Thirteen
JENNA
“Hey.” Loki catches me by the sleeve as I head toward the stairs for a lie-down/existential crisis in Fang’s room.
Nibbles wasn’t wrong. I slept like shit this morning. But like hell I’d admit that to him. He’d probably jump at the chance to be the hero, telling me he can do something that would ‘help me sleep.’ Men.
“Here.” Loki pushes a boxed phone against my belly. “Don’t tell Darko I took it.” He grins and offers a wink before turning on his heel.
“Thanks,” I call after him, glancing down at the previously opened packaging. “Let me know what I owe you.”
He half-turns in the foyer. “Nothing, darlin’. We’ve got plenty more like it where that one came from.”
Right. Burner phones. Of course he’d be able to get me one with such short notice.
“It’s already loaded with a small balance to get you going.” He nods toward the tool of crime in my hands. “Don’t use it all at once.”
I give a curt nod and let him resume his exit.
Some of the men had assembled in the living room before they all walked out the same way, which makes me think they prepare for church.
The house seems rather normal, kitted out with comfortable furniture and everyday essentials.
There’s no sign of a meeting room indoors that I’ve come across, which makes me think they get together somewhere else on the property.
Weird.
I turn and skip up the stairs, darting into Fang’s room before anyone sees me with the phone. It’d only be fair that some of the other girls might ask to use it if they knew I had one, but that’s not the point of this.
I don’t want to get in touch with my father because I want to. I do it because I have to.
Sure enough, the device powers up when I press the right button. I stash the packaging deep in the back of Fang’s wardrobe where the dust tells me he hasn’t been in a while, and push the phone up my baggy sleeve.
Mila sits before the fire with The Kid when I hesitate on my way past the parlor, Nandi still tucked on the sofa.
“Where’s Darla?”
Mila glances to where I hover in the doorway. “Having a shower. They found her some clean clothes that fit.”
A thin woman with vibrant yellow ghost roots lifts a hand from the chair by the front window. “Hi,” she sings in a soft, sultry voice. “I don’t think we’ve met yet. I’m Jezabel.”
One of the club girls, at a guess. Sexuality oozes off her, as does a strange sense of comfort. A perfect mix for a man tired from the road. “Hey,” I greet, lifting the hand without the phone briefly. “Jenna.”
“You need anything, you let me know.” She seems genuine. Soft.
I’m in trouble of growing fond of her.
“Thanks.” I head for the porch instead, but even in the chair I occupied last night I don’t feel secluded enough.
Some of the men turned left when they dispersed earlier, and straight opposite where I stand is the open barn where they park their bikes.
I head right and follow the wraparound porch toward the far side of the house to survey the surroundings.
A quaint little cottage with a busy but bright garden sits across the road a way.
The dirt access road continues back toward the junction which leads into town, but the fields to the right, behind the house, are perfectly vacant.
My legs ache from yesterday’s impromptu sprint session as I lift first one then the other over the railing, and gently drop down to the dirt below.
The frail three-wire fence does little to stop me gaining access to the overgrown field.
Somebody has turned over the one beyond—maybe the Amish Fang spoke of—but this smaller section lies scattered with dead wildflowers and thick brown stalks peppered with clumps of overgrown grass.
I pick my way deep into the heart of it and settle amongst the dying overgrowth, legs folded atop a grassy mound to avoid the muddy dirt below.
Winter shows no sign of letting up; the previous snow shower barely melted, yet the clouds promise an imminent flurry.
I gaze back to the house, a dominant shadow in the distance.
It feels as though I could cry, even scream, out here and nobody would know. Probably even care.
It feels isolated.
I love it.
With a deep breath, I shake the burner phone from my sleeve and study its screen. Thumb shaking, I tap out my father’s digits and then lift the phone to my ear. He doesn’t answer, so I try again. And again.
He picks up after the third attempt. “Wrong number.”
“Are you sure about that?”
My father pauses, painful seconds stretching as far as the thick, white clouds overhead. “Jenna.”
“Hi.”
He says nothing more, clearly expecting me to lead the conversation.
I shove down the pang of disappointment at his apparent lack of relief and continue. “I wanted to check in since it’s been a while. Let you know I’m okay.”
“Figured you were busy,” he states.
Sure. Because when you send your daughter in to disrupt a criminal trafficking ring, and she falls radio silent for weeks, that’s your first thought—she’s busy.
“You could say that.” My middle fingernail picks incessantly at the side of my thumb. “I don’t know what happened, but I think they might know something.”
“What do you mean?”
“They stopped me before my shift and said they needed me to cover for someone else. They shipped me. Put me with a bunch of girls and moved us interstate.”
“Fuck’s sake, Jenna. You were supposed to stay undetected,” he snarls. “Not put yourself in the fucking spotlight.”
Yeah, I’m fine, Dad. Thanks for the concern.
“Do they know who you are?”
I scrub the image of Mary-Beth from my mind’s eye with the heel of my hand. “No. I don’t think so.” Fuck. “I’m not sure.”
He draws a deep breath. “How did you get the phone?”
“Mutual friends.”
“Wait. Where are you now?” Suspicion lines the edges of his words.
I lift my gaze to the house. “In between places.”
“But you’re still in the pipeline?”
“I was rescued, along with the other girls.”
“By who?” He sounds as though he can’t believe anyone would do such a thing.
I swallow hard, thumbnail biting deep enough to sting. “The Kings of Anarchy.”
It wouldn’t surprise me if he hung up. I was taught pretty quickly that those “crowned fuckers” can’t be trusted. Their club is the sworn enemy of my father’s. At least to the club he used to belong to.
“Fuck, Jenna. Do not trust them,” he growls. “The line’s probably bugged, for fuck’s sake.”
Like that thought hadn’t crossed my mind already. “Then you better watch what you say.”
“They don’t know who you are either?”
“Nobody does. I’m just some girl that got caught up in the mess, same as they did.”
“Right.” The line goes quiet again, yet his tumbling thoughts are almost palpable. “You’re a strong girl, Jenna. You know that, right?”
This feels loaded. “Sometimes.”
“I need you to get yourself back inside the operation.”
“Are you serious?” My voice rises an octave. “What the hell for?”
“I take it that phone you called me on has a camera?”
“Pretty sure they all do, these days, Dad.”
“Then use it.” The line goes dead.
I drop the phone into my lap and fight the heavy ball that grows in my throat.
He’s not worth getting upset over. It was only supposed to take a few months.
Get a job at a known hotspot and keep my eyes and ears open until I gleaned enough information to undo this mess.
I made a promise to myself—a lie—that I’d be careful.
That I’d get out at the first sign of trouble.
Then things grew complicated, and before I could question it, I knew too much.
I didn’t get a clear signal of danger until they pulled Mary-Beth’s hood off, and then I knew it was all on.
I either got out dead or alive. And whichever way I went, she’d go the opposite.
And now he wants me to go back in.
“Fuck.” I toss the phone onto the dirt as though it burns, rubbing my palms on the rough fabric of my worn jeans.
He doesn’t care about you. This was always all for him. What the hell do I do now? I have a father who wants me to put myself at risk purely to do what he was incapable of, and a club that gives me sanctuary that would slit my throat if they knew my lineage.
Shit. I need to get out of here, get away. But what good would that do? I’d be forever on edge. Forever unsure who I can trust. Who’d get to me first. Looking over my shoulder every damn day knowing that the roots of the poisoned tree spread far and wide.
Consumed with guilt for placing my own wellbeing over that of others. People like Darla. The Kid. Kathy. Good people. People who deserve better.
I have a chance to make a difference, so why deny the opportunity?
Shit. Head buried in my hands, I screw my eyes tight and draw a deep breath.
There’s no getting away from this. I didn’t ask for the knowledge I have now, but I can’t change the past. I’ve seen things I can’t deny.
Know details not many do. I could have easily lived my life in ignorant bliss had my father never shown up.
I could have gone on like anyone else in the general population, vaguely aware of the bad things that exist but far enough removed for none of it to weigh too heavily on my conscience.
But I know now. I’ve seen it.
And whether I like it or not, I’m a part of it.
Which means as much as I hate to admit it, my fucking father is right—I need to get back in the pipeline.
I need to finish what I started.
If not for me, then for them.
For the women the Kings of Anarchy didn’t save.