“You’re bruised up pretty good. It wasn’t much more than a flesh wound, but you are one dramatic bitch. You’re going to be sore for a little while, but you’re fine. Now, tell me—what do you remember?”
“I,” I say and then shut it down. Calling me a bitch time and time again is a cheap way to throw his weight around. I only wish it didn’t bother me. His demeanor is off-putting and makes me think twice about telling him the truth. I remember everything, I think, but he doesn’t need to know that. I want to yell at him that I’ve never been shot before and that I don’t do well with the sight of blood. Even the suggestion of dripping blood freaks me out, but I suppose a man in his position is used to seeing bullet wounds and he wouldn’t understand.
“I don’t know.”
Three long strides and two frustrated breaths later, he’s in my space, looming over me. His eyes narrow and he places his hands on his hips. “You lying to me?” he asks.
Even though I lived in the Bay Area for years, there are some things I never could forget. Like the rumbling of the engines as the Forsaken Motorcycle Club makes its way through town. So loud and powerful that the bikes shake the earth beneath them. And the men—mostly young, and all built like brick houses—all have these badass “I can do what I want” attitudes. Even the memories of the sticky sweet air when you’re even within a few blocks of the ocean faded in time, but the few club memories I have never did. The mugginess of the air and the Pacific, and even the people here—it’s nothing compared to the club and all that it means.
My Uncle Harry would have everyone believe that the club is the epitome of evil—that they’re good for nothing—and he tells everyone who stands to listen how he wishes to rid the town of the club for once and for all. So even admiring the deep roar of the engines and the chaotic presence of the club, I never ventured to even so much as smile at any of them. Sure, when they did things to help the community, like putting a new roof on the library, the town gathered ’round the ribbon cutting ceremony and thanked the club—most especially the president, Jim Stone, and his wife, Ruby—but beyond attending those events in the back and without personally thanking them for anything, I’ve done well to stay away from them.
And now…
Oh, Uncle Harry would be so angry right now. And my father—he would have a fit and demand that Uncle Harry swoop in with his boys and the captain of the force to get me out of here before Grady does something awful. Because Uncle Harry has Dad convinced that the club is full of a bunch of rapists and drug dealers who pride themselves on being cruel to those around them. I can’t say much for Grady, but the club president never struck me as particularly awful. I’ve seen Jim Stone with his wife and their sons, Ryan and Ian. The way Ruby looks and talks about Jim—according to Mindy—she absolutely adores him and doesn’t take crap from anybody. So I’m thinking that maybe Uncle Harry is a bit misguided and that he just doesn’t like the fact that the club has more control and influence over his town than he and his fellow officers do—even if Grady is no better than road kill in my opinion.
“No,” I say. I really do hate to lie, but I don’t know what kind of situation I’m in here. There’s no telling what he’s going to do with me. I’m an injured witness to a shooting incident in town. I’m also the bitch who has the audacity to be concerned about his daughter’s future. If he knows that I remember everything, I could be in a whole mess of trouble.
He leans over me, his large frame blocking out all light, and all I can see and sense is him. Tilting his face toward me, and catching my eyes, he shakes his head. “I don’t believe you,” he says.
I shouldn’t lie. It’s not so much a morality thing as it is a “I’m bad at it” thing. I really am absolutely horrid at lying to just about anyone regarding anything. Even to save my own skin, apparently.
“I’m not asking you to believe me,” I say.
“Are you scared of me?” he asks in a dry tone. His lips twitch upward and his eyes practically dance with amusement.
“You wish,” I say, and force myself not to purse my lips. It’s my tell—or the one that everyone close to me says always gives me away. Grady doesn’t need, nor does he deserve, to know this about me.
“You’re awful mouthy for someone who’s laid up in my house,” he seethes.
“You should have taken me to a hospital,” I say, and drag myself up onto the stack of pillows behind me, ignoring my discomfort.
“What do you remember?” he says, irritation evident in his voice.
“Nothing really,” I say and try to think how to word what I’m going to say to him. “I was going for lunch. I wanted a burger.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it,” I say. My lips purse against my will, but when I catch it, I stop myself.