2. Phoenix
Phoenix
“Phoenix, we need to talk.”
Four words no one ever wants to hear, but when Lazarus says it in that hesitant tone, I know it’s bad.
I turn from the engine I’ve been fucking around with to see him, Prez, the VP, and my brother Fox standing behind him. My mouth runs dry. I look between the four of them. My hackles rise, bracing for the worst.
“Abraham did his best,” Revenant starts.
“Unfortunately, Zephyr being caught in the act and the county attorney’s current vendetta against the club means that even with the best hardball . . .” Mayhem tries to pick up where Rev left off.
The club president and the vice president are at a loss for words. Fox is mostly mute, so I don’t expect him to finish saying it.
That leaves one person to look to for answers.
Lazarus nods. “Zephyr isn’t coming home. They’re transferring him up to Tri-Lakes Penitentiary for a three-month stay.”
“Three months . . . as in . . . he’s out in one and a half for good behavior?” My pulse is racing. And I can’t stand the way they’re looking at me.
My heart is shattering into a million pieces. Because this won’t be three months, out in one. A headache builds at the base of my skull as the walls close in. I want to get out of here. The pity and the feeling of being trapped make it worse.
Zephyr will be fine in prison. But I’m the loose cannon. I’m the one everyone has to worry about, the weak one. I can see it in the way they look at and speak to me. Even if it’s warranted because I’ve been known to jump into the deep end and make a rash decision here and there.
“No, he’ll serve three months. Minimum. We have a large presence in Tri-Lakes. He’ll be okay.” Revenant tries again.
Like an idiot, I look to my left, to where Zephyr would be.
I want the comfort he brings. But he’s the whole fucking problem.
We could have gotten away. The cop was a beta.
It’s not like the guy could have wrestled an alpha to the ground or shifted to chase after us once we shifted into our shadows’ falcon shapes and were airborne. Just a stupid beta.
Why didn’t he come with me? It’s a question no one can answer.
“Zephyr asked that we don’t take you to see him during his stay.” Revenant’s words cut like a knife, and I look up to him.
My shadow reacts to that. Sharp beak and talons on the rise, wings flapping, trying to make us more intimidating.
“Phoenix.” Lazarus tries to cut through my spiraling thoughts. “I have faith that Zephyr will come home in one piece, and I’ll do what I can to help the days pass more quickly.”
“I want to go see Mom.” I want to be cozy and to feel like I’m not drowning in emotions for a little bit.
Fox growls, shaking his head and waving his hand in front of his throat.
It’s clearly a ‘bad idea’ and unspoken confirmation that my sire is on a rampage about this.
It’s bad enough that Zephyr and I don’t usually land anywhere near the leaderboard in Family Baron’s competition for the family fortune.
This . . . Well, I guess it’s a good thing we can’t go negative in the point system.
Or we would have to dig ourselves out of a massive deficit, and that’s before we’d even think about competing with the likes of Fox and Xavier.
It’s a lot easier to earn prestige and excellence when you’re a doctor.
Not so easy when you’re a welder and builder.
Lazarus steps toward me, slow at first so as not to spook me, and then his shadow, a serpent, slithers forward, wrapping around my falcon and me.
The long, constricting hold pulls me off my stool and over to him.
Lazarus squeezes me to him. One hand across my back, the other up at the base of my skull.
I try not to let the tears escape. But they do. I hate myself for it.
“It’ll be okay. You’ll stay with me. I won’t go anywhere without you.” Lazarus promises. “God will keep Zephyr safe.”
That makes me laugh, and I wipe frustrated tears from my eyes with my hoodie sleeve. “Is there a god for prisons?”
“Just one God,” Lazarus says like he has a hundred times before. “But there’s a patron saint of prisoners. Saint Leonard.”
“Well, Mr. Leonard better do a good fucking job,” I grumble, and when I push away, the leadership trio of the club is gone, leaving me alone with the unofficial third of my little pack with Zephyr.
“Want to go for a ride?” Lazarus asks with a sly grin. “It’s not a glamorous job but gets us out of the clubhouse for a few hours.”
I shrug. There’s no cheering up, but at least if I’m riding the open road on my motorcycle, I’m not thinking about how empty I feel.
I thought I would be okay, but then we get out to the lot and I see the matching blue bike next to mine.
The sport bikes backed in next to each other are a reminder of how we’re outsiders here.
How Zephyr and I have always stood apart.
Smaller, younger, and born with a silver spoon, we’re not exactly the ‘hardened criminals’ associated with outlaw motorcycle clubs.
“No, you gotta take the long hauler, we’ll be gone overnight.” Laz points down the row to the more traditional motorcycle. Machines that are built for comfort and not action.
An overnight trip? Didn’t he just say a few hours? Guess it’s better than going back to our half-empty, well, one-third-empty apartment.
Ninety-ish days to go. I reassure myself as I throw a leg over the long hauler. And with the information Zephyr sacrificed himself for, there will be plenty of work to do saving omegas in the meantime.