Rest & Trust (24 page)

Sherlock thought it was the latter. He’d run it by Bart when he’d come in before the meeting, and the VP had goggled at him, studied the intel again, and then said, “Holy shit. You’re right.”

He looked around the table. “La Zorra’s been gearing for war for more than a year. I think we just named her enemy. I also think she already knew exactly who it is. Maybe she even planned it to go down like this. She wanted the north because she was ready to force his hand. Taking Canadian trade gives her an effective monopoly on the
entire
North American narcotics trade. She’s got her fist around every product. She’s contracted with or eliminated every producer. Her sales network is flattening the competition. And now she has her last frontier—and she also has the west coast ports. She’s like the fucking Queen Victoria of narcotics. But the way she’s done it makes no sense—she’s taken control of something she’s killing. That could look like an opening to somebody trying to unseat her.”

“What?” Hoosier asked.

Bart took over. “We couldn’t figure out what she’s been doing. She’s been raping the shit out of her production sources, and at the same time, she’s been expanding, increasing demand, beyond what her growers can keep up with for the long term. That’s rookie shit, and she’s no rookie. She’s taken over a whole country—and more than that. She’s achieving monopoly status on narcotics production on two continents.” Bart paused and looked around the table. “It’s like she’s trying to run the whole industry into the ground. And setting her enemies up to think she’s faltered and they can take her head on.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Connor muttered.

Demon laughed.

But Trick said, “She told me once that she wasn’t a drug lord, she was a warlord. Now I get it. So…what? We’re cannon fodder in her fucking war?”

Connor answered his friend. “We’re her vanguard. That’s what she sees. We’re leading the front.”

“But if Sherlock and Bart are right,” Fargo cut in, struggling to speak through his newly wired jaw, “we’re not in on it. We’re her patsies. And she could sell us right the fuck out.”

Hoosier sighed. “We just lost two brothers. We lost more than that since this shit started. That’s the way of war, and it’s the way of the outlaw, but I hate it. You’re right—Dora’s no…rookie. She’s got a plan. If you’re right about what that plan is, then we need to be ready for shit to go…fifteen different kinds of sideways. If she sells us out, we all go down hard…Affairs in order, brothers. Bury your shit. Clean your houses. Let’s not make it easy.”

~oOo~

Sherlock thought he’d been tired when they’d pulled into Bart’s driveway at the end of their long, long run. Pulling into his own driveway about twenty hours later, he thought he might well have crossed into an entirely new level of consciousness. Hallucinations couldn’t be far off.

As he dismounted and locked down his helmet, Stuff ambled up.

“Everything cool?” he asked the amiable hangaround.

“Yeah, yeah. She took your truck out for about half an hour—just down to the Safeway and back. I don’t think she knew I was lurking around.”

“Good.” He didn’t know why he hadn’t simply told Sadie that he’d left a guard on her, she didn’t seem to mind being protected, but he was just as glad she’d enjoyed some time to herself—as far as she knew.

He held out his hand. “Thanks, buddy. I got it from here.”

After Stuff drove off, Sherlock went in the back door of his house, feeling pounds of psychic weight lifting away at the mere thought that his girl was waiting for him inside.

A blast of lavender hit him as soon as he crossed the threshold. Even in his fatigued state, he knew exactly what had happened, and he managed a chuckle. His kitchen was cleaner than it had ever been. The floor gleamed, the counters sparkled. Jesus, there were red tulips in a vase on his table.

He hung his kutte on a chair and went to the fridge in search of a beer—and found beer and fresh food and a twelve-pack of Diet Coke, all of it arranged on shiny-clean glass shelves. There was even a dozen eggs in the little built-in egg holder. He was pretty sure he’d never used the egg holder before.

“Sadie?” he called as he opened his beer. Though he’d made a habit not to drink around her, he needed this one—and she’d bought beer for him, so obviously she’d be okay with it. He crossed into the living room. Also spotless. “Sadie? Sweetheart?”

There was a little paper bag on the coffee table, like a lunch sack, folded closed. Just as it caught his attention, Sadie came in from the hallway. She was sweaty and dirty, with cute little smudges on both cheeks. “Where the fuck have you been? I texted you three times! I’ve been fizzing out of my head! I’m out of things to clean!”

God, he’d never thought that some of those texts he’d been getting all night and all morning might have been Sadie. And fuck, he’d never thought to call and check on her. He’d told her he wouldn’t be long, but here it was, noon. He set his beer down next to that little bag and pulled her into his arms. She put up a halfhearted fight and then gave in to him completely, clutching at his t-shirt. “I was so worried.”

“I told you there wasn’t any danger.”

“But you were gone so long, and I didn’t hear from you.”

“I was just…busy. I’m sorry, though. I’m not used to having anybody to check in with.” He tipped her head up and kissed her. “Thank you. I don’t think the house looked this good when I moved in.”

“I like to clean. It keeps my head sorted out sometimes.”

“That makes you just about the perfect woman, in my book.” He kissed her forehead and set her back, feeling the need for another swig of beer. As he picked up the bottle, he also snagged the little sack. “What’s this?”

“No, wait—” Sadie said, reaching for the bag, which was about the most suspicious thing she could have done. Sherlock was too tired to feel more than curious, though. He pulled the bag out of her reach and opened it.

Emergency contraception.

He hadn’t thought about what he’d said in the shower since he’d left the house in the middle of the night, but he’d meant every fucking word. He knew he’d been unfair to her, maybe even bullied her into acquiescence, but he’d meant it. He loved her. He wanted a family, some meaning in his stupid life, and he wanted it with her. He’d laid himself bare and fucking begged. He’d have been willing to talk about it calmly, but he hadn’t made a call last night he regretted today.

Sadie had, though, it seemed. And she’d done something about it. Without talking to him first.

Sherlock was exhausted, a weariness that went deeper than his body. Taryn had been assailing him all fucking day, and for days before that, and he still hadn’t dealt with that shit. Taryn, who’d killed his kid and forced him to the sideline to let it happen without even giving him the chance to figure out his part in it. And now Sadie had done the same damn thing.

He threw his beer across the room. It slammed into the wall next to a replica Master Sword, shattered, and splashed beer. Sadie jumped and then backed away. He grabbed her arm before she could get out of his reach. “What the fuck did you do?”

“Nothing! Ow, stop. You’re hurting me!”

If anything, his grip grew tighter; he couldn’t control it. “Then what the fuck is this?”

“Sherlock, please! Please! It hurts!” She started to cry, and he finally let her go. She grabbed the arm he’d hurt and then backed herself into a corner—the worst place for her to be if he were truly a threat to her, but he wasn’t. The fight had died in him, and he sat hard in the nearest chair.

After a moment, from her corner, she said, “What the fuck that is is a
sealed
box with a  morning-after pill. I haven’t taken it. I bought it because we did something crazy last night, and we need to talk about it, and I wanted to have it in case we decided it was too crazy. Now I know it was.”

Sherlock took the box out of its bag. Yes, it was unopened. Fuck. “I’m sorry.”

She didn’t respond, so he looked up and saw her wedged into the corner, rubbing her arm. He could see the bright red mark of his hand on her fair skin. He closed his eyes and ground his fingers into his forehead, as if he could erase that image from his brain.

He stood, and she crammed herself even farther back. “God, Sadie. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking tired. My brain can’t think anymore. I’m not gonna hurt you. I…I overreacted.”

She huffed a sneering laugh. “No shit. Why?”

He couldn’t face a conversation about Taryn, not now. “It’s complicated. I told you—I’m tired. It’s just been day after day after day of shit, and I’m at my limit, but there’s more to come.”

She took a halting step forward. “I should take that pill.”

“No!” He snatched the box back, even though she wasn’t close enough to take it from him. He didn’t mean to be so forceful, and he hated the way she jumped. Before he spoke again, he took a breath and calmed himself. “I know we should talk more about it, but sweetheart, I do want it. I love you. You love me. Make a family with me. We need each other.” He dropped the box onto the chair behind him and took a step toward her. When she didn’t shrink back, he tried a smile. “I love you, little outlaw. I want to make a life with you.”

He saw her warm to him again, understood what it meant when her body lost its staunch rigidity. “Sherlock…”

His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he flinched. Sadie cast a raised eyebrow at his pocket. “That’s your personal. It’s been going crazy since you got back. It never makes this much fuss.”

Didn’t he know it. Before Sadie, the only people who ever used that number were his mother and brother. And Taryn.

With a heavy, disgusted sigh, he pulled the damn thing out into the open. The screen was crammed full of texts:
Miss you; Don’t be like this, baby; The kids have been asking about you; Dylan got a new game; Tim, come on. You know it’ll be okay if you just give in;
and so on. For days, that had been going on. The text that had just come in was a photograph: Taryn naked, on hand and knees, holding the phone up behind her back and smiling over her shoulder at the camera.

Fucking Christ.

He swiped all that away and finally returned a text:
We’re done. Move the fuck on.
Then he threw his phone onto the sofa. If it buzzed his thigh one more time, he might well lose his mind.

Sadie was staring at him. “What’s all that about?”

He shook his head. “Family shit.” Closing the last of the space between them, he picked up her hands and pressed them to his chest. “My family is shit. Your family is shit. I’m not overreacting when I say I want to make a life and a family with you. I’ve lived long enough to recognize what I want when I have it, and it’s you. Please don’t take that pill.”

For a long, long, painfully long time, she simply stood there, staring at his hands around hers. Sherlock stood quietly and let her think, or feel, or whatever she needed to do. He willed the right decision at her; he almost felt like his mind physically pushed it toward her.

Finally, she raised her eyes to his. They were big and round and violet, and he saw that he still had her trust, even though he knew that, if he looked, he’d see his fingers drawn in red on her bicep.

She nodded, and he pulled her close, held her tight—and gently.

~oOo~

Three days later, they buried Gerald “Jerry” Klepp with all the honor of a brother, in a kutte bearing a patch they’d never given him the chance to wear in life.

Sadie was with Sherlock most of the day, except when they’d bidden Jerry farewell in the way of the club. More than simply staying at his side, though, she had been a part of the day. She’d been one of the old ladies, taking care of the people who’d come to say goodbye.

It wasn’t a large group; Jerry really had had no one else but the Horde. Friends of the Horde came, though, too—representatives from nearby clubs, some of the people who had businesses near the clubhouse. Still, Sherlock felt another layer of wrongness for Jerry, to have had his life ended in the way that it had been, and then to have so few care enough to mark the occasion. Again, Sherlock felt the pull to make his life matter. Who did he have beyond the Horde to care about him, to mourn him when that day came? His mother. His brother, maybe.