Chapter Three
Meanwhile
Meanwhile…
As Dutch Black was getting drunk with
some of his brothers at the Chaos Compound…
Georgiana Suzanne Traylor had written the
first five hundred words of what would be a fifteen-hundred-word series that
would run on The Worldist over the next
three days.
She’d turned it in.
Half an hour later, she’d had a twenty-minute phone
conversation with Cristina, her editor.
Five minutes of that was about changes Cristina wanted in
the article.
Five minutes were Georgiana telling Cristina what she could
expect in the next two installments.
Three minutes were Cristina approving and giving Georgiana
food for thought.
Seven minutes were Georgiana explaining, and Cristina
agreeing to give her different stories and take her off the “kids beat.”
Georgiana had hung up and then given herself some time to
feel relief that a huge concern that had been bugging her since she met
seventeen-year-old, midwife-hopes-dashed Madison McGill in her bid to find an
angle on her student loan piece.
However, she did not allow herself time to give silent,
ineffectual (considering he was gone, gone, gone) thanks to Dutch
Black for (apparently, time would tell) solving a problem that had been
plaguing her now for weeks.
She’d done her tweaks to the article.
And she beat the deadline of the final submission by
forty-seven minutes.
Which heralded her opening a bottle of wine.
She knew what she was going to do before she pulled up
Grubhub and ordered from Little India.
And while she waited for Little India, she unpacked, started
a load of laundry, changed her sheets, and took a shower to wash off the feel
of the plane.
Through this, she sipped wine and accepted the icy chill
from her roommate’s Scottish fold cat.
A cat which had—considering her roommate had unexpectedly
taken a second stint with Médicins Sans
Frontières, which meant she was supposed to be gone for a year, but now it
would be two—officially become Georgiana’s.
Or so said Georgiana.
Because when (if?) the woman ever got back, Georgie was
claiming the damned cat.
“It was only a day,” she told Murtagh, who her roommate Cela
had named Angus, but Georgie had renamed Murtagh after her favorite character
from the Outlander TV show.
Murtagh turned his bushy gray body and showed her his
butthole.
And thus, Murtagh shared neatly that he was not a fan of
being left alone overnight.
This was not news.
Though, apparently, like she’d been that day when she got
off the plane and saw her sister had blown her off…again, Murtagh was
at an end with his substitute momma taking off.
Georgiana made note of that, and since she traveled a lot,
and when she didn’t, she was out of the house a lot, she finished waiting for
Little India by putting the clothes in the dryer and then sipping wine while
mentally compiling a list of friends she could ask to hang out with Murtagh
while she was gone so Murtagh would have someone to love.
Because Scottish folds were very affectionate.
And anyway, Murtagh had already experienced the trauma of
losing his first momma and now he was saddled with Georgie.
Reason one (but the list was much longer), why Cela wasn’t
reclaiming her cat.
When the food came, she ate on the sofa with the bottle of
wine close, Murtagh not close, and John Oliver cracking her up, pissing her
off, and giving her the needed reminder of why she decided to do what she did
even though what she did didn’t make people laugh.
But hopefully it made them think.
Then Murtagh forgave her and cuddled up as Georgiana settled
in with her real plans for the night.
It was stupid and she knew it.
She just couldn’t stop herself.
So she rented it to stream.
She remembered him from when she’d seen it before. She
remembered him being like his brother, good-looking (in a biker guy way).
But she hadn’t met him the first time she saw Blood,
Guts and Brotherhood.
And now she’d met him.
She also didn’t remember him being in it that much. The film
was mostly about the history of the Club, juxtaposed with footage of them now.
At their business. Working on their builds in their garage. In their hangout
lair. Their homes. With their wives. Kids. Bikes.
Each other.
The brothers Chaos.
But the majority of it was Ken Burns Civil War
style.
Narrative, and some spoken-word interviews, over pictures of
days of yore.
Though there was a small amount of old VHS and phone video
footage.
And the first time she watched it, her heart stopped,
knowing Carolyn’s boyfriend had lost his father in the way explained by the
film.
This time, she made everything stop the first time a picture
of Graham Black came on her TV screen.
He was crouched down, elbows to knees, and you could see the
muscles through his jeans tightened over them in his position. Head turned to
almost, but not quite full profile. Dark hair longish, a mop of messy curls and
waves. Skin tanned. Lines fanning out from his deep-set, hooded eyes. Huge,
white smile.
And there was no mistaking it physically.
Dutch Black had his father stamped all over him.
Graham Black had been an exceptionally handsome man.
His son was no different.
She was about to hit play, but then she didn’t.
And Murtagh gave a concerned “Mwrr?”
when the noise came from her throat.
But she’d taken out her contacts and now had her glasses on
because her eyes were dry and scratchy from wearing the contacts on the plane.
It might be a trick of vision.
But she had to check.
So she took Murtagh up super-close to the screen, shoved her
glasses up on her head, all so she could see.
“Yes,” she whispered staring at a specific spot on the
screen. “Oh my God,” she kept whispering. “Yes.”
She cuddled Murtagh closer and walked back to the couch.
As they settled in, Murtagh started purring and kneading.
Georgiana didn’t hit play.
She stared at the patch on the leather jacket Graham Black
was wearing in that picture.
Through the threads on the border around the patch that said
Chaos that was positioned over the heart, there was some unraveling, and on the
leather, there was a scratch on either side of the minimal damage to the
stitching on the patch.
The same as on the jacket Dutch wore that day.
It was his dad’s jacket.
It was his dad’s patch.
“Muwrrrr,” Murtagh said.
“Yeah,” she whispered, “I really, really, reallyreallyreally messed up today, baby.”
“Murrr,” Murtagh told
her.
“No, it isn’t okay,” she replied.
“Mwrr?”
“I don’t think so. I think it’s who he is, to his bones, his
blood, his DNA, so he’ll never forgive me.”
“Muwrrr,” Murtagh decreed.
“I love you too, honey.”
Murtagh’s job was done (or so Murtagh thought), so Murtagh
shut up.
Georgiana hit play.
As she watched, she paused a number of other times.
All when he was on screen.
Even when it was pictures of him as a little kid, or a baby.
Held in his father’s arms.
She noted there was something stamped all over Graham Black
too.
Unmistakable.
He loved his wife.
And his sons.
Georgiana couldn’t hold it in and got another “Mwrr?” from Murtagh when she made a sad noise at a photo of
Graham Black wearing a proud papa smile as he was caught on film in the middle
of pulling his oldest son off his back.
The dark-haired toddler was arms and legs akimbo, like he
thought he was flying through the air, even though his dad’s arms were raised
high, his son held tight on either side in both hands.
The toddler’s eyes were aimed down at his father, face
filled with glee.
It took some deep breaths to get through that one.
Thankfully, only once did she rewind a creeper, stalkery ten times. And this was when the camera had caught
Dutch Black in the present (or a few years ago).
Laughing.
When the film was over, she didn’t think about what she
intended to do.
She just started on the road to doing it.
Thus, she took Murtagh direct to her backpack, dug through
it, got her notebook and pen, brought it back to the sofa, had a think, and
while she did, she made her usual list.
And after finishing off the wine, the list and a couple of Zzzquil gummies, she and Murtagh went to bed.
First thing in the morning, after she made coffee, she
grabbed her notebook and reviewed the list.
It read:
1. Jackson. DPD.
Carlyle Case. Status. Future. Details.
+++NEIGHBOR!!!!
Who else saw who came and went from her house?
Names?
No DNA in bed, on skin or under nails with a rape?
Market (sperm, syrup, pharma)
Players????
2. Banga -n- Kraken. Street.
Market (players, locations, warehouses?)
Where to buy?
Who?
If not them…who to ask?
3. King’s Shelter?
ED? Juliette --- (last name?)
Rock Chick books –-- read.
4. Charge taser/check expiration on Mace.
Cover:
Sperm the ruse.
Single.
Independent.
Too much $$ for insemination (How much does that cost? Find
out.)???
Lame…build on this.↑↑↑↑
Once she reviewed it, Georgiana grabbed her phone and
started at the top.
She called Jackson, one of her sources in the Denver Police
Department.
When he said he was all in for a mid-morning coffee break
(and she knew what he meant was he was all in to stare at her breasts while
they sipped coffee, he asked her for a date, she politely declined while
telling him how much she valued their friendship, all this happening through
her delicately pumping him for information or maneuvering him to get it for
her), she slapped on some makeup, did something with her hair, tugged on some
clothes that showed absolutely no cleavage, promised Murtagh she’d be back…
And she headed out.