14. My Woman
Chapter 14
My Woman
Mensa
Mensa rolled into the parking lot for Hard Pressed at five minutes to six. He noticed Nadia’s Honda Civic wasn’t in the lot, but that wasn’t surprising. The woman closed the shop at five every day, and left at five-forty-five on the nose.
As he swung off his bike, he sensed he was completely alone, and that didn’t compute. Whitney should have been in the shop, and would have heard his bike in the lot. At the door, he saw the lights were off except the one security light in the back. He pulled on the door. It didn’t budge against the deadbolt lock.
Using his knuckles, he gave a light rap on the windowed door, then pulled out his cell and called Whitney.
“Hi there,” she answered, her tone a blend of fake chipper and weariness.
The background noise told him she was driving.
“Where are you?”
“I’m on US49 and probably half-an-hour outside of Hattiesburg.”
His free hand clenched into a fist. “What the fuck?”
“It’s not a big deal, Mensa. Wyatt came by the shop, and he mentioned Rod with Corrupt Chrome is interested in finding out more about me. More than he was before, which isn’t ideal. Wyatt suggested I go back to Jackson and let this guy forget all about me.”
He clenched his teeth and took numerous deep breaths to get his temper under control.
“You still there?” she asked.
“You didn’t think to fuckin’ call me?” he bit out.
“Mensa, this works out for both of us. You can’t leave town. I need to pack up my apartment at some point, and this keeps us both safe. Two birds, one stone.”
He shook his head. “How in the fuck does this keep me safe?”
“Leaving town would put you at risk of being arrested.”
“Why didn’t you call me?”
She paused. “What would you have said?”
“I’d have said my woman doesn’t run from her problems.”
A lengthy silence ensued. Even he couldn’t believe he admitted that, but there it was. She was his. If he were honest with himself, he’d been thinking of her that way since the break-in.
“I’m not your woman, Kenneth.”
That made him even madder, which shouldn’t have been possible. But she did that shit to him. Made him feel more than he ever thought possible.
He stalked back to his bike. “You fuckin’ are, and if you’d have called me or better yet, waited to tell me in person what you were planning, I’d have fuckin’ shown you.”
“When did this happen?”
“Maybe when I fucked you inside my room at the clubhouse, but you know it happened sooner than that.” He ran his free hand through his hair. “When are you comin’ back?”
“Next week.”
“What the hell? Next week?”
“It’s going to take time to pack up my place. Why are you so mad about this? Rod will forget all about me by then.”
“He fucking will not . But I’ll make sure he does.”
“Mensa. Don’t do anything stupid. And seriously…he’ll move on to some other chick by then. I’m perfectly forgettable.”
“Whitney, you aren’t a woman any man forgets. He isn’t going to forget about you in a fuckin’ week.”
He heard the smile in her voice. “That’s sweet, but you’re wrong, my…”
She trailed off and he knew he had her.
“My… what, Blume?”
She paused. “My friend.”
That stubborn resolve of hers annoyed him, but it also made him smile. “Right. Keep telling yourself that, woman.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t call you sooner, but you don’t need to make a trip to Aunt Nadia’s shop.”
“Yeah, it’s a little late for that. I’m standing outside her shop right fuckin’ now.”
Her tone became more regretful. “Sorry. Really, I am, but I didn’t want to interrupt you on your ‘club business.’”
He dragged a hand down his face, fighting his anger and his perverse urge to laugh. “Right. I’m gonna let you focus on driving. I’ll call you later tonight.”
“Why?”
“Why the fuck not? But really, Blume…we got more to discuss. Later.”
Mensa sat at a high-top table sipping a gin and tonic while watching Roman and Tiny shoot pool. He had his temper under control for the most part, but after he hung up with Whitney, he’d put a call into Monica Wright about whether he could make the trip up to Jackson without giving Fortner or Robinson a reason to bring him into the station. With any luck, she’d get back to him tomorrow morning.
Bottom line, he and Whitney had to have a conversation, and he didn’t want to do it over the phone.
The front door opened and Scrap came inside.
“Yo, Tiny! How’s it hanging?” Scrap asked, wandering toward the pool table.
“What the hell? Are Roman and Mensa invisible to you?” Tiny demanded.
Scrap’s teeth flashed with his grimace. The effort to not roll his eyes was obvious. “Sorry. Roman. Mensa. What’s up?”
Every so often, Mensa hated how they gave prospects so much shit just to earn their patch, but then it would quickly fade because he knew this ‘shit’ strengthened the bond between the brothers.
Roman gave Scrap a chin-dip and Mensa did the same.
Tiny lined up his shot.
Scrap waited until the cue ball rolled across the felt before he spoke. “I talked to one of my friends who’s still trying to get in with the Miscreants.”
Scrap’s situation with the Riot MC was unique. He was eighteen, and old enough to prospect, but he was still in high school (for another two weeks), which normally would have forced him to be a hang-around for another year. Tiny and his woman, Sierra, had taken Scrap under their wing because of his awful home-life and the spiral that was taking. Proving how much he cared about Sierra, when her life was threatened, Scrap stepped up in a serious way. That meant once Tiny suggested he’d sponsor Scrap as a prospect, all of the brothers had been on board.
The seven ball dropped into the corner pocket, and Tiny straightened from the table. “That friend still in school?”
“Basically.”
Tiny arched a brow. “Define basically.”
“He’s at school enough not to be truant, but he’s failing all his classes except ICT.” Scrap took in the puzzled looks from Tiny, Roman, and Mensa. “That’s a computer class. Anyway, he said Demetrius Barlow is snubbing the Miscreants.”
Mensa caught Scrap’s attention. “If your friend is trying to get in, then how would he know that the Miscreants are getting snubbed?”
Scrap’s eyes widened. “Because Dee’s been snubbin’ them for like almost a year now.”
Mensa stared at Scrap for a beat. “When you say ‘Dee,’ are you referring Demetrius?”
“Yeah,” Scrap said with a slight head shake. “Who else would I be talkin’ about?”
“Dontrell, his daddy,” Mensa said.
“Oh, yeah. Sorry, I forgot about that.”
“Does your friend know why the Miscreants still want Demetrius to join them?” Roman asked.
Scrap shook his head. “I didn’t get to ask that. He hardly wanted to tell me what he knew because the Miscreants are pissed I’m prospecting with the Riot.”
“Are you gettin’ threats?” Tiny asked.
“No. I’d tell you about that shit.”
“You sure about that?” Roman asked.
Scrap nodded. “Certain because otherwise Tiny would throw me out of his apartment.”
Tiny shook his head. “It ain’t mine anymore, Scrap.”
Scrap chuckled. “Not my name on the lease, and you remind me of that every chance you get.”
Even with his head turned away from Scrap, Tiny couldn’t hide his smug smile. “Gotta get my jollies where I can, Scrap.”
Roman set his cue stick on the pool table. “Why are the Miscreants set on this kid? Seems like they could focus on your friend who wants to get into the gang.”
Scrap frowned. “When I was trying to join, it was all about what you could offer them. My guess is they see the restaurant as a good place to deal or some shit.”
Mensa took a sip of his cocktail. “Did your friend say where the Miscreants are spending their time these days? My understanding is that they haven’t been in their usual spots.”
Scrap shook his head. “No. He shut down after saying what little he did, but he probably thought I was going to try to talk him out of hanging around them. You need anything else?”
Mensa shrugged a shoulder. “Not right now. When you’re back in school ask your friend, or better yet, ask Demetrius if he’s feeling pressure from the Miscreants. We need to know if they’re threatening Demetrius, which by extension is a threat to Dontrell, and that would explain a lot of shit swirling around me and Dontrell.”
“Demetrius doesn’t go to my school, but I’ll see what I can find out,” Scrap said.
“The other thing that’d be good to know, is if the Miscreants are working with Corrupt Chrome, but my guess is no matter how much info your friend has, no way he’ll know the name of the club the Miscreants might be working with.”
Scrap shook his head. “They aren’t working with them. There’s no way, man.”
That adamant tone got Mensa’s attention. “How do you know?”
Scrap’s eyes slid to Tiny and back to Mensa. “Because of the way they talked about the Riot MC last year. Inch doesn’t like bikers. Why would he work with some other MC that’s actually in competition with him?”
Tiny caught Mensa’s gaze. “That might also explain Corrupt Chrome offering their so-called protection. If there’s word on the street that the Miscreants are getting snubbed and pissed about it, then they got reason to make Dontrell pay to protect his kid.”
“I still don’t understand why he wouldn’t have said something sooner.”
“Pride makes people lose sight of logic,” Roman said.
“Yeah, it sure does.” Mensa whispered.