“Listen, I can’t help you if you don’t let me. Bad shit went down, and you got hurt. I’m sorry for that.”
“I don’t remember anything else, but this has to go two ways. I just remember really wanting a burger. Now, answer my question—why am I not in a hospital?” Even though I know the words come out of my mouth, I’m still surprised to hear them aloud. In the back of my head I can hear my conscious screaming at me to shut up. The more I keep asking questions, the more obvious it’s going to be that I remember something.
“Holly Mercer, age twenty-six, cousin Mindy Mercer, Uncle Harry is a sergeant for the Fort Bragg P.D. Dad is an electrician, mom stays home, and older brother, Theo just got married. Pretty wife,” he says with a slight smile on his face. It’s not a kind smile—it’s more like he’s happy to have the upper-hand. I gulp and steel my jaw to keep my fear from showing too much. He already knew who I was, but him knowing my family as well as he does is disconcerting.
“How do you know all of that?” I ask, stumbling over my own words.
“It’s my job to know,” he says. “Now, I’m going to ask you a few questions, and do keep in mind that I already know some of the answers, so it’s in your best interest to be honest.”
“Why do you need to ask me anything if you already know the answers?” I can only explain my attitude by saying that I’m in pain. Because any other explanation involves admitting my own stupidity. Pissing him off when I’m mobile and we’re in public is one thing, but alone in his house when I’m unsure how quick I can actually move is quite another.
“Do you know what this cut means?” he asks and points at his leather vest.
“Yes,” I say, barely able to hold back the comment that’s on the tip of my tongue. My stomach aches, and my back is practically throbbing from the soreness of lying in bed for what I assume to be hours on end. It’s unwise, but more than almost anything, I want to tell him it makes him look like a member of the village people.
“Then you know what I am,” he says. It’s not a question; it’s confirmation. I nod.
“I figured out what you are a long time ago,” I say and let the insults fly in my head. Asshole. Jerk. Idiot. Criminal. ”I want to go home.”
“That can be accomplished a few different ways. It’s up to you.”
“Okay,” I mutter. “Lay it out for me.”
“Now we’re talking.” His stoic face relaxes some. “You saw something you shouldn’t have, and you're smart enough to know that I can't let you leave here and run your mouth about it. I can’t keep this town clean if you won’t let me.”
“The club helps the town, and the town helps the club. I get it.” I say the words, but I don’t buy them. Towns across the globe survive just fine without this kind of extortion ring working.
“Good girl,” he says with a nod. I shouldn’t find the slick way the words fall off his tongue to be attractive, but I do.
“You came back to town a few months ago—broke off your ass. Lived with mom until this past week. You don’t make shit, and you got some debt. Bet you could use some cash.”
It’s true, I do have debts that are long overdue to be paid. I hate that I can’t pay them, but I don’t think taking money from this man is the right answer.
“I don’t want your money. I won’t say anything.”
He doesn’t say a word. He just straightens his back and walks across the room then leans against the wall. Everything about the way he moves and talks exudes a sort of confidence I don’t think I’ve seen in anyone else. He’s definitely been here before. I wonder how many people he’s been able to intimidate into doing his bidding.
“That’s generous, but that’s not how this works. You’re giving us your silence, and we need to give you something in return—and 25k is nothing to turn your pretty little nose up at. Anything else means we owe you, and make no mistake about it, babe—Forsaken don’t owe anybody any favors.”
Grady crosses his arms over his chest and stares at me thoughtfully. I give it a moment to think the situation over. I don’t have any options, really. I’ve heard enough from Uncle Harry how this works. People don’t say no to the club—not drug dealers, or addicts, not the police, and certainly not the rest of us. Uncle Harry won’t give details, but he’s said enough. The people who do say no to the club end up paying for it in some way they don’t like. I don’t want to be one of those people, but maybe there’s another option.
“I’d rather get your signature,” I say. “On Cheyenne’s counseling form.”
“This again?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Either she enters mandatory counseling and attends Saturday School or she’s expelled. Mr. Beck would prefer the latter, but I’m trying to stop that from happening. The district will allow her to make up some of her missed classes on Saturdays. It’s win-win for you. She doesn’t get expelled and you don’t have to spend a dime.”