? Don’t fucking bullshit
me.”

“I know our limits,” she said calmly,
impressing herself. “The freeway, these assassinations this week, I
handed those over because of obvious criminal organization
connections that we can’t handle. This is a botched robbery,
nothing more.”

“Don’t fucking
bullshit
me.” One hand
came up, pointing at her. She fucking hated when people did that.
“You’re keeping this local so your little biker group can exact
their revenge. It’s a stupid move and you’re gonna lose your
job.”

She swallowed. “That almost sounds like a
threat.”

“It’s a warning. You’re not so stupid you
can’t see what’s happening around here.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Where is this coming
from?”

He flattened both hands on her cheap
furniture again. “I’m telling you what’s best.”

“You’re trying to get your way. What’s wrong?
FBI stealing your thunder?” She pointed to her door. “That bullshit
press conference? You didn’t tell them anything. Just trying to
keep your investigation top of mind?”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“
Don’t
tell me how to do my job.” She
leaned towards him now. “Remember whose jurisdiction this is. You
wanna bring a US Marshall by to force me to hand over the Grainger
killing, you go ahead. I can’t see them clearing their schedule for
one dead mechanic is this fucking county of all places.”

He straightened, rubbing his chin again. His
eyes were clouded with barely contained fury, and she wondered at
this completely different demeanor. She wondered, for one moment,
if she was dealing with a mental disorder. That’s how out of
character he seemed.

Like clouds revealing the sun, it came to
her. So fucking bright and obvious she wondered if she wasn’t
getting dumber as time went on. “How long did you work
undercover?”

He scoffed at that and turned away, but she
didn’t need his confirmation. It was plain as day.

“MC? Or cartel?”

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking
about.”

Something was still bothering her, though.
And it was
him
; his demeanor after they’d fucked at his
hotel. She’d believed he was concerned, she really thought he’d
wanted her to trust in him.

“How is Markham playing into the bigger
picture here? There’s something you’re not telling me. You may be
full of shit but I also know things don’t happen, aren’t
said,
for no reason. So where do I fit in all this?”

He turned back to her, still flushed with
irritation, but he wasn’t spitting mad anymore. “Your biker boys
are on the radar, big time. Michael Sachetti is branching out into
new arenas, which is where I come into this. He’s toying with the
idea of getting into the cartel game, but you know damn well he
doesn’t get where he is by doing his own dirty work. He needs
lackeys for that.”

She took a breath. “The Red Rebels.”

“Little bit of weed, few gun protection runs
for their friends, who the fuck cares how the Rebels make their
roll. They start getting into bed with Sachetti, that changes.
Hell, it’s
already
changed. Look at this town. When’s the
last time you had two Federal law branches living here at the same
time?”

Sharon swallowed now and sat down.

“This town needs a Sheriff that’s going to
know how this shit works to keep it contained.
That’s
why
I’m pissed about this Grainger case.”

She shook her head. “I’m not handing that
case over unless you’ve got proof.”

“I got a stolen van and it’s dead owner,
Sharon!” There it was again, his shouting. Yes, he didn’t fit in
with the suits. His entire being was rougher, more realistic. His
suits were ill-fitting because he saw no point and had no patience
to have one made. For him, they’d never be comfortable.

“You were deep in an MC,” she guessed, his
loud sigh confirming it. “How long?”

“I am not having this conversation.”

“I know you
can’t
tell me,” she said,
standing again. “But I
can
tell you this. I am not handing
over the death of Mickey Grainger so it can be lumped into this
almighty investigation you’ve got going. He is not going to be just
a tick in the casualty column while you go after your so-called
important targets.”

“You’re letting
them
handle this.”

“My deputies? Yes, I am.” She purposefully
misunderstood. “When I’m convinced that this is beyond what we can
handle and civilians are in danger, I’ll be happy to ask for your
advice. Terry.”

At his first name he smirked, stalked to the
door but paused with his hand on the knob. “Gotta say, you played
me pretty well, too.”

She shook her head. “I wasn’t playing
anything. I wanted to get laid, just like you.”

Without a reaction he was gone and she was
staring at her open door, stomach flip-flopping. She hadn’t known
the Rebels were in with a mob family, and now she was just finding
out that mob family was sniffing around fucking drug cartels. They
had to know, didn’t they?

There were birds in the trees overhead, and
Fritter wondered if it was inappropriate for a memorial service to
be held on a day where the rest of the world was so happy that the
sun was shining and the outside world wasn’t a huge steam bath.

Around an urn on a low round table, Red
Rebels were circled. Markham and Nomads, shoulder to shoulder,
staring down at the last bit of Mickey Grainger that was left.

When Richey had died and it had been kept
under wraps; that had been the way of the club. If a man’s death
being found out meant the club could feel the heat, it was fully
expected that your club would gather a brother’s shit, clear out
his dorm, and burn him in his grave in the desert. They all
accepted and agreed to it. Attachments like women and family made
that harder to do, but so far only bachelors had met their end
violently and quietly.

In this case, the cops had become involved.
They’d found a brother already dead so papers had to be signed and
filed and then the remains had to officially be dealt with. So
Mickey had been cremated the day before, forty-eight hours after
the coroner released him. But what they did with his ashes was up
to them.

It was illegal to scatter ashes, not a lot of
people realized that. But for the Red Rebels this bit of illegal
activity was laughable and they didn’t give a shit.

Jolene had picked this spot. No one really
knew why, and they didn’t press. At the moment she was standing
between Trinny and Gertie, holding a hand of each woman. She was
put together today; a fifties’ style black dress that hugged her
body, sleeveless in what he supposed was a halter top. Her sleeves
of brightly colored ink were on full display, and her make-up was
in place. Her shoes were shiny red pumps. For all the world she
looked like Jolene but from across their group he could tell she
was hollow.

Her eyes weren’t really registering what was
going on around her. She hadn’t cried or shown a lick of
recognition to anyone. Trinny’s arrival had gotten a half-smile
before she collapsed into tears again. Watching her, Fritter
wondered if the way Richey went wasn’t better. Drawing it all out
like this was fucking awful for everyone left behind.

Jayce was talking about Mickey, the kind of
man he was, and he was spot-on the whole way but Fritter was only
half-listening. When he gave the floor, so to speak, to Tank, that
surprised Fritter. The big guy hated talking in groups since he’d
been injured and his speech impeded. But for a special occasion,
apparently, he’d suck it up.

“The first time we handed Mickey his
Secretary patch I’d told him to get me a coffee and slapped him on
the ass,” Tank rumbled, fidgeting a little bit as some of the words
came out with more effort than others. Next to him, Rose stepped
closer to his back and wrapped her arms around one of his, just as
the group chuckled at the story. Fritter saw how she squeezed him
before resting her head on his shoulder. Tension eased out of the
VP’s body and the words came just fine. “He punched me in the
mouth. Told me he was married and I should keep my hands to myself.
He was one of the funniest guys I ever knew. I also saw him be
fearless, and I saw the one thing he worried about more than
anything; himself, the club, his bike. Jolene.”

At her name they all looked at her, but she
was just staring. At Tank at least, so she knew who was talking.
But she still just stared.

“One soft spot that guy had was you. Lotta
clubs say the club before anything else, and when I got here we
might have been like that. When Jayce took the head of the table I
wasn’t sure if that would end or not, and I didn’t have anything
else in my life at that time so I wasn’t worried about it. When
Mickey prospected in, already married, I wasn’t sure I liked that.
Someone counting on him, ready to be second-best. But I watched him
walk that line, and I knew he had more love to give than just club
or wife. He had plenty, and everyone got their share. And he loved
you, darlin’. I never knew such love until the last while. I dare
say you two brought that into this club because I know Jayce liked
seeing it, too.”

The Prez nodded, eyes going to Trinny. Hers
were already on him, growing wet.

“I’ve known you both a long time. And this
hurts, fuck this really hurts.” Tank’s voice broke and Rose
tightened her hold on his arm. His head tilted her way slightly.
That made Fritter’s eyes prickle a little; Tank needed her close
just to have the strength to talk. “You two taught us all how to
love and make this a real family. We are all indebted to you,
Jolene. We love you honey, not nearly as much as Mickey did. I know
that’s a piss-poor substitute, but we’re here for you.”

Trinny slid her arm around Jolene’s
shoulders, but the woman just kept staring at Tank. When it was
obvious he was done talking she went back to studying the grass
under her feet.

A few more people threw out a few words of
admiration and respect for Mickey, then it was time to scatter his
ashes. But first shot glasses were handed out, little plastic
things, and Trinny went from mourner to mourner pouring out a share
of Jack. There were no “traditions” in the club anymore, not
really, but back in Jayce’s dad’s day the widow performed this
duty. However, Jolene was officially checked out of the
proceedings.

“To Mickey,” Jayce declared, glass up.
Everyone followed suit and echoed out their toast, downed the
bourbon and Trinny lifted the lid on the urn. Jayce dipped his shot
glass inside, pulled out a share of Mickey and threw it straight
into the air. They all did the same, a few took a second share
before the urn was empty.

Fritter was staring at his ash-coated glass,
wondering at the bits of his friend stuck in the wet left behind by
the JD. It seemed impossible.

The Jack made another round to rinse
everyone’s cup before being poured out onto the earth below their
boots. That was a last drink strictly for Mickey. Then one more
shot for them.

It tasted weird. He didn’t dwell on it, just
accepted that he’d likely drank down a bit of Mickey but who the
fuck cared. He was wearing a little bit of the guy on his leather,
too, once everyone got done throwing ash around.

The wake was next. The old ladies all headed
for the black limo that Rose had booked for them. Red Rebels
mounted their bikes to escort the car back to the clubhouse. As he
pulled his lid on, a figure caught this eye. A woman hanging back,
like she’d been there for the funeral but hadn’t really
participated.

It was Sharon. He felt his heart speed up at
the sight of her, like always, and then he checked his crew to see
if anyone else had spotted her. Jayce had, and he gave her a chin
nod which she returned, but her eyes were also scanning the group.
He fucking
felt
it when she found him. He had to smile, he
couldn’t help it.

He hadn’t seen her since that night he’d
shoved his way into her world, falling asleep on her couch with her
dog then making love to her in her bed. No contact at all for four
days. It was torture. Now that he knew she wanted him it was
killing him not to go to her. But things had been busy the last
while, to say the least.

The shoes were black with a low heel, her
skirt came to her knees. Jesus, in a skirt yet. A snug one, that
fit her thighs and hips but kicked out below that. Her top was a
black knit thing with long sleeves, but that fit everything nicely,
too. Her hair was loose, falling to the front and back of her
shoulders, glossy and wavy. His cock filled out painfully given the
position he was in, sitting on his bike like this. He tried to move
his hips to give it room.