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.
10
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 answer 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.”
“Wrong gas?” Ninety percent of the time the knocking, sputtering engines are caused by the wrong fuel.
Grant makes a gun with his fingers. “Right you are. We’ll be driving that around tonight making sure the good residents of Riverside feel extra safe.”
The shop is super busy today. Likely everyone is here for the same reason—gossip. I’m here for that as well. There’s no better place in town—not even the coffee shop —to hear everyone's crazy and not so crazy speculations. It is amazing what a woman will tell her hairdresser or her best friend while the technician is working on her nails. I swear, people reveal shit in the beauty parlor that they wouldn’t even tell their priests.
Talk stops when I walk in the door, but I march over to my station and unpack my things as if today is just like any other day. And soon enough, the chatter starts up again.
Maggie, the owner, stops to give me a hug. “You holding up okay?”
“Yup, I’m just fine.”
“You need anything, you tell me.”
“Thanks Maggie.”
Given that Judge holds the Cut-n-Curl lease, I suppose Maggie has to be nice to me but she didn’t have to go out of her way, like she just did, to show everyone in the shop that I’m still part of the Cut-n-Curl family. I settle into my station as my first appointment arrives. Shelby Montauk is a dark-haired dark woman with razor-sharp cheekbones. Tall and gorgeous, I often wondered why she never had a steady boyfriend. If I was a guy, I’d totally be panting after her. She supports her deadbeat dad and her brother who has special needs by cleaning houses. I wonder if she ever cleaned the Trainor’s place.
She must use rubber gloves because her hands don’t look like they spend hours getting wet and dirty.
“You want the gel nails or regular?” I ask.
“Just regular,” she answers. “My girlfriend works at the Sephora store at the Mall of America and she bought me some glitter kit. I want to try it out but my cuticles need a trim and my hands are tired from scrubbing so give me a good long massage.”
“You got it.” I dip her right hand into the bowl of soapy water and get to work on her left hand. I frown when I see the perfect nail beds. There isn’t a stray cuticle to be found. An itch sets up residence at the base of my neck. This doesn’t feel right.
I lightly file her already trim nails.
“You
r friend give you a manicure too?”
Shelby purses her lips. “She did.”
“She did a nice job.”