Misfit (Death Dwellers MC #6) (58 page)

Later that night, Johnnie walked in Fee’s room, surprising Stretch. After their brief text exchange, he hadn’t heard anymore. Fee had been in and out of sleep, leaving Stretch on edge, waiting for word on what to do.

“Arrangements have been made to have Fee transferred to Hortensia,” Johnnie told him.

Stretch nodded and gazed at Fee’s peaceful sleep. “Tomorrow?”

“Now,” Johnnie answered. “A motherfucker coming to fuck with Fee landed Christopher and Cash in jail. We have to secure her. I’d prefer to wait until she’s stronger. This is a lot of upheaval for her after what she went through, but we have no control here.”

Half the hospital administrators in Hortensia were in the club’s back pocket and all of the board of directors, thanks to very generous donations. But it was easy to have control of a small town like Hortensia.

“They’re going to go down on weapons charges,” Stretch said.

“Weapons charges would be the least of their concerns, but whatever they have on them, they’re legally carrying. Something Big Joe arranged that Christopher has kept in place. I don’t ask fucking questions. My guns are registered.”

Shit! Had Outlaw ever mentioned that to Stretch? Had Cash? More to the point, had Stretch ever asked? He’d checked out long before Hanson’s death, carrying a self-loathing because it was easier to play the victim.

“Having registered guns isn’t a good thing. It would be easy to trace certain situations back to one of us.”

Johnnie walked to him and leaned into him. “Look, motherfucker, I don’t give a fuck about guns right now,” he snarled on a whisper. “I need to get my cousin moved and we need to get our brothers the fuck out of jail. Shut the fuck up about inconsequential shit.”

Not liking the maniacal glint in Johnnie’s eyes, Stretch nodded, then moved to the window seat just as Mort, Digger, and Val walked in, followed by a white haired gentleman. At nine o’clock at night, he looked immaculate in a dark blue suit.

“Mr. Donovan,” he began, hand outstretched. Johnnie’s menacing look remained and the man dropped his hand. “Er, I can understand your frustrations. We take hospital security very seriously.”

“Not serious enough,” Mort said.

“Yeah, we not interested in the lying bullshit,” Digger put in.

Val went to Fee’s other side and nodded to her. “This my sister-in-law. We want her moved to safety.”

“When Mr. Caldwell brought it to my attention that his sister was here, I went out of my way to assure her comfort.”

“Really?” Johnnie bared his teeth. “You should’ve done a little more. I’ll expect a refund on the suitcase of money Brooks delivered to you by morning.”

Loosening his tie, the stranger cleared his throat, looking more disheveled by the minute. “Of course. Is there anything else I can do?”

“No, Radcliffe, you been quite fucking helpful,” Mortician told him with no small amount of sarcasm. “So helpful we bringing you to a special place. An Outlaw-sanctioned place.

Radcliffe paled.

Johnnie pretended to think. “Let’s give him another chance, Mort.”

“I’ll think about it, John Boy.”

Radcliffe raised his hands. “Please, anything. If you need it, I’ll personally do it at no charge. The suitcase w-will be returned.”

“With not a dollar missing,” Mort warned.

“As a matter of fact, Radcliffe, there is something else you can do.” Johnnie’s words seemed to lessen the man’s tension.

“Anything.”

Johnnie grinned, not nice. “So glad you’re so accommodating. Get me the fucking security footage. I want to see what happened with Christopher myself. You better hope there was nothing you could’ve done.”

Val rocked back on his heels. “I got a wife I love a lot. This her little sister. I want to see how easy it was for the Torp to walk into Fee’s room, motherfucker.”

“You promised you’d keep her safe, son.” Mort patted his cheek. “You lied.”

“I intended to keep her safe, but I didn’t know what to look for.” Radcliffe cringed and seemed to shrink. “Please! I-I mean I’d never do anything to intentionally jeopardize Mr. Caldwell or any of you.”

“What happened to the fucking guard you should’ve had posted at the door?” Digger questioned.

“I don’t know. I promise I’ll look into it. Just don’t…give me a chance to fix this mess.”

“You have twenty-four hours, Radcliffe,” Johnnie said in a hard voice. “Get me the fucking footage and shut the fuck up if any detectives come around.”

He nodded bleakly. “I’ll be in touch.”

“Who was that?” Stretch asked, the moment the man walked out.

“The hospital’s CEO,” Johnnie answered. “One of Christopher’s many contacts.”

Christopher lit another smoke, aware of the cameras in the room. The two badges interrogating him had left him alone for the third time, after bringing him yet another cigarette in a show of helping him.

They’d kept him in this fucking room for fourteen goddamn hours, throwing question after question at him. He was so fucking tired, hungry, and thirsty, he could barely fucking focus.

Years ago, when Big Joe finally allowed him Probate status, he’d put Christopher on gate duty. It hadn’t been the high-tech shit the club had now. Sometimes, Christopher would be on guard for thirty straight hours. However, he was allowed food and drinks. Water. Alcohol. Juice. Whatever.

He’d learned to adapt, even looked forward to it after a while.
That
, compared to
this,
was child’s play. That had been to toughen him up. This was designed to break him.

Puffing out smoke and putting the cigarette in the ashtray, he tipped his head back. Where the fuck was Brooks? Christopher had made his phone call hours ago. The motherfucker still hadn’t brought his ass to the station.

The door opened and Christopher straightened, scowling at the fuckhead detective who’d taken the role of his friend. This motherfucker was worse than the assfuck who was demanding he talk.

“How’re you doing, Mr. Caldwell?” Detective Tracoli asked, a sympathetic smile on his face.

Christopher glared at him.

Stuffing his hands in his pockets, Tracoli released a long-suffering sigh. “My colleague said your friend told him everything. All the murders the club has been involved in. The drug business. Today’s…yesterday’s incident. Let’s hear your side. We want to help you.”

“Fuck off. You must fuckin’ think my ass born yesterday. I ain’t talkin’ without my goddamn attorney.” He snatched his nearly-burned out cigarette up and puffed on it. Even if Cash had talked—which Christopher didn’t believe—they weren’t fucking tricking him into being a bitch ass snitch. “Get the fuck outta my face.”

Tracoli sat, his expression transforming from friendly and caring, to the motherfucker he’d hidden. “I hear your gang has made a lot of enemies over the years. You don’t cooperate, we’ll see to it you’re in general pop.”

General population, with all the other motherfuckers, some who had a grudge against Christopher or the club. The fucking place where motherfuckers in his position were shanked and left to bleed out.

He didn’t hesitate with his response. “Fuck you.”

“Tracoli,” the other badge called, walking in without knocking.

The scent of onions hit Christopher even before the detective motherfucker handed Tracoli the wrapped sandwich. Grinning, Tracoli revealed the hamburger and bit into it. Christopher’s mouth watered and his stomach hurt. Hunger hit him hard, nauseating him with ferocious intensity.

He clenched his jaw, longing for a small bite, wanting to kill Tracoli so badly, he balled his hands to keep from lunging. The motherfucker wanted to provoke him into either talking or fucking him up.

Not only was Christopher at risk, but his entire club. Fuck, but he should’ve been smarter than to chase after that Torp motherfucker. To see a motherfucker walk into the hospital room of his injured sister pissed Christopher the fuck off. No one but motherfucking Noah Carson Counts sent that motherfucker to Fee’s room.

“Did you know McCall is the brother-in-law of Sloane Mason?”
Chomp, chomp, chew, chew.
Tracoli shifted in his seat and sighed, holding up the small bit of hamburger he still had. “Best sandwich ever. I should’ve asked if you were hungry. It slipped my mind. I was rather star struck when I heard the news.” He belched. “I guess that’s why McCall talked. He didn’t want to humiliate his famous family member.”

“Family is important to most of us,” Tracoli’s partner mused, then turned to the door. “Give me a minute.”

“Take a fuckin’ eternity,” Christopher called, hating Tracoli even more when the motherfucker balled up the sandwich wrapper.

“What can you tell me about the bombing of Sharper Banks’s church? Word on the street was you had beef with him.” He leaned forward. “We couldn’t pin that one on the Scorpions, you know? They bombed the Torps’ clubhouse, but were nowhere near the church. Yet, you’re affiliated with all of the above. McCall has expertise in explosives. It’s a pastime of his, isn’t it?”

Instead of wasting his breath and answering again, Christopher folded his arms. His stomach growled.

Tracoli offered a bullshit wince.

“Caldwell, there’s someone here who’d like to see you,” Detective Fuckhead announced, walking back into the room. He stepped aside. “Your wife.”

Megan stood three feet away, her eyes swollen and puffy from crying, her nose red.

“Get her out of here,” he demanded, glancing away from her devastation. He would kill Tracoli and fuckhead if it was the last motherfucking thing he did.

“She wants to talk to you,” Tracoli announced, ushering his smirking partner out of the room and closing the door.

Fuck. Not only didn’t he want Megan to see him as he was, if she started fucking questioning him…with the cameras on…Fuck!

“Christopher?”

Her sweet little voice sent chills through him. Though he wasn’t looking directly at her, in his peripheral vision, he saw her slide into the seat Tracoli had been in, caught the glimmer of her wedding set.

“Please, look at me.”

A muscle ticking in his jaw, he glowered at her, wanting to draw her into his arms when more tears rushed to her eyes. If she let something slip, he’d be fucking locked up for the rest of their lives. He’d never hold her in his arms again. “Leave, Megan.”

Fuck, but he hated himself for the hard tone. He’d make this up to her.

She reached her hands out to him, and it took everything in him not to grab her fingers. But they’d never went over what she’d need to do if he was arrested.

“I love you,” she said on a small sob.

He couldn’t respond. They were watching. It was already clear they wanted to use her against him. Now, her words were giving them the fodder they needed to hound her. They’d pressure her to give him up to “save” him.

“Talk to me,” she demanded. “Don’t shut me out.”

“I ain’t got nothin’ to say to you.”

Her lower lip trembled and more tears slid down her cheeks. “I’m your wife. I love you.”

Fuck, but she needed to shut the fuck up. What the fuck could he do? Then, it came to him, and his breath came out in his pants. Fear curled inside of him, but he needed to get her out of there. He couldn’t even send her a signal. They wanted his ass bad, and would use any small gesture against him.

“A piece of paper ain’t meanin’ shit, ba…” Not baby. Not here and now. “Meg…” Fuck. He knew what he had to say. Breathing in deeply, he leveled a hard stare on her. “
Bitch
,” he finally snarled. “A piece of paper ain’t meanin’ shit, so stop pretendin’ otherwise. They woulda done better bringin’ that cunt…” He searched his mind for a name. Kiera and Ellen were out. It was easy enough to find out they’d bit it. Same with Daphne and April. “Bobbie Rose.”

Megan’s eyes flared wide in surprise.

“What did you say to me, Christopher?”

He reminded himself not to flinch. He had to keep up his cold, don’t-give-a-fuck pretense, even though they’d just been through this shit with Daphne. “They shoulda brought Bobbie Rose to me. It woulda been better than lookin’ at you.”

That Bob bitch wasn’t still part of their group of girls, but it was the only name he remembered from the day the bitches had sucked off Mutt and Jeff.

“What the fuck you know about me?” he forged on, determined to protect Megan, but fucking shaking on the inside. “Leave, Megan, and don’t fuckin’ come back.”

His hunger, his thirst, his fatigue flew away. No fucking threat of being fucked up in general pop, no charges they’d dream up against him, came close to the terror inside him at losing Megan.

She jumped to her feet and stumbled back, staring at him as if she’d never seen him. Only Megan had the power to bring him to his knees. The disgust in her eyes as she considered him actually brought tears to his eyes, but he cleared his throat and blinked them away.

Her mouth opened and closed several times. Christopher couldn’t imagine what she’d say next. All he wanted to do was to see her leave, unscathed, under the radar of those fuckheads.

“I see,” she sobbed, swiping at her eyes. “I’m so tired of you and all your sluts, Christopher. You’re never, ever home with me and our children. I’m surprised you haven’t been voted out of your position as much as you shirk your responsibilities, especially to me, to sleep with everything you see.” She lifted her chin. “I already know my place. Val told me, years ago, everything I needed to know, so you can thank him for opening my eyes. Not that it matters to me. I’m your
wife.
I vowed to stick by you through thick and thin. I love you so much, but you only
ever
think about protecting the woman you love. I see exactly how it is.”

With a last glance at him, she turned on her heel and ran out of the room, her words ringing in his ears.

Elbows on table, he leaned forward and rubbed his eyes, hiding his relieved smile.

His girl sure the fuck did see how it was, and he loved her even more for it. Her performance gave him the strength he needed to endure this until Brooks bailed him out.