He grimaces and tosses the underwear in the drawer, slamming it shut with his hip. “Probably got crabs anyway. Club slut, aren’t you? Willing to fuck anything and anyone including your brother?”
Wouldn’t fuck you I want to retort but I bite my tongue because anything I say is going to be on camera too. I keep recording as they make their way through our tiny place. Drawers are pulled out and dumped on the floor. Cushions are tossed off the sofa and then the entire thing is tipped upside down. Paulson pulls out a knife and starts cutting away the bottom of it.
“Hey, you can’t do that!” I protest.
“Sure can.” And despite my objections, he cuts the entire webbing off the bottom. Of course there isn’t anything there which results in him cursing up a storm. The other officer, who I probably should know but I don’t, pulls him away. Mark? Matt? Mick? I can’t remember.
“You got anything?” Paulson asks. The officer shakes his head no. I want to scream at them that of course they didn’t find shit. We aren’t idiots. Grant has a felony record and he’s on fucking parole so we’re not going to have shit in our apartment that would get him sent back. The fact is that other than the Club activities, there isn’t anything in our life that we need to hide. Neither of us do drugs. We don’t spend money we haven’t earned and we don’t have any illegal goods in the apartment.
Whatever the Club does that is outside of the law isn’t allowed to touch the personal lives of the families and even if I wasn’t Grant’s girlfriend, I am the stepdaughter of the Death Lords’ president which means I’m within that circle of protection.
The police would have a far better chance of finding stuff over at Miller’s munitions plant, the factory that employs fifty percent of the town, but that place is off limits. If Chief Schmidt brought down the number one employer of our community, he’d be strung up before dawn.
“Where’d he put it Chelsea?”
“Put what?”
“The gun?”
“My gun is in the nightstand by my bed.”
He holds up the big .45. “This isn’t the one and you know it. Trainor was shot with a .22.”
“Mrs. Trainor?” I suck in a breath. “Jessica Trainor?”
“Yeah, the bitch you argued with this morning. I hear that Harrison takes it real personal when someone gets in your face. You run home to your daddy and brother and complain about how you were treated in the grocery store?” he sneers. “After that do they take turns sticking it in you?”
I don’t care about the video anymore. I launch myself at him but before I can scratch his eyes out or knee him in the junk, MarkMattMick catches me.
“Shut up, man,” MarkMattMick says and drags me back. I’m not a puny weakling and it takes him some effort. After struggling for a minute, the red in front of my eyes clears and I take a deep breath. None of this is going to help Grant and he’s my number one concern.
I shove Matt’s arms away. I remember his name now. He’s four years older than me but I think he’s related to Lea Albertson who teaches tenth grade history.
Straightening my t-shirt, I pick up the phone I dropped and start the camera again. “Didn’t know you were so concerned about who got in my pants, Paulson.”
“I wouldn’t touch you if you paid me money,” he spits.
“Let’s go.” Matt places a hand on Paulson’s shoulder. “We’re done here.”
Paulson shrugs it off. “Gimme a minute. If you don’t tell me where the gun is that Harrison used, you could go down for accessory. He’s the one we want. Don’t waste your time on him.”
“Why the fake concern, Paulson? I’m not giving out pity fucks and even if I was, it wouldn’t be to you. Besides, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.” Accessory to fucking what? I need these two to leave so I can get to Judge. If he had Grant do wetwork for the club while on parole I will be…what? Hurt, afraid, angry as all hell? Yes, all of those things.
Matt corrals Paulson and hustles him out of the apartment before we can have another go at each other. “We’re leaving. Let’s go down to the station.”
Paulson resists at first but a quick look around the destroyed room reveals that there’s nothing else he can damage in here. Except me of course but to really ruin me, he’d have to get Grant and Grant’s down at the station.
I put on a brave, cocky face because I’d rather slice my fingers off than let these assholes think that I’m either worried or upset even though I’m dying inside. If Grant gets sent away again, I don’t know how I’ll survive it.
With shaky hands, I hurriedly throw on my sweats, a heavy jacket and my boots. Tears prick my eyes when I remember that they dragged Grant out of here in his boxers and bare feet. I stuff a bag full of stuff for him so when he’s released, he’ll have some clothes. I don’t bother locking the door behind me as I clamber down the apartment stairs. The truck is cold when I start it. I let the engine run while I dial Judge’s phone.
He picks up on the second ring. “What do you need?” he says in his deep voice, slightly scratchy from being woken up.
I almost lose it. Judge and I grew close when Grant was away for three years. I kept living with him even after I graduated because I couldn’t bear to be alone. I hadn’t had any father figure for the first fourteen years of my life, but Judge made up for that lack. And he’d given me Grant. I love him dearly and I’d give a lot to have a fatherly hug right now.
Damn Paulson for his gross comments. One of these days, when he least expects it, I am going to pay him back.
“They took Grant in,” I manage to choke out.
“Who and where?” Any trace of sleep is obliterated.
“Police station. Chief Schmidt showed up with four others. They had a warrant to search our apartment and they took Grant in. One of them mentioned Jessica Trainor being shot.”
“Trainor? That the woman you had the run in with at the grocery store today?”
Ugh. Small towns. “Yes.”
“Did they find anything at the apartment?”
“Nothing there to be found. I’ve got the Glock in my name and that’s all we have other than a lockbox with some cash in it. They took that and the gun.”
“What about the truck?”
“No.” A high pitched laugh escapes me. The truck’s in my name, part of a property transfer that the lawyer had us do when Grant’s case looked grim. But since Grant’s been out, this cage has been his winter ride and from Judge’s question, I’m guessing there is shit in here that belongs to the Club.
“Jesus.” His sigh is briefly muffled as if he was running a hand over his face. “Let me get dressed and I’ll go down to the station.”
“I’m already there.”
My one leg is halfway out of the truck when he tells me to stop. “No, honey, go back to your apartment. I’m going to send the new patch Abel over and he’ll help you clean up. Let me take care of Wrecker and the
police.”
Unwelcome suspicion scratches at the back of my neck. Go home? Let Judge take care of Wrecker? “Is this Club business?” I ask even though I know better. If it is Club business I don’t have any right to know. I’m not a member of the Club. Ordinarily that doesn’t bother me. I’ve never wanted to be part of Death Lords. I’m not a fan of their sex fueled parties and their marginal respect for the law. The only motorcycle I care about is the one that Grant operates.
When I was younger, before my mom met Judge, she dragged me around from biker festival to biker festival with a few music stops thrown in for variety looking for some patch to sink her hooks into. How she ever caught Judge is a mystery to me although I’m starting to suspect he took her on so I could have a home rather than any warm feelings toward her. She took off soon enough when Judge refused to feed her drug habit and started finding relief in club bitches. He didn’t ever appear broken up about it but then again he had a steady stream of sweet butts to warm his dick whenever he needed it.
But my feelings toward the Club are going to turn from tolerance to antipathy if I hear Grant was out doing dirty work for the Club. Although what kind of dirty work involved offing a country club loud mouth, I couldn’t begin to guess.
“You’re upset so I’m not going to repeat you what you already know.” That’s Judge’s way of telling me it’s none of my business. “But I know how long Wrecker’s parole lasts as well as you and I’m not jeopardizing that.”
The gentleness in his voice makes me feel like shit. “I know. I’m sorry.” And then to my dismay I start crying. My hair is sticking up in five different directions. I’m wearing one of Wrecker’s barn coats, have no socks on, and it’s about ten degrees out. The tears turn ice cold the minute they leave my eyes.
“Go home, Chelsea. I’m going to call our lawyer and this will all go away. We both know Grant didn’t kill Trainor and the police don’t have anything on him.”