Death Lords Motorcycle Club: Chelsea and Wrecker (The Motorcycle Clubs Series) (12 page)

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?”

“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.”

Wanting Judge to be right, I pull myself into the truck and turn it back to the apartment. Abel is already there when I arrive.

“Hey Chelsea.”

“Abel.” I raise my hand in a weak greeting to the former Marine who decided to throw his lot in with the Death Lords. I’m not sure who his sponsor was or where he’s from or how he found his way to us. Those are questions maybe only Judge knows. His military bearing along with his buzz cut gives away part of his background. He’s got a nasty scar that runs from his temple to the top of his earlobe but he’s never been anything but kind to me. “Come on up.”

The apartment looks worse than I remember.

“Shit.” Abel pulls out his phone and starts taking pictures. When he’s documented it to his satisfaction, we get to work putting the apartment back together.

“You like the winters, Abel?” I ask as I finish placing all the kitchen drawers into their runners. The dishes will need to be washed.

“Nope but I’m used to them. Come from Bemidji.”

“This must seem practically tropical.” Bemidji is about four hours north and close to the boundary waters. It’s cold up there nine months out of the year.

“I’ve seen worse.”

By the grim tone, I get that this applies to more than just the weather. I pull open the dishwasher and tear up when I see the clean dishes. Grant got up in the middle of the night and cleared the table and started the dishwasher. Shit, he’s a good man.

“You okay? You aren’t going to cry are you?” Abel says alarmed.

I swipe at my eyes. “Yeah. Just thinking about Wrecker in jail.” I start unloading the dishwasher.

“He’ll be out tomorrow,” Abel assures me.

I wish I was as confident as everyone else but Chief Schmidt has a thing for the Death Lords. I don’t know why it started. Some people attribute it to Schmidt wanting the new librarian, Pippa Lang, and her choosing Judge instead. But Schmidt’s hatred for Judge and the Death Lords ran far deeper than that.

My best guess is that Judge is the real power in Fortune. The town didn’t have a meth problem like so many other small rural towns and for the most part, the only crime around here is petty thievery. Plenty of people use drugs and drink too much around here because there isn’t much else to do, but it wasn’t cooked up here. We can pretend that we’re fucking Mayberry and it probably galls Schmidt that it’s more because of the Death Lords’ presence than any fear of the Fortune police.

And until Schmidt breaks the Death Lords’ hold on Fortune, he’ll keep coming after us and for now, Grant is his favorite target because Grant’s the Death Lords president’s son. Grant will always have a target on his back here. Always.

T
he Minneapolis attorney
shows up close to dawn. By that time several other Death Lords have showed up and the jail lobby looks more like a club event, what with all the leather cuts and Harley’s sitting outside. Or at least that’s what Amelia tells me.

“Decided to have one of your club meetings right in front of Chief Schmidt?” She smooths a hand down the back of her skirt and takes a seat across from me. “You can leave any minute.”

That’s directed to Officer Paulson who can’t tear his eyes off Amelia’s ass. She clears her throat when he doesn’t move.

“Officer, you don’t shut that door and you’ll be in danger of violating my client’s constitutional right to speak to his attorney. I don’t think detective promotions are handed out to officers who are responsible for civil rights suits against the city.”

Paulson’s face morphs into instant rage as he slams the door shut.

“You made an enemy there,” I warn.

“We were enemies the minute that I walked in the door and announced I was representing you.” Her red lips curve into a happy smile. She gets off on the fight. I think she likes it more when everyone hates and underestimates her. “Now, I thought I told you to stay out of trouble.”

“I have.” I spread my hands. “Can’t help that Schmidthead has a hard on for me.”

“There are two sworn statements that place your vehicle in the proximity of the country club last night.”

“Don’t know how that can be when I was home with Chelsea since seven and before that I was at Wheels Up.”

“All day?”

“Other than having lunch at the sub shop, yeah. Judge has a waiting list longer than your arm and we’re trying to work our way through it.”

“Anyone other than Chelsea at home with you?” Her questions are rapid fire.

“No, but the Cut-n-Curl is open until nine. Someone may have seen me go up.”

This tidbit elicits a small nod of approval. She makes a note and asks another question. “How do you know Jessica Trainor?”

“Don’t. I heard she and Chelsea got into it at Carmichael’s grocery but she’s part of the country club set that doesn’t pay much attention to folks in Fortune.”

“So you resent them.”

“Don’t know enough about them to have any feelings.”

“But you and Judge are very protective of Chelsea.”

That isn’t a question. Everyone knows that Chelsea is off limits so I didn’t answer.

“How long have you been sleeping with your sister?”

I bite down on the inside of my cheek until I can taste the copper of my blood. Good thing my hands are under the table so she can’t see them form into fists. “Thought you were on my side counselor.”

She leans forward. “I am on your side. You should know by now that the questions I ask aren’t anywhere near as intrusive or offensive as the prosecution will throw at you.”

When I went to prison, I wasn’t soft by any means. I’d grown up in the club and as soon as I graduated, my dad had me doing small runs with him, getting me ready for my patch. But prison had made me hard, not just in my body but in my mind. No one is breaking me now. Not Miss Amelia and her razor sharp questions or Chief Schmidt and his immoral pursuit of the Death Lords.

“I took Chelsea’s virginity when she was seventeen and she’s been mine ever since. That’s how long I’ve been sleeping with her.”

If Amelia is surprised by this, she doesn’t show it. Back when she represented me four years ago, Chelsea begged me to keep my mouth shut. She hadn’t wanted Judge to know that we had started something. Maybe she didn’t trust my intentions, but I knew—even if she didn’t—that taking her virginity was the same as making her a promise that there’d not be another woman after her.

When I got out, I was tired of hiding. Didn’t matter to me what other folks said. Chelsea wasn’t my sister, no matter that Judge looked after her since Chelsea was fourteen. She’s my girl, my old lady, my motherfucking heart. So no, I didn’t care what a million Mrs. Trainors had to say about my relationship with Chelsea.

“Fine. What did you do after you got home around seven?”

“Ate dinner. Had sex. Chelsea fell asleep and I got up around two to watch some television when Dumb and Dumber showed up.”

“Dinner lasted how long?”

I could see her mapping out a timeline. “Half hour max.”

“And then you had sex?”

“Yeah.”

“And after sex you went to bed?” She raised her eyebrows in disbelief.

“Chelsea was wore out.” She actually might have passed out after our second go around. Since I’d come already, I held off for a long time, making sure that the only feelings Chelsea had were good ones.

“That’s all you did was eat and have sex? All night?” Amelia taps her pen against the paper.

“It was only about three hours.” And for the first time since I was dragged from the apartment, I grin because Amelia is dumbstruck.

“No one has sex for that long,” she hisses.

“You ain’t never had a Death Lord in your bed have you?”

“Incredible.” She stares and then starts laughing. “I have to go to one of your parties, don’t I?”

“Invitation is always open. Of course, I don’t know if half those fuckers would know what to do with a classy broad like you.”

“Three hours, Grant. I don’t know what to do with them.”

We share a smile before Amelia gives a little shake of her head and we get down to business. “Not many people are going to believe that you had sex for three hours. And Chelsea’s not a great alibi because she’s your girlfriend. Can you get me a list of the people who would have been at the Cut-n-Curl between the time you got home and the time it closed?”

“Yes. Did they say when Trainor was killed?”

“Time of death hasn’t been identified yet.” She wrinkles her nose. “Small town crime means the autopsy isn’t top priority either so I imagine we won’t know for a week or so. On the bright side, since you do have an alibi and you aren’t a known flight risk, we should have you released shortly.”

“What’s that mean?” Short in lawyer time could mean days instead of weeks.

“Shortly means I’m going out there right now and demanding your release. They have statements that your vehicle was in the vicinity but that’s it. There’s no gun of yours that matches the bullets used on Jessica Trainor and the statements only identify your vehicle, not you. That’s not enough to convict anyone, not even you.”

Not even me, a convicted felon who had already killed one man.

“Why the arrest then?”

“Because they can.” She pushes away from the table and knocks on the door to get Paulson to let her out. “You should think about getting a new zip code because I don’t think these guys—“ she tips her head toward the door “—like you much.”

It’s the same tune that Chelsea’s been singing, only a slightly different verse. When I sat in my cell in Oak Park, the thing that kept me sane was imagining coming home, pulling on my cut and making love to Chelsea. I’ve only been back a year and already people are telling me it’s time to go.

I don’t like that.

But I also don’t like seeing Chelsea’s ragged face as every belonging of ours is tossed to the ground. And the bracelets I’m wearing around my wrists don’t feel great. Nor do I want to sit behind bars for one more goddamned minute. It was one thing to serve time for something I did do, which was knife that motherfucking skinhead rapist, but it’s an entirely other thing to be incarcerated for killing a woman I could barely pick out of a line up.

Time passes way too slow for my liking but the clock on the wall tells me only an hour has ticked by when Paulson throws open the door. From the sour look on his face, I know that Amelia has gotten her way. I stand and hold out my wrists.

“Nice visiting with you.”

He’s rough when he handles the cuffs, trying to rub the metal into my skin. It’s a bullshit move and one that show’s how desperate and weak he is. “You’ll be back soon enough.”

He hands me a bag of clothing and I strip there in the room, happily shedding the orange jumpsuit. Chelsea’s packed me a change of underwear, jeans, heavy socks, my favorite boots and a long sleeve henley t-shirt. Each piece of clothing reminds me of how much you lose when you’re imprisoned. It’s not just freedom, but privacy and a sense of self. In prison, there are regular checks that require you to strip out of your jumpsuit. The guards can make you bend over and spread your ass cheeks to make sure you’re not hiding contraband up your butt.

Clothes, several layers, is just part of regaining dignity.

So are unlocked doors. I knock on the door to signal my readiness. Paulson takes his sweet time in opening it but I ignore him. Instead, I walk toward the Club members who are waiting for me. Though the glass partition separating the waiting room from the rest of the police office, I can see Easy smiling and joking with the receptionist while Michigan stands in the corner looking ready to cut off the head of anyone who looks cross-eyed at him. Dad is talking with Amelia. They laugh over something. BangBang, the Club’s Warlord, is tossing his keys in the air. He’s a fidgety guy except when he’s upset or in the zone. When BangBang goes quiet, it’s best to find some kind of shelter because shit is about to go down.

Paulson’s heavy treads reverberate behind me. “By the way, your sister’s snatch smells good.”

As if sensing something is wrong, Judge’s head swivels toward me and every one of the Death Lords snap to attention. I raise my palm to tell them I’m okay and I’ve still got it under control. He’s saying this shit to get a rise out of me, maybe charge me with assault of an officer. I don’t do anything now but there’ll come a time of reckoning because no one says shit about Chelsea and gets away with it. I know better than to say that sentiment out loud because Schmidt and his crew are just waiting for me to fuck up. They’ll be waiting a long time because I’m willing to swallow a lot of anger to keep her happy.

“You outta get a girl of your own so you don’t have to sniff another woman’s panty drawer.” I keep walking.

“Maybe your sister will sleep with me to keep you out of prison.”

I stop in front of the door and wait for the receptionist to let me through. The door buzzes and I push it open but before I let the door close, I use the noise to cover my threat. “Sleep with one eye open, Paulson. That way you can see me coming before I cut off your dick and shove it down your throat.”