“Boner’s missing. And I think he’s in Denver.”
His lips pressed together.
“I called Butler when I stopped for gas. The Jacks can’t find him. He told me about the Calderones.”
Krystal appeared behind Catch. She put a hand on his back and kissed Becca on the cheek. “Hey, beautiful girl! You got so big, Becca! You remember your Aunt Krystal?”
Catch shifted his weight, adjusting Becca on his hip. “Jill—”
Krystal’s gaze leveled with mine. “Come on back, babe.”
I kissed Becca’s hand that was reaching out to me and held Catch’s gaze. “Take care of our daughter. I took the risk bringing her here, because I want to trust that she’ll be safe with her father and his club. I know you and your brothers wouldn’t let anything happen to her, especially after the last time.”
He raised his head high. An acknowledgement of my act of trust, of faith in him and his club. I followed Krystal to the end of the common room to Finger’s office.
Krystal knocked once and opened the door to the president’s office. In the three years that I had been a part of the Flames, I had never once stepped into this room. I took in a breath as Krystal closed the door behind me.
Finger’s hard eyes followed me as I approached his desk, studying me from top to toe. It was a subtle flick, taking in every detail. His lips rolled, as if he were chewing on something, and with the motion, the brutal “F” scars on both sides of his face deepened. The smell of tobacco and cedar was strong. He gestured for me to sit, and I did. His two missing middle fingers were a harsh reminder of the life he’d lived and now ruled over.
“Jill,” said that familiar scratchy voice.
“Thank you for seeing me. I appreciate you taking the time.” I sat up straight in the chair. “I came to see you because Boner’s gone missing. I think he went to see this...businessman in Denver who he used to work for a long time ago, before he was a One-Eyed Jack. He has a bloody history with him. Alejandro Calderone.”
Finger leaned back in his chair, his features blank, his plaid shirt opening wider at the chest, his dark hair in a low ponytail. “Why didn’t you go to your own president? To the Jacks?”
“I spoke with Butler. They know he’s missing, and they’re in gear as we speak. But I felt strongly that I had to make sure everything possible was being done. Maybe my coming here is wrong and against the rules, and I’ll get punished for it by the Jacks and you, but I had to try. I had to. I love Boner, he’s a good man. I know, from the years I spent with the Flames, that if anyone could do something to save him, it would be you. I know Dig respected you, and Boner and Butler do, too. All of that makes this a really good idea to me, whatever the consequences.”
Finger’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You and Catch dealing with your shit? You letting him see his kid?”
“Actually, the last time he and I spoke, he threatened to sic Mishap on Boner if I didn’t do what he wanted, which was to give him Becca. I’m willing to chalk that up to a father’s desperation to be a part of his daughter’s life and not some stupid, egotistical, reckless pissing contest that would only create unnecessary problems between good men and good clubs.” I took in a breath. “Finger, I brought my daughter here today to see her dad and her other family as a show of good faith. I want to believe that all the bullshit can be wiped clean. I want to believe that we can start fresh and be fair, for all our sakes and for the good of our clubs.”
The deep lines of his face eased. “I owe Boner one.”
“You do?”
“That bullshit with the Python.”
“Right. Well, maybe Mishap could be given a new target?”
Something resembling a glimmer flashed across his eyes.
A hard knock and the door swinging open had me turning in my seat. Catch stood in the doorway. “Finger, two of Calderone’s men followed Jill here from Meager.”
Finger slowly leaned back in his seat. “I got calls to make.”
I shot up from the chair. “Thank you for seeing me.”
I left his office, but I couldn’t help glancing back at him. Finger stared after me, and I met that severe metallic gaze as the door closed behind me.
“IT’S THE NEW THING—free-trade coffee beans.”
I dragged the heels of my boots across the marble floor of his office at the penthouse. I couldn’t listen to Alejandro going on about the wine he was importing from Chile and Argentina or the coffee beans from El Salvador or how his numbers had doubled in just less than ten years. I supposed I was impressed that his talent for accounting had finally found a better focus than tallying up meth and crack production and their rates of distribution.
But he needed me to be impressed. I am, motherfucker. I am.