Jerk: Delinquent Rebels MC (21 page)

At least he hadn’t gotten her a salad; he seemed like the type of guy who assumed women only ate lettuce leaves in public.

“Look, I know the kid’s in a tough spot,” Rabbit said with a sigh, “but I’m trying to go straight these days. You know my boat tour thing is really… really taking off.”

A cold feeling gripped her, as she stared at him. This guy was supposed to be their in, their saving grace. Mike, however, seemed unperturbed by the man’s statement.

“You’re actually happy just giving rich assholes tours of the lake?” he asked, swirling his noodles around his fork before shoving it into his mouth. April picked at her plate, still full from dinner at home but feeling rude if she didn’t eat.

“I dunno. It’s good money.”

“You know I hate this stuff,” Mike said softly, shaking his head. “I don’t want to associate with this side of the club.”

“I know.” Rabbit grabbed his napkin to wipe some food off his shirt, which had fallen from his fork midway to his mouth. “You’re a good guy, Mikey, but this is a big operation you’re proposing—“

“You owe Van a shitload of favors, Rabbit,” Mike remarked, his gaze hardening. Suddenly, the cold feeling started to dissipate, and April found she could sit up a little straighter. “A lot. He’s pulled through for you in the past more times than you can count, I bet.”

April arched an eyebrow and wondered if Mike knew this from personal experience, or if Van had told the guy to gently remind Rabbit of the fact. Either way, she was glad they had some leverage here.

“Aw, come on, Mikey—“

“I don’t really see what the discussion is about then,” April interjected, finding her nerve at last. Van needed their help, and if this guy was the guy to do it, she wasn’t going to let him worm his way out of the task by complaining. “You owe Van favors. Van needs your help now. It’s as simple as that. If he stays in there, he’ll die… then you’ll be owing a dead man, and I hear that really eats at a person.”

She’d heard that line—or something similar—on a cheesy crime show once, and she was proud with how flawlessly she’d delivered it. Rabbit stared at her for a long moment, and she shrugged her shoulders as she tucked into her meal.

“Where’d you find this girl?”

“She’s here for Van,” Mike replied, and even though she wasn’t looking at him, she could hear the smile in his voice, and it gave her confidence. All this time she’d been worried that she was making a mistake by coming back, that Mike could have done this without her. But she’d never be able to forgive herself if she didn’t personally see to Van’s freedom in one way or another. She’d essentially put him in there, and damn it, she was going to do everything she could to get him out.

Rabbit fell silent for a few long moments, his gaze unfocused and distant, until he finally said, “Because it’s for Van, and I
do
owe him, I’ll do it for a fraction of my usual fee.”

“We’ll negotiate the price when you tell me what you plan to do,” Mike remarked breezily, and April sat back, hiding her smile. It was finally in motion, and she couldn’t help but think she’d played a small part in getting the ball rolling.

“I mean, if I look back on other gigs, I have a few ideas already about how to get him out,” Rabbit continued, settling back against the booth. “This one time, we…”

April leaned in, listening to the man regale both Mike and her with stories of the old days, when breaking out of federal facilities wasn’t really all that hard. That was how he’d earned his reputation for being the best in the business, and she suspected a part of him wanted to show everyone that he was still damn good at his job.

And that was precisely what April wanted to hear. Someone out there, Van was eating a shitty prison dinner, worried about if he’d make it to this weekend—not realizing that by this weekend, she’d be seeing him face-to-face again as a free man.

Hopefully.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

April had never had a Thanksgiving dinner with this many people before. Looking down the long table in the Palmer estate’s expansive dining hall, she noted that the majority of the guests were retired couples from the Cascade Falls elite, most of whom probably had kids of their own who were married and celebrating the holiday with
their
kids. In fact, the person closest in age to her was someone’s third wife, who was in her mid-thirties and spoke with a dreadful British accent that April assumed was fake.

But she could hardly focus on any of that. She barely tasted any of the rich food she’d been shoveling into her mouth for the last half-hour. Today was the day Rabbit sprung Van from behind bars, and that was all she could think about. After some haggling over fees and such, Rabbit eventually concocted a fairly straightforward plan: bribe the guards, sneak Van out in the delivery truck bringing in the Thanksgiving meal for all the prisoners.

When she’d first heard it, April scoffed noisily, worried that Rabbit’s grand scheme was far too simplistic to actually be successful. There were cameras everywhere—or so she assumed—and Van already had a target on his back. Mike, however, seemed willing to jump on board with the plan, and before long, they were parting ways with the wily Rabbit character and hoping, praying, that he’d be successful.

As she absently pushed mashed potatoes and turkey around her plate to make it look like she was eating, April decided that all she could do was wait; Van would either get out of prison today, or he wouldn’t. Thus far, there was nothing tying her to the escape, but she planned to be there for him tonight, waiting at the safe house outside of town that Mike had told her about. It was known only to a few of the “good guys” in the motorcycle club and was generally used for retreats or date nights with their lady friends.

“April?”

She looked up sharply at the sound of her name, irritated that it came from James’s mouth. He was seated at the head of the table, like some mob boss overlooking his subjects, with April and her mom seated on either side of him. However, unlike a mob boss, none of the guests were clamoring to sit close to him, and instead situated themselves based on their usual social groupings.

“Yes?” She went for her wine glass, which had been empty for most of the meal after her initial mammoth gulp.

“You seem on edge,” he purred, setting his utensils aside and leaning his elbows on the table. “Is everything okay?”

At this point, she had no idea if James knew about what she and Mike had been doing behind the scenes with Rabbit, but she had an inkling that he was suspicious of her.

“Fine,” she told him with a fake smile. “Just savoring the food.”

“And the wine,” her mom giggled, tuning into the conversation momentarily to shoot April a wink. “You’ve had an empty glass all night, honey!”

Her mom had had six glasses since she started preparing for the festivities of the day at noon, but April chose not to comment on that. Instead, she forced an even brighter smile and laughed, as she placed a hand on her head.

“Yeah, it hit me pretty hard,” April insisted with a slight roll of her eyes. “I was fasting before dinner, so I think it’s really affecting me.”

“Maybe you need a glass of water then,” James said stiffly, as he resumed eating, clearly annoyed that he hadn’t gotten the reaction he was sniffing around for. April cleared her throat and looked away, then she tried her best to engage in the conversations going on around her. If she sat there worrying, she’d definitely look like she was up to something. James wanted to catch her doing something behind his back, and she didn’t need to give him any extra reason to pay closer attention.

A few deep breaths settled her nerves somewhat, and she repeated a gentle mantra over and over again in her head.

There’s nothing you can do from here. Van will be fine. Everything will be fine again.

It had to be.

***

“On your feet, Palmer.”

Van slowly set the book down on the table, his eyes narrowing at the pair of guards approaching. He’d been hiding out in the library for the better part of the day, knowing that some of the meth heads who liked to try to psych him out were always a little nervous in the library—something about people getting an education that set them off, apparently.

Today was supposed to be a good day, all things considered. The warden had ordered a huge Thanksgiving feast for all the staff and prisoners at the facility, and while everyone knew it wasn’t going to be like the feasts they were accustomed to back home, it was better than nothing. Some of the guys had even been decorating the cafeteria with shitty hand-drawn turkeys and indiscernible cornucopias overflowing with vegetables, though they only had pens to color everything with: apparently some of the markers magically disappeared from storage sometime a few months ago, and no one had bothered to replace them.

Having been locked up for almost three months at this point, Van had a few solid acquaintances. Despite his reputation for being the guy who got the shit kicked out of him pretty frequently, there were a few kind souls willing to put their reputation aside and strike up a friendship with him. Although these weren’t the types of guys Van wanted to associate with anymore, he couldn’t exactly be selective in his prison friendships. Once, a few nights ago, one of his new companions used a food tray to smack some asshole across the face who was trying to start something with Van. Both guys got put in solitude, and while Van felt bad he’d been the cause for some poor guy getting thrown away in jail while already incarcerated, he couldn’t help but feel like he was finally making progress.

Maybe if he had a few more tough guys like that in his social circle, he wouldn’t be shanked by Christmas.

But things started to go downhill at the sight of the guards.

“Have I done something?” he asked, as he slowly rose, his hands up to show that they were empty. He knew the pair of guards by sight only. They worked in another dorm most of the time, and he had to check the tags for their names.

“You got a lot of outdoor time you haven’t been making use of,” one remarked, as he grabbed Van’s arm. “We gotta make you use your hours or you lose them.”

Van frowned. If that didn’t sound like a crock of steaming bullshit, he didn’t know what would. Everyone, whether they were in a jumpsuit or a uniform, made him suspicious these days. His eyes darted to the nearest prisoner, but the guy looked away, burying his face behind a textbook. In fact, none of the guys milling around the small, poorly-stocked library spared him a glance as the pair of guards all but dragged him out.

His feet moved on their own. In fact, many of his reactions these days were unconscious ones. If an alarm went off, everyone dropped to the floor. Palms on the floor. Face up against the wall. Do what you’re told, when you’re told, and things should be okay for you. However, nothing about this smelled right. He hadn’t heard from Mike in about two weeks, and the last he’d heard, he was trying to get April to come back to help him break out. How she could do anything about his current situation was beyond him, but he had a better time coping knowing that she might be nearby.

April factored into how he reacted in the heat of the moment. He could have put up a fight. After all, the two guards were about half his size, and he could probably get at least one of them knocked out before he got to his weapon. But then he might end up in solitude, and if Mike and April were cooking something up for him, he might miss his opportunity to get the hell out of here.

However, the halls that he was led down were notorious for prisoner abuse, as several of the cameras were rumored to only be for show. He tensed, ready for a fight, but kept moving as long as the guards did.

“What the hell is this?” he muttered after being shoved into a jacket and dragged outside into the snow. The exercise fields were empty. Most of the prisoners and staff would be getting ready for Thanksgiving dinner at this point, which meant the outdoor areas, even the ones off-limits to prisoners, were all vacant.

Was this a hit? Was someone paying these two idiots to take Van out back and shoot him?

“Fucking calm down, Palmer,” one of the men grunted, shoving him into the fenced-in yard that once housed a fairly well-maintained running track. It was closed for the winter months, as the higher-ups weren’t willing to pay for someone to clear the snow. From what he’d heard, some of the prisoners volunteered to do it for free if it meant they could still use the track loop, but no one was keen on giving any of these men shovels.

The air hurt his throat, as he staggered to a halt, standing upright and glaring at the guards behind him. Some of the prisoners made use of the outdoor rec time these days, but most preferred staying out of the elements. The snow was up to his ankles, soaking through his jumpsuit pants to his socks, and the bitterly cold air made his breath fog up in front of him.

“What is this?”

“Just walk,” the smaller of the two guards ordered, “until we tell you otherwise.”

Glowering at them, his hands in fists, Van turned slowly on the spot and stiffly began his forced march through the snow. A chain-link fence surrounded him. Beyond lay a beautiful forest, empty now of its greenery, save for the random assortment of pines. Without initially realizing, he soon noticed that the guards were leading him to one of the sides that faced the wooded area.

It was blissfully quiet outside. Since he’d been locked away, Van wasn’t used to silence. Even at night he was surrounded by snoring men, some talking in their sleep, others screaming. Occasionally the bathrooms were quiet, but if that was the case, his mind couldn’t shut up. Here, in the snowy nothingness of the outdoors, there was nothing to bother him but the crunch of feet on snow.

“Palmer,” one of the guards grunted, and when he glanced back, the man hissed for him to face forward. He did so, his frown deepening. “Ten feet from here, there’s a hole in the fence. You gotta push through. Looks pretty tight. When we reach it, you’re gonna punch both of us in the face, then go through that hole.”

Van stopped moving and turned back to face them, shaking his head. “Is this a fucking joke?”

“Your buddy Rabbit sends his regards,” the taller guard said, and finally things started to fall into place. “He’s got a delivery truck waiting for you down the road. Just follow the trees, hop in the truck, get the fuck out. Clear?”

A grin tugged at Van’s lips, his heart suddenly racing in his chest, but he did his best to keep things neutral. “How much did he pay you to do this?”

“Not enough,” the shorter one mused, giving Van a little shove, “but that’s classic Rabbit. You’re an okay kid, Palmer. Sucks that someone framed you to put you away in here.”

“Sucks worse that people have been trying to kill me since I got here and no one’s done anything about it.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay, don’t get preachy,” the taller one growled. “Let’s just get this over with.”

By the time they reached the hole, nearly invisible if you hadn’t been looking for it, Van turned and clocked the taller one extra hard in the face. He went down like a lead sac, out cold before he hit the snow. The smaller of the two guards grimaced, and Van took a bit of the force out of his arm this time. Sure, his fist collided with the guy’s nose, but unlike his partner, the smaller guard wasn’t going to walk away with a broken nose. The guy looked at Van, surprised, and then made a fake dramatic fall to the ground.

No sirens went off as Van clambered through the hole in the chain-link fence, though he grunted a little when his pants snagged on one of the sharp edges. Shaking it off, he disappeared into the trees as best he could then headed into the general direction of the road.

A part of him still worried this might be some big game—that he was being tricked. Somewhere in the woods there could be a bunch of guys waiting for him with crowbars for all he knew, but he had to put his faith in something. Being locked up had damaged him, and he was ready to get the fuck out of here—even if he had to fight his way through.