Chapter 21
NICOLETTA
The rest of the ride back to Tijuana, I doze off and on against Bolt’s shoulder, thankful for the continued numbness in my side. It would eventually wear off, but for now, it’s letting me relax for the first time in over twelve hours.
When I do look up at Bolt, his eyes search mine with a mix of guilt and relief.
His eyes translate everything he wouldn’t or couldn’t say aloud.
Like he also sees a different side of me now, a tougher, resilient side that trusted in him to find me help, even if it was in the back of a rundown bar.
I somehow trusted him, and I’d been right in doing so.
Meeting Dr. Ezra Callahan just became one of the privileges of my life.
My mind wanders. comforted in the knowledge that somewhere in L.A.. Clark Williams and his band of degenerates are getting exactly what they deserve.
When we finally pull into the lot behind The Tropics, it’s almost four a.m., but when we trudge into the bar, all the lights are on.
Maxie and Martina are behind the bar, and Marisol is laying out enough food for an army of people.
The minute they see us, they hug and kiss their men, then cluster around me.
“Oh my God, are you all right?” Martina asks.
“How did this happen?” Maxie angles me toward a chair.
“I’m fine, really,” I assure them.
“Geez, give her some fuckin’ room,” Bolt says. “Let her breathe.”
Of course, they ignore him, ease me into a chair, then Marisol places her amazing fish tacos in front of me. The smell alone has my mouth watering, and I can’t wait to take a bite.
Smoke comes up alongside Marisol. “Where’s mine?”
She points to the center of the bar. “Over there on the main table.”
“How come you’re not gonna serve me?” he asks. “I just got back too.”
“Did you get shot?” Marisol levels him with her onyx eyes.
“Woman, that’s cold.” He stomps off, and we all laugh.
Bolt leaves my side for the first time all night and heads for the bar. He downs two shots, then nabs a beer and comes back to the table.
He nods at my food as he sits down. “I guess you really were hungry.”
I’ve already devoured one taco and am working on the next one.
The prospects bring out more food from the kitchen. Martina mans the bar, and you would’ve thought it was early evening instead of early morning.
The men push two tables together, and we feast on Marisol’s delicious food. Not only tacos, but just about every other combination of the best Mexican food has to offer.
We relay the whole story to the Harlots, who are stunned and intrigued.
“That’s an amazing story.” Marisol shakes her head. “Hard to believe they got away with it for as long as they did.”
“Privilege gets power,” Smoke says.
New anger fills me at the retelling of the story, at their audacity and the way they just expected to get away with something so heinous, and then it hits me.
I look at the men. “How did you get that footage from Brad’s beach house?”
My question hangs in the air with each man exchanging looks, trying to decide who would answer my question.
“Come to think of it, wouldn’t that be the first thing the police would look for after the murder?”
Again, the sideways glances.
“Please don’t say this is club business.” I gaze at each of them. “Brad may have been a bastard, but I did live with him.”
Smoke clears his throat. “Let’s just say I still have some pull in California.”
“But if the police had it in their possession and looked at it, they clearly saw Clark stab Brad, so why didn’t they just—”
“‘Cause, as you know, Clark has the top officials on the force in his pocket,” Smoke adds. “According to my sources, he had the Chief of Police bury the tape, then bribed the cops to arrest you. He got you out on bail so he could lull you into thinking he was on your side.”
“Yeah, they thought they had it all figured out until you fucked it up and ran,” Blood adds.
I shiver, and Bolt notices. “You all right?”
“Just realizing how things could have turned out.”
“Seeing how unhinged he was,” Bolt adds, “who the fuck knows what he would’ve done if you hadn’t escaped that night?”
“But why didn’t you tell me you had the tape when we set this up?”
“The Royal Bastards have a chapter in L.A., so having that surveillance tape go missing wasn’t that big of a stretch, but we weren’t sure they could secure it until last night.” Smoke smirks. “I had faith in my L.A. brothers, but I didn’t wanna get your hopes up.”
I turn to Bolt. “Did you know about it too?”
“Of course.”
I let that settle, then, “Good thing you got it, or Clark would’ve had everyone believing I was crazy and trying to set him up.”
Smoke spreads his arms wide. “It’s what we do for family, babe.”
My throat tightens, and I swallow hard. I draw in a deep breath. “There’s no words to explain how grateful I am to all of you.”
“Ahhhh, fuck,” Diesel mumbles. “I hope you’re not gonna give some sappy speech.”
Bolt shoulder-butts him. “After what she’s been through tonight, she can do whatever the fuck she wants.”
“No speech, just that I owe you all my life.” I mash my lips together. “And just for the record, as it turns out, Clark Williams is not my biological father.”
Everyone except Bolt just stares and waits.
“Seems my mother was pregnant with me before she married Clark and told him I was his.”
“Yeah, and if the bastard is right, supposedly her old man was a criminal too.” Bolt laughs around his words. “So, now my girl really fits in.”
They all nod their approval.
“But no more for tonight.” Bolt pushes out of his chair. “Time you get you some rest.”
“Rest means sleep,” Blood shouts out.
“No shit, asshole, she can barely walk, and you think I’m gonna try to give her my dick?” Bolt is still shaking his head as he eases me out of the chair, then cautiously lifts me into his strong arms.
I open my mouth to protest, and he cuts me off. “Save it. I’m carrying you up those stairs, and that’s final.”
“Yes, sir.” I give him a fake salute, and everyone laughs, along with the guys shouting, “Bolt’s pussy-whipped!”
Bolt eases me down at the apartment door, and I hate to admit it, but I’m glad he carried me. The lidocaine is wearing off, and the long night is hitting me hard.
He unlocks the door, we enter, and he asks, “You wanna change into your own sleep stuff?”
The thought of changing into my own clothes exhausts me. “These are fine. They’re soft and loose, and I have a feeling I’m going to need that.”
We enter the bedroom and stop short.
Bolt’s eyes widen, then narrow. “Are you sure this is my room?”
No clothes on the floor, bed made, flowers on the dresser, and a pitcher of ice water on the end table.
“Who did all this?” I barely get the words out, and there’s a knock on the door.
Bolt answers it, and two seconds later, Marisol joins us in the bedroom holding a basket. “We forgot to give you this downstairs.”
She hands me a basket of all kinds of goodies. A box of assorted teas, a candle, lip balms, hand cream, a pair of fuzzy socks, and a box of what I hope are Marisol’s amazing double chocolate cookies.
“Thank you, but I—”
“Yes, you can accept it. You’re one of us now, and we help each other. If you don’t believe me, ask the other Harlots. We’ve all had hard times, and that’s how we know what’s needed.” Then she undoes me. “Besides, you’re family now.”
Finding out the truth about the man I thought was my father, getting shot, then undergoing surgery on a pool table all collides together, and the tears fall. Silent at first, then actual sobs.
“Geez, fuck,” Bolt bellows. “Did you have to make her cry?”
I wave my hand in front of my face. “No, this is good. These are happy tears.”
Marisol turns on Bolt. “Don’t you know every woman needs a good cry sometimes?”
I wave my hand around the room. “And I guess you all did this too?” I choke out.
“Once Smoke called me about the tacos, I called the other Harlots, and we are a fierce group when together.” She waves her hand at the perfectly made bed. “Sheets changed, and I got rid of that ratty comforter and replaced it with an extra one I had.”
She turns to Bolt. “Then we picked up all your random clothes.” Marisol rolls her eyes. “You could’ve hidden a person under all that mess.”
“After we straightened up, there was plenty of room to clean off the end table and dresser,” Maxie adds. “From now on, no more motorcycle parts on the dresser.”
“And you did all this at four in the morning?”
“Hey,” Marisol laughs. “We’re outlaws; we live in the early morning hours.” She backs out of the bedroom. “But now it’s time for you to rest.”
She points her finger at Bolt. “Which means she rests.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Bolt half-smiles. “Geez, you’re a pain in the ass.”
After Marisol leaves, I use the bathroom, and when I get back to the bedroom, Bolt has the bed turned down neatly, and he’s changed into his sleep shorts with the items of the tuxedo neatly on the hanger.
“You all right? You need anything?” he asks the minute I enter the room.
“No, I’m good, but it is getting sore.”
He rummages through the paper bag Ezra gave him, comes up with an unmarked pill vial, and shakes one out. “Take this.” He offers it to me. “It’ll help you sleep.”
I swallow the pill down with the chilled water, then settle onto the crisp, clean sheets.
Bolt rolls to me, and strokes my hair away from my face. “You were amazing tonight, babe. Fierce and strong.”
I smile at him, but I can already feel the effects of the pill, or I’m so exhausted from the night I can’t keep my eyes open.
I lie back against the pillows, and sleep covers me like a soft, fuzzy blanket.