Chapter 5
Hemlock
I knew the second I told her no that it was a mistake. Any fool knows that you can't get close to someone and figure out details about what you're looking for by keeping distance between you and them. But hell, she had no idea what happened inside of me when I reached out and touched her arm. I didn't even touch skin and it sent a zing of something too unfamiliar for me to deal with in public.
I can't glean information from her about Tommy Wilkinson or The Lost Kitten by running scared and hiding out.
Even the seclusion of riding alone on these switchback curves in the Smoky Mountains doesn't give me the relaxation I crave. Each turn makes me long for pressure at my back and fingernails gripping me around the waist. The distraction of those unfamiliar thoughts make me miss my turn, forcing me to travel a mile further up the road to turn around in a construction zone in order to get back to the house.
Before accepting the position with Cerberus, I spent weeks trying to convince myself that it was the right move to make in life. Then, I was willing to take anything short of becoming a criminal myself to escape it. Happiness, hearts, and butterflies will never be what I want out of life, so it makes no sense that I'm able to get lost. That silence is possible just being near a woman who is very likely either a victim of her circumstances or part of the mastermind behind whatever illegal business Wilkinson is running. No matter her place, it doesn't end with her being near me in order for me to use whatever it is about her that brings on the serenity that, until now, was only ever snuffed out by doing very bad things.
I want to keep on riding when I see the second bike in the driveway.
The last thing I need is a witness to this internal battle I can't seem to get past, but maybe it's for the best. I know it will definitely be easier if someone else tells Ace that this type of job isn't going to work for me. I sure as fuck know it'll be impossible for me to voice my own defeat. I'm not exactly known for my ability to stop digging once I've gotten myself into a hole.
Fresh mountain air fills my lungs as I climb off my bike, hating that this might not work out because it's fucking beautiful up here. The twists and turns of the roads keep me focused on making sure my bike stays on the road and away from the steep drop-offs which have the uncanny ability to quiet the voices in my head if only for a little while.
I stand with my hand on the front doorknob, vowing that I'll make this shit work. I have to find my place in the world because there are no other options. I fully regret not being able to make it work in New Mexico. At least there I had a mentor and a man who seemed to understand me. New Mexico wasn't the right fit because it's a group of men and women standing in the light, rescuing trafficked individuals. I just want to lurk in the darkness and hurt bad guys.
Here, I have Ace, who looks at me sometimes the way I figure he would one of the criminals he's arrested for doing evil things. Jericho, the fucker I know I'll find raiding the fridge inside, may be just as bad and fucked in the head as I am, but I haven't given myself the chance to get to know him. There are others working jobs and clearing the path for this new endeavor, and although I haven't met them, I know they'll be people I just won't want to be around. I can only hope they'll be people I can tolerate.
I have to make this work. I have to get close to Zara and find out everything she knows, and I need to do it quickly. Jericho's bike in the driveway means that he has already closed another case, whereas I haven't even pulled back the curtain on mine, much less gotten enough evidence to shut them down.
I don't have to look in a mirror to know my face is revealing all my annoyed emotions at the sight of Jericho's bare back as he stands in the open door of the refrigerator.
"Get the job done?" he asks without turning around to face me.
I should probably admit defeat, but instead, I remain silent.
When he turns around to face me, I take him in fully.
The scar on his face only adds to that don't-fuck-with-me vibe he has going on. The man looks ruthless, murderous, the type of man you'd never want to run across on a dark street. He looks like he chews nails for breakfast and uses the blood they cause ripping into the tender flesh of his cheeks to swallow them down.
He should probably scare the shit out of me, but I haven't found a single thing in life that puts fear inside of me. There are days when the thought of dying seems more like a reprieve than something to avoid.
"Working on it," I grunt.
He gives me a simple nod. He doesn't offer to try and fix my problem. He doesn't ask if he should step in and figure it out. He'll let me do my thing, and I'll let him do his.
We're equals as far as this new organization is concerned. There's no hierarchy, no boss. We're just a couple of soulless bastards trying to do a little good in the world.
The thing about Jericho is that he was eight months deep undercover in Nathan Adair's crew when he blew his cover to save a girl who was under the protection of the Cerberus MC. She just also happened to be the stepdaughter of the evil man. She knew her days were numbered, so he got her out of there and blew his cover .
Ace wasn't very impressed by that and Newton, the man in love with Brielle Adair, wasn't impressed with just how far Ace would be willing to let things go to try and capture a man like Adair. It was very likely that if Jericho hadn't stepped in, the woman would've been killed. Maybe the man isn't as bad as I first suspected him to be. The caveat is that Jericho is the one who kidnapped Brielle outside of the courthouse when she tried to slip away from the feds who were expecting her to testify against her stepfather later that day. So, I guess, technically, he's the one who put her in that situation in the first place.
Jericho closes the refrigerator door with only a bottle of water in his hands before taking a seat across from me at the bar.
We've been in this situation before, and neither one of us sees the need to fill the silence with chatter. I can respect a man who can sit in silence.
But, for some reason, quiet scratches at my skin like thorns.
I almost open my mouth to voice my failure, to ask for direction, to confess that this job isn't something I can do. I'm too fucked in the head to pretend to be someone I'm not, but then the realization hits me. I've always pretended to be someone I'm not. Controlling my thoughts and my initial reactions to things suggested by those whispers has been something I've perfected in my life.
I don't walk around snapping necks of everyone who gets on my nerves. I don't maim and torture people when they take too long to accomplish a task I'm involved with. I don't hunt down petty criminals and set their houses on fire.
I come to the conclusion that Jericho isn't my fucking therapist, and really he has no business bearing witness to such confessions. If anyone needs to be told I want out, it's Ace.
Wordlessly, I stand from the barstool and leave the kitchen, heading up the stairs to my bedroom.
This house is massive, one that was rented out as short-term rentals for people wanting to come to East Tennessee and enjoy the mountains. It has fifteen bedrooms and seventeen bathrooms. I have no doubt it will eventually be stuffed to the gills with people who join the organization, coming in and out as they work jobs assigned by Ace.
The house came fully furnished, and I know that was a lot of the appeal when Kincaid and Ace were trying to decide where to locate this new organization.
Although the cabin's aesthetic doesn't really appeal to me, I don't give enough of a shit to change anything about it. The bed is comfortable enough and everything in the bathroom works. As far as I'm concerned, that's good enough for me.
The shower calls to me, but if I'm going to keep working on this case, then I need to know more about who I'm facing.
I pull out the chair to the small desk situated in the corner and log into the portal I've been given access to. It would be much easier to have the ability to research people ourselves, but I think this is Ace's way of keeping tabs on what we're doing. It grates on my nerves, but, at the same time, I understand that it is what it is. It's not exactly smart to release a bunch of psychos into the wild without minimal oversight. That's how shit goes sideways. It's not like we're operating in some third-world country like a lot of the missions New Mexico sent us on.
We have to tread a little lighter here.
I type in my request, asking for all information on Zara Hailey, before logging off, stripping out of my clothes, and heading for the shower.
I force my mind into a safe space, one where I analyze everything I said to her today and try to look at it from different angles to make sure there was nothing suspicious about it.
If she were smart, she would never speak to me again, but it seems there's something about my constantly shitty mood that she finds interesting. I know I should've taken her up on her offer, but I'm no good with impromptu situations. I need a plan and a goal.
As I scrub at my skin, the heat of the water stinging every inch it touches, I work through a handful of scenarios on how things can go the next time I see her. I realize that if she's given free will, I may have to end up adjusting on the spot. As hard as that will be for me, I can count it as a challenge.
And I really do love a challenge.