His Property (Iron Bandits MC)

“He…he’s got this issue with being around cops. I don’t know his history, but there were a bunch of red flags that I didn’t really put together ’til it was too late—that was one of them. Twenty/twenty, right?”

Jack grunted and squeezed my leg to get me to keep going.

“Anyway, as soon as he realized who I had called, he was ready to bolt. He was still yelling at me as he left, calling me a bitch, saying I’d pay and that I had no idea what he was capable of, or who I was messing with, and that I was making a huge mistake, but that I’d learn better soon.

“I just kept yelling at him to get out, and that it was over, I never wanted to see him again. And then—this is the weirdest part—he said he knew I loved him, and he loved me too, and we’d work it out, and he’d see me in a few days, after I’d had time to miss him.

“Finally, he left, and I was shaking so hard I didn’t even get up to lock the door behind him. I didn’t want to move.”

Jack still radiated pissed-off badass energy, and it was actually comforting to me. It somehow made it easier to tell this craptastic tale from hell.

“Later, I heard sirens approaching, and then a knock on the door and the bell rang, and it was the cops. And I think an ambulance. I wasn’t really thinking well, you know? But they got his name, said that I could press charges, checked me out. I was okay, though; I didn’t need to go to the hospital or anything. Just hit the one time. So anyway, they left after that, I locked my door, and that was it.”

“Hold on, Ellie. Did you press charges?”

“No. Maybe I should have, I don’t know. But I just wanted it to be over, you know? I just wanted the whole night to go away.”

“You should have pressed charges.”

“Shoulda, woulda, coulda. I didn’t. You want me to go on, or do you want to fight about it?”

“Babe…” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Go on.” When his eyes were on me again, I continued.

“Well, after that night, I didn’t see him for a few weeks. I thought it was over. Thought that was the end of the story, and good riddance.”

Jack had been paying close attention, and he grunted as he ran his tongue over his teeth, thinking. “Okay. He’s got some payback way overdue, then. This is the same guy my brother beat up that night you told me about, right?”

I nodded.

“Good. Good on Keith.—So, what more do you know about Brian? Full name, height, weight, contact info, anything you can give me, any details about where he might hang out or what things he’s into. Everything you know.”

“Jeez. You do know you sound like the cops right now, right?”

He only lifted an eyebrow at me, and his nose twitched. I guessed he didn’t love that comment.

“Okay. Brian Patrick McAfee, I’m pretty sure he’s thirty-one, maybe thirty-two years old. He’s around six feet tall, brown hair, brown eyes, wears glasses, black plastic frames. Man-bun, scruff on his jaw.,,”

Jack’s eyebrows shot up and he was clearly repressing a laugh. “Are you describing one of those hipster dudes? That’s what you go for?”

“Shut up. I lived in Portland, Jack. Fuck you. Do you want me to go on, or are we done?”

He squeezed my knee, still smiling. “No, babe. It just surprised me; shouldn’t have, I guess. Go on. Don’t get mad.”

I narrowed my eyes at him for a moment, then let him off the hook and went on. “Okay. He’s a mountain biker, outdoor-enthusiast. Likes to camp, climb, hike, all that stuff. So he’s pretty fit, strong. He comes off really confident, good-natured—or at least, he used to. I don’t see that at all anymore when I think about him. But that’s how he might seem to people who don’t know him. Um, what else…?”

“Does he look like anyone famous? Give me an idea of his face.”

“Oh, okay. Um, maybe a little bit like a younger, darker-haired…oh, that guy that was the president in Independence Day. What was his name?”

His mouth ticked up. “Bill Pullman?”

“Yeah, that one. But obviously, younger. And fit.”

“Okay, that’s helpful. Good. You got anything more? Contact info? Friends he might have in the area here? Employer info?”

“No to the last, he’s a freelance consultant, or that’s what he told me. I deleted and blocked his number ages ago. I know it started with area code 503, but I don’t remember the rest. I deleted him from my contacts, so I don’t have anything else on him. And no about the people in the area here—that’s one of the reasons I picked Tucson to move to. I was trying to start all over, somewhere I didn’t think he would come. He always said he loved the northwest climate so much, he didn’t want to ever leave it. Tucson, I figured, was the exact opposite of Portland. The jerk came here anyway. Lucky me.”