Hellion (Southern Rebels MC)

“Not about everything,” Cord exhaled, checking that Clutch was inside before continuing, “You’re not responsible for Ronnie’s death.”

I met Cord’s gaze directly. “That remains to be seen.”

“The Chief…he knew Rob had escaped?” Cord questioned, his hands moving restlessly.

I nodded, the bitter taste of acid in my mouth. “He did,” I confirmed, my voice hollow. Uncle Cal had always hated the Rebels, gone out of his way to hassle them, but I’d never thought he would….. “I never thought he’d go this far.”

“Me either,” Cord said simply. “But he did.” He stepped closer, his eyes on mine. “And now, he has to answer for it.”

“I agree.”

“Good,” Cord replied, nodding. “Then you know what needs to be done.”

“It’s a fine line I’m walking,” I answered. “He’s the Chief. I’m nothing but a uniform.”

“If you can’t handle it –”

“There are other considerations,” I interrupted him, my jaw locking as I stared him down. “Like the warrant out for Clutch. Catching Rob. Doing things the right way.”

Cord spun away, pointing his finger back at me. “And that - that is why you will never be a Rebel.”

The words stung, but I didn’t back down. “And who do you think Johnny would agree with? His only focus is protecting you four. Always has been.”

“And you do whatever Johnny says,” Cord mocked, breathing heavily as he came back around. “Like a good little soldier.”

“That would be you,” I retorted, trying not to let emotion sway my judgement. “I follow the law. I will fix this,” I promised, keeping my face expressionless. “But you have to let me do it my way.”

“You have until Clutch comes back with Kara,” Cord snarled. “After that, all bets are off.” He met my eyes, his glittering with promise. “Your uncle will pay for his part in Ronnie’s death.”

***

I parked the car, shaking off the memory as I checked the RV shed, confirming she was still there. Everything was quiet so I let myself inside the house, shedding my clothes on the way to the bedroom. I checked my neck but all that remained was a slight redness around my throat, unnoticeable to anyone else. I shaved quickly and put on my uniform.

No doubt Uncle Cal was already at the station and I needed to head him off if I was going to give Clutch enough time to get out of town. I made myself another cup of coffee, knowing I was going to need it, and rather than pour the rest of the pot down the drain, I filled an old thermos. I didn’t think too hard about my next actions, just left the Thermos sitting on the step of the old travel trailer before getting into my cruiser.

The station was quiet when I went in, the two other officers not in yet. I nodded to Janet, the receptionist, dispatcher, and all around glue that held the station together, as I headed straight for the office in the back.

“He’s in a mood,” Janet warned, rolling her eyes.

“When is he not?” I asked rhetorically and she lifted one shoulder in acknowledgement.

“He’s not your granddaddy, that’s for sure,” she mumbled under her breath and I hummed in agreement. It had been years since I’d had a good relationship with my uncle, but after Grandad had retired and Uncle Cal had been appointed as Chief of Police, it had deteriorated even further. Uncle Cal refused to listen, determined to have everything done his way, and his open hatred for the Southern Rebels did nothing to endear him to anyone on the force or the town.

There had been calls to have Uncle Cal removed from his position, but the mayor kept appointing him as the Chief of Police, stirring rumors that my uncle was blackmailing the mayor. Kinder folks speculated he kept the job because no one else was qualified. I’d begun to feel the weight of expectation since I was only two years away from having the requisite ten years on the force to qualify.

It was a moot point though.

Uncle Cal would rather see me dead than take his job.

I knocked, two hard raps on the closed door, and waited until I heard him say, “Come in.”

I walked inside and he barked, “Close the door.” I obeyed, used to his orders, and not really wanting Janet to hear the dressing down I was about to receive.

“That son of a bitch in the jail?”

Son of a bitch was his blanket term that could refer to any one of the Southern Rebels, but in this instance I knew he meant one in particular. Clutch Hayes.

“No,” I replied, tacking on, “Sir,” a smidge later than true respect would call for. Uncle Cal’s eyes narrowed, whether it was at my tone or my answer, it didn’t really matter, the result was always the same.

“Watch it, boy,” he warned, standing up. The move was less intimidating than when I was a kid, since I’d long since matched him in height. “You think you’re special because the Rebels use you as their whipping boy.” My mouth tightened but I knew better than to give him the pleasure of a reaction. “I want that convict in jail.”