“Good to be seen.”
I didn’t recognize the other man sitting to El Santo’s left. I imagined it was one of his bodyguards judging by his stature and the way he was looking at us. Ready to take us the fuck out if needed. He was wearing a black suit and wire in his ear.
“Let’s cut the bullshit, shall we? To what do I owe the honor of your presence, Mr. Jameson?” El Santo chimed in.
“Creed,” I simply stated.
“I wasn’t aware we were on a first name basis. You can call me Mr. Montero. You haven’t even earned the right to shake my goddamn hand, yet.”
“Just to sit in your presence then?”
“No. To answer my fucking questions. I’m known for having very little patience, Mr. Jameson. Would you like to test that fucking theory?”
“With all due respect, Damien...”
He grinned, arching an eyebrow.
“We asked for a meetin’ wit’ you. Not your fuckin’ entourage, yeah?”
“And here I thought we were all becoming friends now.”
“Friends is a term I use loosely.”
“You’re coming into my territory, making demands? You really are just a stupid biker, eh?”
“Says the man who took the meetin’.”
He laughed, big and throaty. Grabbing his gun off the table and pointing at me. “I fucking like you! And because of that, I’m going to excuse your shitty manners, and not shoot you in the goddamn leg. You’re welcome. With that being said, what the fuck do you want?”
I nodded to his gun, silently ordering him to get it the hell out of my face.
“Bikers...” he dramatically breathed out, laying his Glock back on the table in front of him. But still pointing it at me. “They have no fucking respect for authority. You have five minutes before my hand gets cold and I get trigger happy.”
“What do you know ‘bout my father?” I asked, knowing I wasn’t going to win this battle.
“What do I know about him or what do I have on him? See what I did there?” He leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table. “Learn to ask the right fucking questions to get the answers you need.”
“I thought we were cuttin’ the bullshit. You know exactly what I fuckin’ mean. You help me, and I’ll help you. Now, those are words you fuckin’ understand, yeah?” I mocked, leaning into the table mirroring his posture. “You tell me what you got on my old man, and I’ll get you the fuckin’ evidence ya need to lock his ass away behind bars, for good.”
He smiled, leaning back into his leather chair. No doubt, understanding my proposal.
“You’re up for District Attorney, yeah? Breakin’ news... ‘El Santo, Damien Montero, brings down yet another notorious outlaw. MC President, Jameson of the Devil’s Rejects, who has been wanted by the FBI for decades. Evidence found, making him liable for the innocent lives he’s taken and other crimes punishable by the United States judicial system,” I proposed in a serious tone, glancing over at Diesel. “What do ya think, bro? Sounds like a fuckin’ promotion to me.”
“I’d bet my Harley it was, and you know how much I love her,” he retorted, only looking at Damien, who was glaring at us like we just handed him a golden fucking ticket.
“So... what do you know ‘bout my father?” I cocked my head to the side. “Am I askin’ the right question, now?”
“Leave us,” Damien ordered in a harsh tone to his men.
They did as they were told. Bossman nodded over to me before he walked past us, followed by the suit. Damien didn’t falter, standing up from his chair, walking over to the makeshift bar in the corner of the room. Pouring three glasses of bourbon, setting them down in front of us. He sat sideways at the edge of the table, taking a long swig from his glass before slamming it down on the table when he was done.
Bringing his fingers up to his mouth like he was contemplating what to say next. “Have you ever wondered why your Prez and Martinez are friends?” he questioned, emphasizing the word are.
I jerked back, stunned by his response.
“Hmm... I know you hate the motherfucker, but I’ve come to miss him. Things were a lot more entertaining when he was alive. Especially between your old man and him.”
“The fuck?”
“You said you wanted to know what I knew about your father. Not what I had on him. There’s your fucking answer. Now get the fuck out.”
“You ain’t given me shit.”
“I’ve given you plenty. I’m a prosecuting attorney for fuck sake. Can’t put words in your mouth. Won’t hold up in fucking court,” he taunted, grinning.
“It’s up to you to find what I need and then we’ll both get what we want. Entendido?”
I stood and walked over to the door, having enough of his goddamn bullshit.
“Oh, and, Creed?”
I spun to face him.
“Don’t you ever disrespect me, again. Next time I’ll blow your fucking balls off.”
And with that, I left. Knowing he could tell me what I needed to know, but he wanted to fuck with me, maybe have me prove myself worthy to him. Who the hell knew... He was just another fucked up son of a bitch.
When we got back to the truck, my cell phone pinged with a text. I never expected to read the words that I did on the screen.
“It’s Mia. She’s gone missing, again. We can’t find her or your brother. Neither one of them answered their phones. Please tell me you didn’t have anything to do with this.” — Ma
My heart fucking dropped, and for some reason, I dialed the first number that came to mind.
Leo.
Fully aware that Martinez...
Was alive.
Six months had come and gone since I was found, and still no sign of my memory. Although I started having more intense flashes sparks of emotion when it came to certain things. It mostly happened when I was around Noah. Like he would do or say something, and I swear whatever it was had happened before. Almost like déjà vu. Dr. Garcia said there was a good chance that I had or I was developing romantic feelings toward him. The emotions he sparked within me could seem familiar, even though they were new.
But I swear it was so much more than that.
I began having dreams about being gunned down about a month ago, stumbling around in a daze before falling down an endless black hole, landing in strong arms. Then it would warp into losing my baby. Each one hazier than the last, making it hard to put the pieces of the memory puzzle back together. Decipher what I was actually seeing in my dreams, versus what I was feeling in the nightmare. It was all-consuming, almost unbearable some nights. I’d wake up in pure panic and sweat, sitting up in my bed, panting. Remembering what my mind wanted me to forget. Then I’d lie back in bed and hug my pillow, pressing it tight against my body. Immediately feeling comfort as if I was embracing an actual person.