47. Brett
Brett
I’ve had a lot of bad nights in my life.
Knife fights.
Shootouts.
Drunken brawls with the MC boys where someone’s beard gets set on fire.
Michael’s bachelor party.
But nothing—nothing—compares to being handcuffed to a metal bench in Bayview County with every single motherfucker who wants my head on a pike sitting ten feet away, glaring at me like I personally rearranged their balls with a crowbar.
Spoiler:
I didn’t.
Tonight, anyway.
But try telling that to the Redmond council or Roman’s idiot crew. The second shots rang out, everyone started pointing fingers. And who do dirty men blame? The clean one. Me.
I try to keep my breathing even as the fluorescent lights flicker overhead like some kind of Walmart interrogation torture tactic. My ribs hurt from hitting the water wrong. My shoulder hurts from hitting the dock wrong. My pride hurts from… well, being me.
The local cops?
They're useless.
They don’t know I’m their damn informant. They think I’m just another tattooed piece of shit who smells like whiskey and bad decisions.
“Hey,” I shout at Officer Mustache. “When a man asks for his phone call, he means NOW. It’s in the Constitution. I think. Somewhere. Near the part about guns and beer.”
He glares. “You’ll wait.”
“Cool,” I mutter. “Just me and thirty attempted murderers. I’m sure we’ll play charades.”
He finally slams the receiver into my hand.
I dial Kate’s burner.
And when she picks up, whispering, “Hello?” like she expects it to be the devil himself…
I grin.
“Sugar,” I say, keeping my voice low so the goons on the opposite bench can’t overhear, “do you remember that little promise you made about naming me godfather? ’Cause it’s time for Uncle Brett to cash in.”
“What? Brett, where are you?”
“County lockup,” I say brightly. “Sharing air with the dudes who tried to assassinate you last month. Which is awkward for everyone involved, let me tell you.”
“You WHAT?—?”
“Oh yeah,” I say, swinging my legs like I’m on a playground and not in several square miles of fuckery.
“Tonight was the night. Shit went sideways. One of the council idiots saw me, so I had to put him down. Accidentally, on purpose. Hard to tell. Feds stormed the place. All hell broke loose. No big deal.”
“brETTTTTTTTT.”
“Uh-huh. Yup. That tone right there. That’s why I called. I need you.”
“What do you need?”
“Bail,” I say. “Bail and probably a priest. Maybe a lawyer. And a sandwich. And a tetanus shot.”
She groans. “Brett, I can’t just walk into the police station?—”
“Well I can’t just walk OUT,” I shoot back. “And the local cops don’t believe me when I tell them I’m under federal protection. They think I’m lying. And trust me, sugar, I lie about many things. But not that one. I’ve been in this damn cell for four hours listening to grown men cry.”
She exhales. Heavy. Determined.
“Give me twenty minutes.”
I grin like an idiot. “That’s my girl.”
“I’m not—Brett, shut up.”
“Uh-huh. You sound like you’re putting your shoes on. Are you putting your shoes on?”
“I said I’d be there.”
“Love it,” I say, then cover the receiver and shout at Officer Mustache, “HEY. MY RIDE’S ON THE WAY.”
Kate hisses, “Shut UP?—”
I hang up with a chuckle and lean back against the wall.
Twenty minutes.
Twenty minutes until Kate Peters—my best friend’s secret wife, queen of Bayview real estate, future mother of two mob princes—walks into this shitty police station to drag my ass out by the collar.
God, I love my life.
Even when it sucks.