And that meant less bloodshed overall.
Junior’s club—the one he inherited from his dad—is already a fraction of its previous size. The current membership is around eight.
“Right now? Several. Economy is in the shitter. Riot just lost his job at 3M and Coffin moves snow in the winter but we haven’t had much snow.”
“That sucks. You guys have families to support?”
“Just Moose.”
Abel and I exchange a look. Moose is the guy we caught meeting with Trainor, a local Fortune man whose wife was murdered. The Fortune police, led by Chief Schmidt, were trying to pin that murder on me.
“He got a wife?”
“Two sisters.” Junior’s mouth tightens. Again I can’t read his emotions. Something about those sisters bothers him.
“Who has sisters? I want to meet them.” Chelsea pipes up. She must have finished with her shower and came downstairs while Junior and I were talking. Her hair is up in a high ponytail and her skin glows like she’s a fucking angel. She’s the cleanest, prettiest, nicest thing in this entire house and everyone notices. Junior actually licks his fucking lips like he’s going to get of taste of her. Never. Not even over my dead body.
“Nothing, baby.” I rise and walk over to her. I grab that hank of hair in my hand and tilt her head back. Her cherry lips are glossy from some kind of product but I don’t give a damn. I plant a hard kiss on her lips, reminding everyone who she belongs to. Her nails dig into my biceps for a moment and then all too soon she pulls away.
Her thumb brushes across my lips to clean off the lipstick I just ate off.
“You need to get a coffee flavored lipstick.” I sneak a lick of her thumb and she shudders. Leaning over, I pull her down coat off the hook by the stairs and help her in it.
Abel is standing by the door, ready to go.
“What about the transport?” Junior calls out as we’re halfway through the doorway. “They’re going to want an answer.”
“Later Junior,” I say. “We’ll talk about it after breakfast.”
Chelsea raises her eyebrows but doesn’t say a word as we walk down the street. “Problems?”
I rub the back of my neck. “Don’t know.”
“That place doesn’t feel right,” she says. It’s not the first time she’s made a comment like that. When we first arrived, I figured it was because the place was falling down and there wasn’t a clean spot in the entire two story shambling building but I’m starting to think it might be something more.
“What don’t feel right?”
“It’s just…so filthy. I mean, even for a bunch of single guys. But Junior’s room? Impeccable? He’s a neat freak. Did you see he wiped his hands with a napkin after he was done eating the apple? A guy who lives in a house like that would wipe his hands on his shirt or jeans.”
“She’s right,” Abel says. “There’s something off about how the older members of the club are gone. Have you or Judge checked up on them?”
“No, I haven’t. Don’t know that Judge has. Are you saying that they might have been pushed out?” I let that thought roll around in my head. It seems like a big omission. We’d taken Junior at his word because he’s the son of one of Dad’s old friends.
He gives a small shrug, a tiny roll of his shoulders. “I’m thinking that Junior may have cleaned house.”
“You get that from Big?” When Abel went to take care of the Misery MC who crossed me, he went with a Misery biker named Big.
Abel gives me a half smile. “No. Big’s a good member. Close mouthed, efficient.”
“Where does he work?” I ask.
Abel nods. “A rubber and plastics refinery on the north side. They melt down and recycle old and used rubber that’s then extruded through big-ass machines to make other shit. They’ve got ovens there that can incinerate shit in about thirty seconds.”
“Useful guy,” I muse. That must be where the Misery MC gets rid of all its trash. Hard to come after a person for wrongdoing when all you can find is ash. “He must keep his nose pretty clean because I’d think he’d have to pass a background check.”
“He’s good at his job.” Abel replies. What he means is that Big doesn’t get caught.
At the cafe, we place our orders and find a booth in the back corner. We can’t talk club business here so I turn to the other important task of the moment—finding a place to live other than the Misery clubhouse.
“You find anything?” I ask Chelsea, who is in charge of that.
“I haven’t found a decent rental. Everything’s either too expensive or too small.”
“I can find a place of my own.” Abel shift in the seat across from us as if he’s some kind of fucking burden.
“Yeah, not happening man. We’re sticking together.”
“Just thought maybe you two would like a little privacy.”
Chelsea turns bright red. “Um, no, we like having you around.”
“Yeah. I’ll make Chelsea scream into the pillows next time.”
“I hate you,” she says and Abel laughs.
“Okay. Sound good.”
“What you need is to make your own noise,” I add.
Chelsea, desperate to change the subject, narrows in on Abel. “Why don’t you have a girlfriend? There’s always a half dozen girls at the Cut-n-Curl who talk about how hot you are but that you don’t give them the time of day. If I wasn’t completely gone over Grant, I’d be all over you. The club girls are always fighting over you but you don't take many of them up on their offers.”
It’s Abel’s turn to redden. “I’m not it really into relationships. It never really worked out for me. Screwing around here and t
here is fine, but long term? I don’t see it.”
Chelsea opens her mouth to further her interrogation when the food arrives. Abel thanks the waitress a little too enthusiastically and she lingers.
“Anything else you need?” her smile is overly friendly but either Abel doesn’t notice or he doesn’t care. He sticks a fork into his stack of pancakes and just shakes his head.
Chelsea gives the waitress a look of sympathy before saying, “We’re fine.”
The arrival of the food doesn’t stop Chelsea from pressing Abel. “Are you looking for something in particular? A girl who likes dogs or maybe one who plays video games.”
Abel swallows his pancakes and wipes his mouth—the sort of thing Junior does before answering me. Maybe Junior’s just worried about saying the wrong thing because I can see Abel trying to pick the right words to satisfy Chelsea. What he should know by now is that Chels will hammer this topic until she gets an answer that makes sense to her. Then the side of his mouth quirks up in defeat.
“I had a girlfriend in high school. We were going to get married. During my second deployment, I came home and found out that she’d got tired of waiting for me and decided my brother would be a better bet.”
“Holy shit!” Chelsea exclaims. “Did you walk in on them or something?”
“Not exactly. They didn’t say anything but I could tell by the way they acted around each other that they were fucking. He’d touch her waist or she’d put her hand on his knee when they thought I wasn’t looking.”
“Did you confront them?” I try to imagine what I’d do if I came home after my three years in prison and saw Chelsea with another Death Lord brother. It wouldn’t have been pretty.
Abel shakes his head. “Nah, I figured they’d deny it since they were trying to hide what was going on. I told my brother that my leave was for a week when it was ten days. I packed my shit after the week was up and pretended to leave. Later that night I let myself back into the house, turned off the lights and waited for them.