Judge scrubs a hand down his face in frustration. “I get that she's scared, but she isn't the only one who was without you for three years. I don’t want you running off somewhere I can’t see the two of you.”
“We’re not leaving,” I tell him but there isn’t a lot of confidence behind my statement because if Chels decided to leave, I’d go with her.
“It’ll all work out.” Now Judge is being the unconvincing one.
“Innocent people are sent to prison every day. I'm a convenient scapegoat. If they can't find the real killer, then a felon with a record is better than nothing.”
“There is no evidence,” he argues.
“There's my record. That's all they need.” I finish off the beer but it sits wrong in my gut. I can’t sit around arguing with the old man about what may happen. He lets me go without an argument.
I bike to the shop where I stick my head underneath the hood of a 1966 Cadillac. There, I’m able to lose myself in work until my stomach reminds me I haven’t eaten all day.
Good food smell hits me when I walk in the door, something spicy.
“What's for dinner, babe?” I toe off my boots and hang my jacket up on the hook. The place looks clean and neat, a far cry from the mess the police left.
“I’m making tamales. There was a new recipe I found on the internet. Thought we needed something different.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t come and help you put the apartment back together.”
She turns her face up for a kiss. “Figured you needed some time to yourself. Besides, Abel helped. He seems nice.”
“Guess so.” Nice isn’t the first adjective I’d use to describe Abel. Hard. Capable. Dedicated. Nice? Maybe around the women. It sits heavy on me that I wasn’t here to help her clean up.
The tamales were good and Chelsea kept up a stream of unimportant chatter as if tonight was no different than any other night. As if the knock on the door hadn't happened at two in the morning and I wasn't dragged to jail. As if our new apartment hadn't been picked up and shaken like a goddamn snow globe.
"The tamales are good."
"I agree!" She smiles and forks another portion into her mouth. "Super easy recipe, too. I'm going to try another one next week."
I set my own fork down as gently as possible and lean across the table. “What's going on Chels? Yesterday you were telling me that you didn’t want to be here. That you wanted to go where no one knew us and we could start over. I get arrested for something I didn’t do because Schmidthead has a hate boner for all of us and you’re sitting here like nothing’s happened.”
This time her smile is grim but more real. “I love you Grant. I love Judge. I know I get upset about the Club sometimes but that’s because it’s a convenient target. You protected a member of the Club and everyone around here knows you killed in self-defense.” I open my mouth to tell her that my hands aren’t all that clean but she waves her palm at me. A clear sign that I’m supposed to shut up. “I also don’t care if a thousand Mrs. Trainors call me names in the grocery store. What really gets my goat is the idea of Schmidthead, an asshole who probably hasn’t given a woman an orgasm since the beginning of time, gets to dictate where we live. No. I’m not running away. Besides, I have a plan.”
Those last four words should be a warning, but I can’t help but grinning back at her. “No running then?”
“No. Now I’m not saying I want to live in Fortune forever, but if and when we move, it’s going to be because we want to not because some corrupt police officer is trying to lay a heavy on us.”
“And what’s this plan of yours?” I suspect I already know.
“We need to find out who killed Mrs. Trainor. You and me. The Fortune police department isn’t going to do jack other than cook up more shitty evidence against you. We find out who did it and we take the real evidence to the county Sheriff.”
Sheriff Dahlman is a friend of my dad. They both used to be in the Army and Dahlman didn’t find the club to be a problem—probably because whatever criminal acts we engaged in, we kept them quiet and away from the county. Chels’s plan isn’t all bad except for the part where she wants to play girl detective.
“How do you propose to do that?”
“I don’t know. Let’s go to their house and search it. Maybe log onto their computers and read their emails and shit like that.”
“Don’t you think the police have already taken all that stuff?”
“Maybe. But what’s the harm in looking?”
“Breaking and entering would be a violation of my parole,” I point out.
She rolls her eyes. “As if you couldn’t figure out a way to get us in and out that doesn’t get us caught.”
I ponder her suggestion as she polishes off the rest of her meal. Apparently this idea is invigorating to her. We don't have any investigation skills and we don’t really know what we’re looking for.
“Let’s sleep on it,” I propose, and since my answer isn’t a no she doesn’t pester me about it for the rest of the night.
Of course, I can’t stop thinking about it. How it’s both stupid and smart at the same time. Tonight I’m the restless one while Chelsea sleeps like a motherfucking baby.
6
CHELSEA
Grant is real quiet when we get up. I can tell he’s thinking hard about my little proposal from last night. I can tell by the way he’s short with me that he’s irritated that I brought it up. But part of him is irritated because he likes the idea and that makes him grumpy. It’s perfectly okay for him to do perilous stuff for the Club—which I know he does—but if I’m even in the same zip code as danger—his dander is up.
Whatever dander is.
“So if we aren’t going to case the Trainor house then I’m thinking we should ride south to Mexico. I’m tired of the winters up here.”
“Mexico?”
“Yeah. There are other clubs we can join. True one percenters where you have to cut off a body part as part of the initiation.”
Grant coughs to cover up a laugh. “What kind of clubs are these that require a member to maim themselves? Sounds sketchy and not very effective. How are you supposed to enforce the rules or fight other clubs if you’re missing a limb?”
“Prosthetics have come a long way.” I reply with my nose slightly in the air. He comes around the table to lift me out of my chair. It’s a short walk over to the couch where he throws me down. I don’t have a moment to breathe before his big body comes crushing down on mine.
“How about we hook up with the Bedlam Butchers instead?”
I curl my hands around his neck and tug his face close. “I thought you said no other dick got to be inside me.”
The Bedlam Butchers are a club known for their threesomes. Sometimes we joke that Annie, Michigan and Easy might leave us but only when Michigan isn’t around. He doesn’t think it’s as funny as the rest of us.
“Good point.” He pushes his hard on into the notch between my legs. “I’d be okay if all he did was eat you out.”
“Don’t know what man would be okay with just eating pussy and not getting anything in return.”
“He hasn’t eaten your pussy, though.” The words are growled into my neck.
“I am magnificent,” I joke.
Grant licks a line from my earlobe to my collarbone which has me pushing up against him. I’m getting really turned on and I have to go to work in about thirty minutes.
“You are.” His licking stops and he pushes away from me. My hands don’t easily let him go.
I give him a quizzical look.
“Let’s do it,” he says.
Good, because my body is ready for his. I reach for him but he hops off the sofa.
“Do what?”
At my disgruntled tone, he shoots me a laugh. “I’ll take care of you tonight. But I’m talking about the Trainors. Let’s find out what’s up with them. Who’s the number one suspect and any domestic violence?”
“Husband or boyfriend,” I answe
r immediately.
“Right? Where is the grieving Mr. Trainor? Why isn’t he being interrogated? What’s his beef with his wife?”
I get up from the couch and start putting the breakfast away. “She cheated on him.”
“Probably.”
“Would you kill me if I cheated on you?” I dump the dishes in the sink.
“Nah, but I would castrate the dick you slept with. Make him eat his cock. Then I’d have to get you a chastity belt and lock you up inside some room so you couldn’t get out.” That sounded fair to me. “Tonight we’ll go over and take a look at their house.”
“How will we get in?”
An evil grin spreads across Grant’s face as he shrugs into his coat and grabs his keys from the counter. “There’s a Riverside Country Club security car in the shop right now. Tires were bald and there was some weird knocking sound in the engine.”