Chapter 39 Sloane #2
No, today I’m headed to Anaheim to meet with Rick.
As well as the photos, Michael had a dossier for me, full of information on the DEA agent who’s been snooping around.
I plan on taking it with me so I can ask Rick a few choice questions.
If he knows anything beyond the details in the dossier, I want to know, too.
I also want to know what he’s heard from back home.
Tossing my phone was smart—Charlie would have found some way of tracking me through it if I’d kept it—but it also means I have no idea what kind of holy hell has been raining down on Seattle since I bolted.
Rick waits in a fried chicken joint for me, a box of cold, greasy fries sitting in front of him, untouched.
I picked the place on purpose, just to piss him off.
Rick’s a big guy, but he didn’t get that way through genetics or, gotta hand it to him, steroids.
He eats healthy. Like, eats like a fucking chick kind of healthy.
Salad and clean protein, all day every day.
Even sitting inside this place is probably making him sweat kale extract.
“Took your time,” he complains as I sit opposite him, dropping the file onto the table. He lifts the thing open with one finger, grimacing at the contents inside, then lets it fall closed. “Why the hell am I in Anaheim, sitting in a fried rat shop?”
“Because I told you to be.”
He nods, accepting that. “Charlie’s gone off the deep end,” he advises me from under lowered brows. “Looking everywhere for you.”
“The boys know you’re alive?” I ask him.
“No. Heard that from the DEA bitch. Gave me a burner back when I started working for her. She. Is. Pissed.” He emphasizes each word, just to make sure I understand how pissed.
“Was screaming ’bout arresting me for reneging on our arrangement and all.
I told her I got out of town before I got dead. And I’m no good to her dead.”
“True enough.”
“She wants to know where I am, though. Wants me to work some of the biker charters around here instead.”
“Not happening.” I shake my head. “The biker charters that deal with Charlie see you, they’re gonna run their mouths and suddenly you’re resurrected. Then Charlie knows I didn’t do what he asked me to.”
“You ran.” Rick rubs the back of his hand against his broad, twice-broken nose.
“Figure Charlie probably suspects something’s up already.
Lowell said another guy told her the old man is on the rampage, looking for some girl who was living with you.
Wants to lay a few questions on her regarding your whereabouts.
The DEA are keen to scoop up this chick, too.
Seems they’re mighty interested in what you got going on, Zeth. ”
I had expected the DEA to poke their noses into my business, but I hadn’t expected them to go after Lacey.
Charlie knows all about Lace. He pretends not to take an interest in my personal shit, but he’s up to his sticky fucking coke-rimmed nose in my business by all accounts.
Must have listened in on a thousand conversations when the girl was asking me where I was, panicked, begging me to come home. The idea makes me angry.
But then something even worse hits me. If Charlie is serious about snatching up Lacey, then that means… that means he’s likely to snatch up Sloane at the same time.
My muscles stir, begging for immediate action.
I need to hit something. To smash. To pound.
I need to make someone hurt. The rest of me twitches with unspent adrenaline, lighting a fire in my joints, readying them to fight.
I’ve never been this wound up from a single thought.
Not ever. I’m worried about Lacey for sure, but when I think about Charlie laying hands on Sloane…
“You okay, man?” Rick stares at the crumpled napkin I have fisted tight in my hand.
My knuckles are white. I toss it aside, scowling.
This woman is having a seriously fucked-up effect on me.
I can’t afford to be this distracted by her.
She’s consuming every single waking moment of my day, and I need to focus.
No point in worrying about things that probably aren’t even going to happen, either.
I’ve tasked my guys with that one specific job—to watch out for Lace and Sloane, to keep them from harm.
I brush off the freak-out, calming myself.
“I want you to reach out to this DEA woman. Ask her which bikers she’s interested in.
I wanna know what information she’s got on me, and I wanna know when they plan on picking up Lacey.
” I scribble my burner’s cell number down on another, less crumpled though still greasy napkin and tuck it roughly into the top pocket of Rick’s T-shirt.
The guy grunts his assent, although he’s clearly none too happy about it.
His sandy eyebrows knit together as he thinks about speaking.
After a short while, he leans in, saying, “Why d’you care about that piece of ass, anyway?
She was sleeping with Georgio Ramerez for months.
You know he ain’t too careful with his possessions.
Word is Matty Stanton had a go at her, too.
You never struck me as the kind of guy to be scooping up sloppy seconds from anyone, Zee. ”
Rick is one lucky son of a bitch. I can’t start anything here.
Starting something would cause a scene, and there are cameras all over the fucking place.
I employ a coping mechanism Walcott used to bang on about in Chino.
I imagine reaching for Rick, the tacky Formica table digging into his chest. I imagine wrapping my hand around the back of Rick’s neck, engaging the muscles in my arm and then smashing his face into the table.
In my head, his nose makes a sickening crunch, and an explosion of blood follows right after.
It’s vaguely satisfying. To imagine the action without the follow-through is counterproductive.
The goal is to vent the anger away from my body, and thinking about it only directs my rage inward.
Rick knows his question was a mistake. I fix him in my gaze, and he shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “Just wondering,” he adds.
“Wondering can be very detrimental to the health, I’ve heard.”
“Yeah, well—” Rick looks around, as if searching for a reason to leave. He doesn’t need an excuse, though. Our meeting’s over.
“Call that number tomorrow. With the information.” I get up and slide my aviators on, exiting the fast-food place as inconspicuously as possible—a difficult thing to do, when you’re six feet three and built like a tank.