Chapter 39
Sarge
Spit it the fuck out!
The couch is soft and worn under me, a familiar comfort that feels entirely out of place against the electric hum of my nerves.
Everyone has nearly cleared out by now, and the prospects are cleaning up from breakfast. I haven’t filled the rest of the guys in on what’s going on yet, but they’ll know soon enough.
Right now, this is between Scarlett and me.
Gizmo is posted up at the bar counter across the room from where I’m seated.
We’re both set and ready as Scarlett’s form oozes into the room.
She moves like a cat in heat. Her head scans the space until her hungry eyes find mine.
I pat the couch next to me, inviting her into my space.
Her eyes crinkle with her smirk as she does as she’s instructed.
Scarlett slinks in beside me, far too close for my comfort. I scoot away, creating some much-needed space—not caring if she notices.
I force a practiced smile, one I’ve used numerous times before during my time in the military. It’s the same grin I gave high-level brass when I was blowing smoke, telling them exactly what they wanted to hear to mask the reality of a situation they were “inspecting” but barely understood.
Now, I’m using that same hollow charm on her. She’s the inspector, and completely unaware of just how much danger she’s in.
I catch sight of Giz leaning in toward our bartender, Klaw. They talk for a brief moment before Gizmo nods and sneaks out of the room. Soon, the rest of the club will know what we’re doing. For now, we start without him.
“You wanted to see me, Sarge?” Scarlett purrs.
My skin crawls.
“I do, yes. I have a few questions for you.” We’re alone aside from Klaw but he’s well across the room.
“Earlier when we were talking, you had said I turned the club into something I can be proud of. What did you mean by that?” My voice comes out smooth, even. I don’t want her to feel threatened. Not yet.
Her eyes dart to the floor and then back up. “Oh. Okay, but please don’t be upset.” She let’s out a breath. “A couple of years ago I needed some... pills. I didn’t know where to find them, so I started asking around.”
She shifts in her seat, and I fight against the urge to shake answers from her.
“One of my coworker’s has a grandma who needed meds for her gout but couldn’t afford it.
” Her eyes meet mine. “She told me there’s a motorcycle club that can get meds at an affordable rate.
Once she said which club it was, I told her I’m not looking for those kinds of pills.
” She scoffs. “It was no secret the club ran street drugs for a long time. But, she told me it’s not like that, they’re real medications. Pharmaceuticals.”
Shit, our clients should know better than to tell anyone where their medications come from. It’s the only way we can continue to do what we do without getting caught.
Her eyes dart to the wall before continuing. “I never reached out though in fear you might find out.”
“These pills... Were they something that couldn’t wait? No one should have told you what we do.”
“I know, I’m sorry. She wouldn’t have told me if it wasn’t important but... It was time sensitive and I was desperate.” She squirms in her seat but I don’t take my eyes off her.
I need to know why someone would be so willing to jeopardize our operation.
“I’m not proud of it, Sarge, but I needed mifepristone and misoprostol.” Her eyes drop to my feet.
Abortion pills. As much as I want to be angry, I can see why someone would tell her in that situation.
“Can we, um, talk about something else please?” She asks, keeping her eyes down.
“Sure, I think Giz here has something to show you.” I gesture toward Gizmo who’s just walked in, allowing him to take the stage.
Sauntering over, his laptop is placed on the coffee table in front of us before spinning it in her direction. He presses play on a frozen frame.
I watch with rapt attention. Scarlett isn’t the only one seeing this for the first time, and I’m not about to miss a single shot.
The picture is grainy, but I can tell with confidence what I’m looking at. It’s the inside of the tiny pizzeria next to Rawhide. I’ve been in there a handful of times to pick up food for the guys; there’s no mistaking that cramped building. Borderline sardine can that smells like garlic and basil.
She’s sitting at one of the two-seat bistro tables across from a man I recognize instantly. My hands ball into fists at my sides, but I stay still otherwise. Watching, waiting.
A thick yellow envelope touches the table just long enough to slide across and into the hands of Diesel. He nods once, stands, tucks the envelope in his kutte, and slips out.
The low-quality feed shows Scarlett pulling out her phone, tapping the screen for a beat, and tucking it into her purse. The video ends with her alone at the table, staring out the window.