The kitchen is relatively clean and I figure if that isn’t blow job worthy, I don’t know what is. I settle my ass in front of the television but a sharp knock at the door diverts my attention before I can turn the set on. The only folks who have business with me this late—or early because the clock on the microwave says its around two in the morning—would be members of the Club. But my old man’s the president and he’d call…usually.
The knock comes again, louder and insistent. If the fucker at the door doesn’t quit, he’ll wake Chelsea. I vault over the back of the sofa and am at the door but I don’t answer fast enough because Chels appears in the doorway wrapped in one of my t-shirts, looking sexy as fuck. Opening the door is the last thing I want to do but we both know that I have to.
“It’s the Club,” she says, and for the first time I hear real annoyance. No, it’s more than annoyance. It’s almost…disgust.
She’s grown up with the Club as part of her life, but she resents it now because she swears that if I wasn’t trying to protect a brother, I wouldn’t have gone to prison. I don’t even try to argue with her because she’s right. But standing up for the brothers who have your back is what makes a man worthy of wearing the patch.
“Go to bed, baby. Whatever it is, I’ll take care of it and be back in bed before you know it.”
“Bullshit,” she coughs into her hand but she spins around and retreats to the bedroom. Better that she doesn’t know who is at the door. If it’s Easy or Michigan then my hands are getting bloody. If it’s Judge, well, shit’s about to go down.
The door shakes under more pounding.
“Fucking A, I’m coming,” I snarl as I throw the lock and open the door. Whatever I plan to say next dies in my throat as four of Fortune’s shiny boys in blue stand there wearing smirks. Behind the four police officers stands Schmidthead, our Chief of Police. He’s smiling so broadly that I wonder if his face is going to crack.
The shithead closest to me slams a piece of paper onto my chest.
“We have a warrant to search the premises.”
“On what grounds?” I quickly read the warrant. On this day an application supported by an Information on oath was made by Chief of Police Eric Schmidt, bla bla la, for the purposes of ascertaining whether evidence of a criminal act including but not limited to the homicide of Jessica Trainor. Jessica? That seems like too ordinary of a name for that bitch.
The brush of the police as they enter wakes me from my shocked stupor. Our apartment consists of three rooms, four if you separate the kitchen from the living room, which I don’t. And in two more steps, the assholes are going to be at the bedroom door where Chelsea is either naked or wearing my t-shirt and lying innocently on our bed.
Fuck that.
No one gets to see her like that but me.
Maybe it’s because I’m still in shock or maybe it’s because I feel like my woman is being threatened, but I don’t stop to think how my actions will be perceived. Or maybe it’s just that I don’t give a good goddamn what these assholes think because I leap forward and push by the two uniforms to warn Chelsea.
The boys in blue don’t like that and strike back. One of them swings a stick at my head. I duck and punch at the same time, driving my head into his chest. My momentum slams him against the wall and I hear his head crack against the drywall with a satisfying thunk. He tries to bring his knee up but I block that by sweeping my leg to the side.
A blow to the back of my head staggers me and my vision blurs. I feel the air displaced as the fist from the second attacker swings toward me. I release the asshole in front of me and drop to my knees. The second guy falls into the first who tries to check his swing but comically ends up punching his buddy.
But I don’t get away clean because the third boy in blue is there and his boot makes contact with my forehead. I crash into the two behind me and we all go down in a pile of thrashing limbs and bloody noses. The skin above my left eye is split and the warm drip of blood is making it hard to see who or what I’m hitting.
“Stop it! Stop it!” Chelsea screams.
“Stay away, Chels,” I order. I don’t want her hurt.
“You touch him again and I’m going to sue all of you for police brutality,” she yells.
“He assaulted a police officer.”
“You fuckers hit me first!”
Above me I hear a scuffle and then Schmidthead growling at Chels. “Stop that. You stop that right now.”
“No, I’ve got a right to record your actions. This is being posted tomorrow if you don’t stop hurting him.”
The cuffs go on and I’m jerked upright. Through the blood and the rapidly swelling eye, I can see Chelsea dressed in a t-shirt and shorts. Her hands are shaking but she’s holding her cell phone up videotaping every second.
“Call Judge.”
She nods and they lead me away.
7
CHELSEA
I tape it all. Chief Schmidt and two other officers walking him out the apartment and down the stairs. The two shoving his head toward the edge of the car frame and him struggling a bit not to get hurt as they roughly push him into the squad car.
The two remaining officers are upstairs ransacking the place but they aren’t going to find a thing other than a Glock which is registered to me even though it’s clearly a man’s gun. Big grip, extra-long barrel. It’s on Grant’s side of the bed but they don’t know that.
The rest of our stuff? My laptop where I’m searching for community college classes? They can have it.
Once Grant’s taken away, I race upstairs.
Kelly Paulson, a dipshit who was two years behind me in school, is pawing through my underwear drawer. The scrawny-ass kid still has acne but the badge makes him feel big and strong. He lifts a pair of black lace panties to his face and sniffs. “Nice, bitch. Why don’t you model these for us and maybe we’ll give Harrison a meal while he’s inside.”
“Smile for the camera Office Kelly Paulson because tomorrow you’re going to be viral.” I pause for effect. “Bitch.”
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?”
&
nbsp; “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.