Lawyer Trap

21





DAY FOUR–SEPTEMBER 8

THURSDAY MORNING


Draven was pissed that Gretchen smashed in the dumb-ass biker’s skull, not really needing to be connected to too many things like that right now. “I didn’t know I was going to do it until I did it,” she apologized. Then, to make up for it, she gave him a long, slow blowjob.

They hid out all night in the canyon at the Pueblo Reservoir.

Now, as the morning sun rose with a warm orange glow over the rocky ridge, Draven’s anger waned and they laughed about it.

“He did deserve it,” he noted.

Gretchen locked her arm through his as they hiked back to the car. “Screw him,” she said. “Now what?”

Good question.

One he’d been wrestling with all night.

“The biggest liability is my car,” he said, “in case anyone saw it parked in the area. I doubt that anyone got a license plate number, but they might have a general description. So I need to get it out of Pueblo, starting now.”

She squeezed his arm.

“Take me with you.”

He shook his head.

“You can’t break your routine,” he said. “That’ll draw attention. You need to get back to your hotel room and turn tricks like nothing happened. What’s today? Thursday?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you have some Thursday regulars?”

“There’s this one guy …”

Draven cut her off. “You need to be there then,” he said. “But here’s the most important thing. Don’t tell a single person about last night, ever. Do you understand?”

She did.

He stopped, grabbed her arms and made her look in his eyes. “Tell me.”

“I won’t tell anyone.”

“Ever.”

“Ever.”

He found no lies and continued walking.

When they got to the car, they drove north on I-25 for fifteen miles, until they came to a rest stop. Draven pulled in and killed the engine. An identical rest stop sat on the other side of the freeway. They used the facilities and then found a shady spot with a picnic table.

“Here’s the plan,” he said. “Be sure there are no cops around, then go over to that other rest stop and get a trucker to give you a ride back to town. Then just follow your normal routine.”

Her forehead wrinkled.

“What about you?” she asked.

He laughed. “Me? I’ll be fine.”

“No, I mean, when will I see you again?”

He thought about it and said, “I got some stuff going on, but I’ll be back as soon as I can, probably within a week, two weeks max. Be at the hotel where I can find you.”

She squeezed his hand.

“Do you promise you’ll come?”

“Yes, I promise,” he said, and meant it. “As soon as I can.” He gave her his cell phone number and said, “That’s for emergencies only. If you have to call, do it from a payphone, preferably one with no security cameras around.”

A pack of Harleys—ten or more—flew past the rest stop, heading north toward Denver with a serious twist on the throttle. No biker-bitch passengers meant they were on a mission—probably headed to Draven’s.

He and Gretchen held each other for a long time and then parted.

He drove north on I-25, taking more hits of Jack than he should, keeping an eye in the rearview mirror for bikers or cops.

Shit.

Now everything was screwed up.

One of the main goals of coming to Pueblo, namely nabbing Mia Avila—the tattoo woman who inked the warrior band on his arm—had slipped away. Still, he and Gretchen now had a history, and he wouldn’t trade that for six miles of women, tattooed or otherwise.

He flicked the radio stations.

The music shook his brain away from the fact that Gretchen would be sucking other men until he got back.

Maybe he should turn around before it was too late.

An exit popped up and he pulled off. A gas station appeared and he instinctively checked the gauge, surprised to find he was riding on fumes. “Damn you’re an ass.” He pulled in, filled up with 87, and then went inside to pay.

A toothless old lady worked the register with agonizing slowness while truckers three deep bit their lips and tried their best to not jump over the counter and rip her arms off.

Draven stepped to the end of the line and shifted from foot to foot, watching the old woman’s every move. A cheap black-and-white TV monitor in the corner caught his eye. A newscast reported that the number of bodies found at the old railroad spur north of Denver now numbered four.

Who could possibly give a shit about something so trivial?

“Hey! Hurry it up, will you?” he said.

The trucker in front of him turned, as if ready to get in Draven’s face, but looked in his eyes and didn’t say anything.

The gas bill was $36.50.

Draven stepped to the front of the line, threw two wadded-up twenties on the counter and said, “There, you happy?”

Then he stormed out.

Someone mumbled something behind his back. He walked back in and looked everyone in the eyes, one by one. No one made a sound.

“That’s what I thought,” he said.

Then he left.