4. Sly
The ride to Northwood takes longer than expected, but it is a smooth journey, at least until we arrive at the police station.
One by one, we pull into the parking lot, the loud engines roaring and calling attention to our presence. Two officers standing by a squad car stop speaking to each other, turning their focus on us, their mirrored aviators doing little to hide the scowls behind them.
Gravel crunches beneath the soles of my boots as I climb off my bike and remove my helmet. The rest of the Sinners do the same, and Cain tips his head at the officers nearby in greeting.
“Morning, fellas,” he says, his voice gruff as it typically is though I can tell he’s attempting to take on a friendly tone.
Rather than waiting to see if they return his salutation, he jogs up the few stairs that lead to the entrance. The rest of us follow.
The police department is bustling with activity—phones ringing at the reception desk, officers passing by, some with piles of paperwork and folders, and some with steaming cups of coffee.
A mother and child sit on the plastic waiting chairs, staring straight ahead, void of emotion. There’s a hollow look in her eye as she cradles her son to her side, his ragged teddy bear dangling from his grip.
I find myself staring—my heart aching and longing to help them—but I know I cannot. And it kills me.
Pulling my gaze, I find Damon studying me, his head cocked as though I’m a riddle he can’t quite solve.
I’m unsure of how I feel about Damon. He’s a quiet man, always watching and listening, which I suppose is what makes him so good at his job. But his lack of engagement in conversation and the way he prefers to be alone, even while amongst a large group of people, has me keeping my guard up around him.
I believe he has the best interest of the club at heart, but I can also see the self-preservation trait within him and have no doubt he ultimately lives with an every man for himself mindset.
Cain speaks with the officer behind reception, who looks frantic, as though that’s not their typical place of duty. The man”s hands are shaky as he attempts to navigate the phone system and alert his superior of his visitors.
I’m curious as to the relationship between the captain and our president. It is easy to say you have a connection with someone, but the likelihood of that connection being severed at the head without the other’s knowledge—especially in situations such as these—is a possibility.
Northwood Police Department believes the Sinner’s Warlord is behind the robberies, and we’ve walked right into the snake pit.
“Cain?” a deep voice says before the body follows. A police officer with dark skin and a wide smile rounds the corner, coming into view. “Cain fuckin’ Michaels? Is that you?”
Cain”s head lifts, and from the angle I am at, I can see a wide smile overtake Cain’s face.
“Javon?” Stepping forward, he clasps hands with the officer, and they meet for a half hug, quickly clapping each other on the back before releasing. “When did your ass become a pig?”
Javon laughs, dramatically shaking his head as he crosses his arms over his chest. “It’d be wise of you not to call us pigs, Michaels. You’re standing inside of the police department.”
“Sans cuffs this time too, whaddaya know?” Cain lifts his arms and twists his wrists. The grin on his face is broad as he drops his hands.
“Maybe not for long. This vest full of patches still tells me you haven’t cleaned up your act fully.”
“You always were the voice of reason. It’s why you went Ivy, and I went community.”
The officer chortles, then asks, “What brings you here?”
As quickly as it appeared, Cain’s glee is gone and his face returns to its usual look of indifference.
“Word’s that the Sinners are being accused of being responsible for the repair shop robberies around here. We’re here to talk with Gannon.”
“You know he doesn’t do drop-ins.” Javon’s eyes narrow.
Ire begins to prickle through me, but I force myself to bite my tongue.
The officer’s name patch read J. Pierce, and I began to wonder how long Javon had been an officer. I also began to wonder exactly how long it has been since Cain has stepped foot in his hometown, and what caused him to leave in the first place. The police academy takes several months to get through, and these men act as though they haven’t seen each other for much longer than that.
“He will for me,” Cain insists, and I can see the exact moment Officer Pierce opens his mouth to argue, but is cut off before a single syllable is formulated.
“Begrudgingly, but you’re right. What can I do for you, Cain?”
Heavy footsteps cease as a man, similar in height and stature to Cain, stops in front of him. His stare is intense as he looks at the club president, clearly unhappy to see him. His hair is a honey brown, his eyes a similar shade.
“Came to sort out that rumor of the Sinners having something to do with your town’s robberies.”
I’m not fond of the way the police captain stares at Cain with a look of condescension. My gaze trails over to the metal name badge he wears proudly, G. Gannon, then over to the patches that decorate his jacket.
“I was just on my way out, but I can give you ten,” the captain grunts, then turns on his heel to move down the hall.
Cain nods to us, and we follow wordlessly. Once inside the captain”s office, Cain shuts the door as we congregate near the wall. Cain takes a seat in one of the leather chairs, but neither Damon, Nixon, or I take the other.
Captain Gannon folds his hands on top of his desk and narrows his eyes at Cain. “Why are you really here, Cain, and why did you bring your thugs?”
“Now, now, uncle, they don’t appreciate that nickname very much.”
Uncle?
Pieces of the puzzle begin to fall into place, the two men’s similarities strikingly obvious now.
“Are they not?” Gannon questions patronizingly.
“No,” Cain huffs. “Listen, I’m here because it’s been brought to my attention that the Sinners are being accused of the robberies, and we both know that’s bullshit. I don’t care about who started the rumor, but I’d like to know why.”
“No charges are being filed against your gang, so I don’t see why it”s relevant, nor do I understand why you’re here in my office, wasting my time.”
“We’re a fucking vigilante club. We work alongside the Ridgewood P.D., so why would we drive all the way up to Northwood to commit crimes? This feels personal.”
“Well, as you already said, it’s a rumor. Who started it or why doesn’t do much in the way of an investigation.” Gannon leans back in his chair and lets out a deep sigh. He scrubs his hand down his face. “I shouldn’t be telling you this. One of the shops has camera footage of a couple motorcycles speeding off after the robbery. The Sinner’s Warlord is the closest gang around here, so your name got thrown out.”
“Bridge Point ain’t that far past Ridgewood, and their club is actual criminals,” Damon growls from where he leans against the wall next to a file cabinet.
“Which is exactly why we’re looking into them more,” Gannon snaps at Damon. “The Reaper’s Wings have a laundry list of charges from over the years.”
“You have my club up in arms. We don’t take lightly to our names being dragged, especially when it goes against our core principles.”
“I get it,” Gannon agrees. “At this point, there’s nothing I can do about it, though. We don’t have evidence against the Bridge Point club to release any statements that would get the public’s speculation to change, but as soon as I do, I’ll shift the winds off you guys, alright?”
“Yeah,” Cain says, his voice clipped. “You do that.”
He stands, and Gannon mirrors his movement.
“Your mother know you’re here?” he asks, extending his hand.
Cain takes it, and they shake hands briefly, then they start to walk. “No. And I’d like it to stay that way. We’re not making any stops before we hit the road.”
Gannon opens the door, holding it in his grasp as he finishes talking to his nephew. “This could have been a phone call, you know.”
“Would you have taken it?”
“Probably not.”
“Exactly why we showed up,” Cain says, then leaves the office.
We follow him out of the police department and back to where our motorcycles are parked.
“Uncle? What happened to old golfing buddies?” Nixon asks before he pulls his helmet over his head.
Cain picks up his helmet and meets Damon’s eyes briefly before shrugging. “That’s how my parents met. My uncles played golf with my dad for years. Now let’s not talk about my family tree, and let”s get the fuck back to Ridgewood.”
It’s early afternoon by the time we pull into Andromeda’s parking lot, the sun high and bright in the sky, conflicting with the chill in the air from the season.
That is one thing I still have not gotten used to—the sun shines through the winter months here, casting a warm embrace on even the coldest days.
Nixon pulls into the space beside me and kills his engine, turning his helmet-clad head in my direction. Flipping the face shield up, he trains his eyes on me. “You were awfully quiet back in Northwood.”
“What was I to say?” I ask once I’ve pulled my helmet off. “There never seemed like a place where it’d be appropriate for me to interject, nor was there a reason for me to.”
“True,” he agrees. “Guess you’re right. I didn’t say much, either. Kinda weird how Cain didn’t tell us he was the captain”s nephew, though, right?”
I ponder that as I slide off my bike and set my helmet on the seat. Nixon does the same, and we begin to move through the parking lot to where Cain and Damon are standing near the bar”s entrance.
“Perhaps. Though I can understand the rift between family members and not feeling the need to disclose the relationship unless necessary. Their tension was clear—there are things within their family we are not privileged to know. I’m sure that is all.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Nixon agrees just as we reach the other two.
Cain looks up from his phone as we stop in front of him, sliding it into the back pocket of his blue jeans. “I just called Church for three o’clock. Tell everyone what the captain said.”
“Sounds good, amico. Come,” I say to everyone with a nod. “It’s five o’clock somewhere, and I feel we could all use a drink after that ride. The first round is on me.”
Andromeda is fairly quiet when we enter, the music not yet turned up, and only a handful of patrons are here this early in the day. As the door closes behind us and my eyes adjust to the dimmed lighting, my eyes catch on a woman I’ve never seen standing behind the bar, wiping it down.
She is beautiful, with chocolate brown hair and tattoos that climb up her arms. She wears a black top with thin straps. The loose fabric bounces as she cleans the bartop.
When she hears the click of the door shutting, she stops and stands straighter, looking up at us with a grin. I notice that her smile falters briefly as her gaze lands on Cain, but she pins it back in place as her eyes sweep over Nixon, Damon, and then me.
Immediately, I am taken with her energy. She radiates confidence, and there’s just something about her I am instantly drawn to. It feels reminiscent of the first day of school as a child, when you finally sit next to someone who you feel is meant to be your friend.
But it is what she says when she finally speaks that fills me with amusement, and I can tell she’s about to become il mia preferita in all of Ridgewood.
Moving from behind the bar, she flips the dish towel over her shoulder and crosses her arms over her chest, giving us a smug smile. “Why hello, boys. I was wondering when you’d show up to meet the bar’s new owner.”
Beside me, Cain looks as though he’s seen a ghost. Nixon’s mouth gapes slightly, and Damon wears his usual look of indifference.
I believe things around Ridgewood just became far more interesting.