Any decent professional knows all there is to know about the guy who squeals right at the beginning. They know well enough that if they push a little bit harder, fuck with them a little bit further, the half-truths become all-truths, and they’re usually pissing their pants, spilling everything they know about everybody, relevant or not, in their attempts to save their own lives. I’ve always held little but contempt for people like Rick. Such a big fucking guy, with his ridiculously toned upper body and weedy little chicken shit legs. Way to skip leg day, asshole.
There’s silence on the other end of the phone for a moment as Michael ponders my request—he knows I’m asking him to go hunting for a fucking shallow grave in the dark and shadowy parts of Anaheim. The sound of Michael’s resigned exhalation distorts the line. “Sure thing, boss. I didn’t like these shoes anyway.”
“Good man.”
“What do you want me to tell the Widow Makers? And does Alexis know what your girl’s up to? I get the feeling that your old prison buddy is quite attached to her sister.”
“No, Alexis knows nothing. Sloane wants to keep it that way. Better not breathe a word.”
“So now we’re diplomats?”
Yeah, my thoughts exactly, buddy. But I don’t say that. I grunt into the phone, conveying my mild displeasure at being questioned. Anyone else would be reamed out, but Michael gets away with fucking murder. “Just trying to keep the peace. Won’t help us if Sloane and Alexis are at each other’s throats.”
Michael laughs softly at this. “Ahhh, you want the sisters to get along.”
I roll my eyes; if the guy were here, I’d belt him in the arm. Give the fucker a bruise for being such a pussy. “No, man. We’re getting the fuck out of this godforsaken state as soon as possible. And my life will be fucking unbearable if Sloane’s still bitching about her messed-up family problems on the drive back home.”
“There’s a very simple resolution to this problem, you realize?” Michael says.
I know what that very simple resolution is: leave. Get up and walk away. No, fuck that. Fucking run. “Yes, asshole. I’m aware. Just head to Anaheim, okay.”
Car horns blare on the other end of the line; the deep, throaty rumble of motorcycle engines, too. “Okay, okay. I’m on it. Hey, Zee?”
“Yeah?”
“I had no idea my cousin was involved with Alexis. You know that, right?”
I grunt—yeah, it would have been a lot fucking easier to find Sloane’s sister if Michael kept up with his relatives on a regular basis—but this isn’t his fault. Families are fucked up. I should know. “Yeah, man. You wouldn’t have been hanging around outside Julio’s place looking for a ghost if you had.”
Michael laughs off the comment. “Yeah, would have saved me a partial beating. So, do you think she really does love him?”
I’ve been thinking on this. Thinking on it a lot. I’ve heard the worst things about Rebel, but then again I’m sure people have heard terrifying shit about me. That doesn’t mean I’m the devil incarnate. Rebel might not be either. I’m not one for giving people the benefit of the doubt, but I can usually tell when people are bullshitting me. “Who knows, brother? Weirder things have happened at sea.”
Weirder things have happened in Dana Point, too. This comes to me as I realize I’ve somehow found myself parking outside Sloane’s parents’ house.
And I’m getting out of the car.
“You’re…honey, I’m sorry. Can you please repeat that?”