25. Chapter 25
twenty-five
C ooler and Rocker stopped by Heavy Iron the next morning, and walked into Heavy’s office with him, closing the door behind them.
“Just got off the phone with a nurse I know at the hospital,” Cooler told them. “Chaz is stable. Won’t know if there’s any damage to his heart until they run some more tests. Likely gonna be fighting pneumonia, ‘cause he aspirated liquid into his lungs during the seizure.”
“Any brain damage?” Heavy asked.
“Doubtful,” Cooler said. “Anyway, here’s what they found in his system—uppers and steroids, large quantities of both.”
Heavy let out a wordless growl of sheer frustration. “That’s about what I expected to hear. Yesterday, that was closest thing to a ‘rhoid rage’ I’ve seen since I was in competition. And it was not Chaz, he’s a pretty good kid. Wants everything fast, but show me a kid who doesn’t.”
“The cops question you yesterday?” Rocker asked.
“Yeah,” Heavy said, frowning at the memory. “Captain himself showed up.”
“Officious little prick,” Rocker said contemptuously. “P.R. move, getting himself in the local news—wiping out drugs in his town. Some good cops here, he ain’t one of ‘em.”
“Second that,” Cooler said. “Been out to get us since he moved to the Heights. Lucky for us, he couldn’t find his own ass without the bathroom lights on.”
“Well, I told ‘em what I could,” Heavy said. “Which wasn’t fuckin’ much.”
“That’ll likely be the last you’ll see of ‘em,” Rocker said.
“If I thought they could figure out how the kids are getting this hero shit, I’d invite ‘em to move in,” Heavy said bitterly. “Cooler, I know you’ve seen a lot of bad shit, but … God, that was—“ he broke off, with no words to express what he felt at seeing a healthy kid go down like that.
“I know, brother,” Cooler said, looking every one of his nearly fifty years. “I feel you. You don’t forget that shit.”
Rocker, who had spent a decade on the Spokane police force, nodded in grim agreement.
“But we’re gonna figure this out,” he told them. “This ‘hero’ shit is going away–out of our territory, along with whoever is pushing it.”
“Just hope we can do it before some kid dies,” Heavy muttered.
That night, as he lay in his bed, Cassie at his side, both of them relaxed and sated from a great round of sex, he recounted the experience, although not in every detail.
“It was bad, pixie,” he said. “Felt so fuckin’ helpless, y’know? Even the Narcan didn’t do much. Thank Jesus the EMS showed up when they did, got him to the hospital.”
She snuggled closer to him, her soft hand stroking his chest. “Is he gonna be okay?”
“They think so. He’s young and strong, good immune system to shake off the pneumonia and the drugs. He’s gonna feel like shit for a while, though.”
“Good,” she said crisply. “Somebody should Instagram or TikTok the whole thing, including him hooked up in the ICU. So other kids can see where taking that crap gets ‘em.”
He grunted his agreement, then yawned mightily, and rubbed his free hand down over his face. “Fuck, I’m beat.”
“Then let’s get some sleep,” she murmured, leaning up to press a kiss to his mouth.
“Yeah, but I was hopin’ to go another round first.” He stroked her bottom, and she smiled.
“I’ll be here in the morning, big guy. See you then.”
He yawned again. “‘kay. It’s a date.”
“Oh, no-oo,” she murmured teasingly. “Not another date. Do I have to Instagram this one?”
He snickered. “I would hope to hell not.”
He was smiling as he fell asleep.
He was also smiling the next morning when he rode away from his apartment. What man wouldn’t be, when he’d awakened with a sweet, curvy little woman in his arms, her ass pillowing his morning wood.
He’d awakened Cassie by playing with her nipples till they were like hard little berries, and then her sensitive little clit, getting her good and wet, whispering hot, filthy praise in her ear as he lifted her upper leg enough to work his cock deep into her pussy, and then, with his hand cupping her mons and playing her clit, fucked her until she keened her pleasure to the quiet morning air, and her inner muscles squeezed his cock in that secret rhythm that drove him fuckin’ crazy.
He came growling his pleasure in her ear, and then relaxed, chuckling. “Thanks for the date, baby.”
She huffed, altho she didn’t sound too upset. “That was a date? I didn’t even get dinner.”
He laughed harder, and gave her a kiss on the side of her neck where she smelled so good, and she was so sensitive. “I’ll take you for burgers and beer at The Hangar after work.”
She squealed, hunching her shoulder as he hit a ticklish spot, and her head clonked his nose. “Ow, you vicious pixie.”
“I’ll show you vicious, you big–big tickler!” She jerked in his arms.
He winced, reaching down to rescue his junk. “Whoa, careful, woman–you nearly yanked my dick off!”
She rolled to pounce on him, but he was too fast, already up and out of the bed, grinning back at her.
She narrowed her eyes at him. “I’ll get you for that later, mister muscles.”
“I’m shakin’ in my shoes,” he assured her. “Now pull the sheet up, please? I gotta go, an’ you look way too pretty lyin’ there all naked.”
She leaned on her elbow, curving her top leg in a pretty pose, and looked him over with a little smirk. “You cover up. You’re the one causing all the trouble here.”
Then she giggled as his cock twitched, and began to rise toward her.
With a groan, Heavy turned away. “I’m gonna spank your ass for that later.”
He wasn’t sure, but he thought he heard her murmur ‘Oooh, promise?’ as he pulled the shower curtain back. He snorted a laugh, then gritted his teeth, turned the shower on cold, and stepped under the spray. He drew in a hissing breath of pain as the cold spray hit his hot skin, but at least it took care of his incipient hard-on.
What the fuck was his blonde package of mischief doing to him? He’d just fucked her, and all he wanted to do was get her under him again.
Well, one thing he now understood–no wonder most of his Flyer brothers smiled all the time.
A short time later, he kissed her goodbye outside on the walk, then she hopped in her car, and he threw a leg over his Harley, and took off for his gym.
The morning went great at the gym.
It was busy, plenty of clients in and out, and Heavy fielded concerned questions about the incident the day before with patience and as much grace as he could muster. Only natural that people were concerned, and wanted to know how the kid was doing.
Toby showed up at noon, Heavy took a quick lunch break and texted Cassie, who had started her lunch break at the Flying Bean.
HeavyIrn:’Howz it, Latte Grrl?’
PixiChx: ‘Ha. Ha. Grt, howz it @ gym?’
HeavHo:’Grt. Biz iz gd. Hangr aftr wrk? U cn tk pics’
PixiChx:’o_0 Hangr fin. No pix needd. Jst lotz alcohol!’
HeavHo:’Dckhd givn U probsf???’
PixiChx: No, jst latte machn. 3. Ltr’
He stared at the heart emoji for a moment, and then sent one back. His was ‘beating’, which he thought was stupid but funny.
HeavHo:’Pic U up ther @ Bean. Wnt quik wrd w dckhd. Ltr’
Then he ate his lunch and got back to it.
And the day rolled on, until four thirty that afternoon, when his life and his business went to hell in one long, humiliating, public shit-storm.
His first clue that something was wrong were the sirens. A person heard them throughout the day, and night, ‘cause even in a small town, the cops stayed busy. But this was more than one, and they continued to get louder, instead of passing by on the main drag a block away, or converging on some poor sucker’s house or trailer.
Heavy, who’d been standing in the middle of the gym, chatting with an elderly couple, two women who liked to use the bikes and then light weights before heading off for a glass of wine and supper, stared as four local cop cars, two coming from each direction, converged in the parking lot outside the gym.
“‘Scuse me, Mary,” he said to the woman who’d been telling him about her organic tomatoes. “Better go see what this is about.”
“Oh, yes, I’d say so,” she agreed.
His other clients were all stopping in mid-workout, looking outside, then at him, at each other, then outside again. One dude, who had headphones on loud, ran along on his treadmill, oblivious.
Heavy had reached the check-in desk when the first uniform hit his front doors.
Toby let out a kind of whimper, and backed away from the desk. “What’s happening?”
“Don’t know,” Heavy snapped. “Sit tight.”
By now, all the cars outside were stopped, and officers were out, one with a dog. A fuckin’ canine unit?
“Can I help you fellas?” he asked, as a young cop held the front door open, and three more walked in, one of them unfortunately the chief of police.
The banty, pot-bellied dude stopped before Heavy and spread his legs, taking up space. He looked around the gym, a self-important frown on his fleshy face. “Going to have to ask you to clear this space,” he announced.
His words were, ironically, drowned out by Tim Montana shouting out the first line of ‘American Thread’. The cop’s scowl deepened, as if Heavy had personally insulted him.
“Turn that noise off!” the cop bellowed.
Heavy’s hackles went up, but he kept his voice even. “Why, certainly, officer.”
Lifting his phone in one hand, he thumbed to the app that controlled the sound system, and silenced it.
“That’s better,” the cop barked. “Now, as I was saying, I need all you folks to clear this space.”
“What?” Mary, the tomato grower, had reached Heavy’s side, and stood frowning back at the cop, hands on her hips. “What’s this all about, Chester? We’re working out here. And this boy is trying to run a business.”
“That’s right,” her shorter, plumper partner agreed. “Honestly, Chester Booth. Manners. You could wait until after hours, and have a polite discussion with this young man, instead of bursting in here like the Gestapo.”
Someone in the ranks of Heavy’s clients snickered, and a wave of smothered laughter followed.
Heavy watched ‘Chester’s’ face grow red with fury, and thought, ‘ Oh, shit. That just made things worse .’
“Folks, you heard the officer,” he said, lifting an arm to beckon them to move toward the locker rooms. “If you can get your things and–”
“That’s it!” the chief bellowed, leaping backward as if Heavy had swung at him. “Threatening an officer in the line of duty! Cuff him! George, Harris! Cuff him!”
“What the fuck?” Heavy began, astonished.
Then something hit him in the back that made his body seize in one huge convulsion, and he went down like a felled tree. The edge of the check-in counter came up and smacked him on the side of his face as he fell. He bounced off and hit carpet with his face and then the rest of him, and lay there, trying desperately to suck air into his lungs.
He could hear people screaming and yelling, and a big dog barking, and footsteps thumping all around him, but he couldn’t move and couldn’t resist as his arms were yanked behind him, and his wrists cuffed. Somebody was reading someone’s rights to them overhead, but didn’t seem to have anything to do with him, in a rictus of pain as his muscles continued to seize.
Finally it got quieter, and two cops, grunting with the effort, hauled him up and leaned him back against the counter. The gym had emptied out, he saw, although not the parking lot. That was full of people, some cops, a lot of other people, all watching the gym.
The canine cop and his dog were working the gym, the dog sniffing around busily, while the chief watched. Two cops stood close by Heavy, guarding the dangerous prisoner, he guessed.
Fuck, he couldn’t believe how hard it was just to remain upright. He was exhausted, as if he’d worked out too hard for far too long with no fuel, and had the flu on top of it. His legs felt like half-cooked spaghetti, and his back hurt like a sonofabuck. His face was throbbing in a slow drumbeat, and the side of it felt weirdly stiff, like someone had punched him again.
“You fuckin’ tazed me?” he asked now, his voice hoarse.
One of the cops, who looked like he oughtta still be in high school, backed away nervously, hand on his sidearm, color rising under his skin. “Chief’s orders.”
“Y’r chief is a dick-wad,” Heavy told him, and the other cop, a woman who looked Native American, gave him a look that said he was not wrong, but he might be even worse, she’d wait and see.
Heavy raised his voice. “What. Are you doing. Here?”
The chief turned and glared at him across the gym, then smirked. “Got an anonymous tip that there are illegal drugs on the premises. And since one of our youth fell prey to such only a few days ago, on these premises, we have the right to search said premises.”
Heavy snorted. “Right. Well, go ahead and search, Chester. You’re not gonna find anything, ‘cause I run a clean gym. I’d never allow that shit in my gym.”
The chief sneered. “Really? We’ll see, Hanks.”
“This is because I’m a Flyer, isn’t it?” Heavy guessed. “Yeah, I heard you got a hard-on for the club. But you can’t get anything on us, so now you’re makin’ shit up.”
The chief’s face started to turn purple again, which Heavy watched with a smirk of his own. This lasted until the canine handler walked his dog across the gym, excused himself to the female cop, who stepped aside, and the dog proceeded into Heavy’s office… where he barked, short and sharp.
They all froze, except the chief, who swaggered across the gym, a smile all over his face. “Well, now,” he said to Heavy, before walking into his office. “Seems we found our drugs. You two, take him out and put him in the back of the car. This is one Devil’s Flyer who’s going to jail.”
Heavy stumbled out into the parking lot between the two cops.
“Heavy?” Mary called. “What’s–do you need our help, hon? I know people in the ACLU!”
More voices broke out in a regular babble, but then hushed as one of the cops opened the back door of an SUV, and the other pushed Heavy inside.
The last voice he heard was a familiar one. T-Bear, appearing outside the SUV, face livid under his dewrag, ginger curls flying out as he pushed past a protesting cop to the SUV window.
“I’m callin’ Streak an’ Stick now, brother!” he bellowed. “We got you! We got your back!”
Heavy could only stare at him through the thick miasma of humiliation that surrounded him like a stinking fog. Then he put his head down to avoid the stares of all the other people outside the cop car. Gaping at him like he was some kind of shameful example, on display in this cage for them to watch.
Before he was taken away to jail. Just like his old man, and his older brother.
And he’d thought he could rise above his history.
Nice fuckin’ try, loser.
When Heavy didn’t show at the Flying Bean at six o’five, Cassie was annoyed. When he hadn’t shown, or answered her texts by six-fifteen, she was worried.
When she heard the throaty rumble of a Harley, and looked out to see her dad rolling up instead of Heavy, she leaned out the service window. “Hi, daddy. What’s up? Is Heavy having engine trouble or something?”
To her dismay, her father rolled his bike to a stop outside the window, and shook his head. “He won’t be comin’. He’s in a spot of trouble.”
Cassie turned, startling Chris, who was lounging at the other window playing a game on his phone, and vaulted down the steps and outside. Her heart was racing with fear.
“What happened? Is he hurt?”
Her dad put his arm around her and walked her a few steps away into the shade of the parking area’s lone tree, where Dina Torres had placed a bench, a small table and a garbage can for patrons.
“No, but brace yourself, baby girl–he’s been arrested.” He told her what had happened, and Cassie grasped the lapels of his cut, gazing at him in horror.
“Daddy! You know he would never do what they say, don’t you?”
“‘Course I do,” he reassured her. “Kid might piss me off on the regular, but I know how he feels about illegals.”
She nodded, relieved, but then realized something just as important.
“Oh, my God. Oh, my God. I-I have to go see him. I need to let him know I believe in him too.”
Her dad gave her a pitying look. “No, baby girl, not a good idea. He ain’t gonna want you to see him in there. For a man like him, that’s about as low as he can go. There’s guys that can tough it out, roll in and outta jail and take it as it comes. Heavy ain’t one of ‘em.”
Her eyes filled with tears, imagining how alone he must feel. “Damnit. Who did this? I wanna–I wanna kill somebody.”
“I know,” he said grimly. “We’re all feelin’ it, believe you me. None of us believes he was pushin’ that shit. Now listen, I know this is tough to take, and I’m thinkin’ the coffee drinkin’ day is about over, so whyn’t you lock up and come on home.”
She nodded, sniffling. “Oh, um, Chris is here. He can stay. I’ll go in and get my things.”
She walked back up into the kiosk, and gathered her purse. “I need to go home,” she told Chris. “Some bad news. You can lock up, right?”
He smirked at her over his phone. “Yeah, I heard. So-oo, I guess your big-ass boyfriend isn’t all that after all, hm-mm?”
Cassie stared down at him, and then shook her head in disgust. “Don’t know why I’d expect you to understand.”
Bam! They both jumped as the kiosk door slammed back against the wall, so hard it rattled, and one of the cold latte shakers fell to the floor with a thud.
Cooler stood there, gaze focused on Chris like an ice-cold laser.
“So this is the kid who’s been givin’ you grief, huh, baby girl?” He looked Chris over, shook his head in disgust, and then stalked closer. “Boy, you listen to me. You watch yourself from now on, or you will have more trouble than you ever dreamed. ‘Cause that big guy she’s with? He’s a nice guy, he let you off with a warning. But you know who I am? I’m her daddy. And I. Am. Not. Nice.”
Cassie could not see what he did next, because he was standing between her and Chris, but Chris screamed like a little kid, and when Cooler let him go, he crumpled slowly to the carpet, curled over himself and clutching his groin.
Her dad turned to her, and raised his brows. “You about ready to go, baby girl? Why don’t you close up, while I take out the trash here.”
Cassie nodded, staring after him as he grabbed Chris under one arm and hustled him down the steps and out of sight. Her heart was pounding as she picked up the fallen latte container.
She’d just seen a side of her father that she’d never glimpsed, and her mind was shorting out, trying to align this aspect of him with the funny, loving, nosy dad with whom she grown up.
It was as if he’d pulled off his face like a mask and said, ‘Hey, look what else I got under here!’
Welp, part of being a Flyer.
She got busy with the cleaning that needed to happen to close up the Bean for the night. The rote activities helped keep her mind busy too.
“Got done what you needed to do?” her dad asked from the open doorway, his voice gentle.
“Yeah.” With one last look around, Cassie grabbed her purse, and followed him out of the kiosk, locking the door behind her.
Chris was behind the steering wheel in his little car, she noted.
She waited until they were in the truck to ask. “What the hell did you do to Chris?”
Her dad smiled to himself. “Little move I call the nutcracker. Dipshit will likely be payin’ a visit to an ER later today. Gonna be some pain and swelling.”
Cassie winced in reluctant sympathy. “Will he still be able to … uh?”
“Sadly, yes,” Cooler sighed. “Against the law to take away a man’s right to reproduce, no matter how well deserved.”
Cassie snickered, and then buried her head in her hands as her laughter turned to tears. Her dad handled this like a pro. He reached over and patted her leg and handed her a pack of tissues. The pack was pink-and-lavender flowered, which meant Rae had left it in his truck.
Cassie used several, but tried to dry her face as they rolled into the garage at home.
Then RaeAnn greeted her inside the door with outstretched arms, and Cassie began to weep all over again. Cooler and Con exchanged a look of mutual male discomfort, and eased out to the garage.
“You hear anything yet?” Con asked, his gaze pleading.
“No, sorry, son. I’ve got no contacts at county jail.”
“He didn’t do it,” Con stated.
“I know,” Cooler said. And he meant it. Heavy might be a giant pain-in-his-ass when it came to Cassie, but the mountain of muscle did have high standards when it came to doping, and he wasn’t shy about preaching them.
“But how are we gonna prove it?” Con asked, searching his dad’s face as if ready to charge out right now and begin searching for evidence.
“Not sure yet. Hoping the brothers have some ideas on that. In the meantime, we’ve got our lives to live. Which means--”
“Don’t say it,” Con protested, throwing up a hand between them, his face in a mask of protest.
“—you get your schoolwork done, and practice your soccer like usual.”
“Au-ugh,” his son groaned, holding his head as if in mortal pain. “You just had to say it, didn’t you? I can’t—I can’t be around you right now.” He staggered toward the door to the house, moaning.
“Okay, comedian,” Cooler said. “Get in there and cheer up your sister. Then do your homework.”
While he got busy helping his brothers figure out who had set up his beloved childrens’ real hero, Heavy, to take the fall for this fake 'hero'.
Heavy slumped on his bunk, staring at the ceiling of his cell.
Around him, guys in the neighboring cells complained, to each other or to no one in particular. One guy was snoring like a lawn-mower, another was laughing at something only he could discern. A few had tried talking to Heavy when he'd been herded in here, a few half-way friendly, others giving him shit and demanding to know what he was in for.
He'd answered the friendly ones with a lift of his chin, and looked over the rest, enough to let them see his lack of interest, and then ignored them all.
After the first agony of being fucking tazed, and the utter humiliation of being arrested in his own fucking gym, of being cuffed and paraded out past the people of the Heights, past clients who’d hung around to see what the cops were searching for, and rubberneckers who’d stopped to check out the action in their small burg, and gaped at him, all wide eyed and avid, like idiots glued to a fuckin’ reality show playing out in front of them, of being shoved in the back of the cops’ rig behind that mesh screen, where he’d seen his father and his older brother and on one memorable occasion his mother… after that, Heavy had gone mercifully numb.
The booking-in process had helped, being mind-numbingly boring, but he’d survived it without doing any of his handlers bodily harm by comparing it step-by-step to prepping for a lifting competition. He’d hated that too, especially in the later months.
At least no one he knew was here to see that part. Or the part where they marched him, clad in a fuckin’ orange jumpsuit that chafed his ass and the inside of his thighs ‘cause it was made for a guy six inches shorter, along endless corridors of gray—gray cement, gray metal, gray windows reinforced with mesh so that even if in inmate broke one, he still wasn’t getting through, or out.
In the cell in which he ended up, the ceiling over the bunk was gray as well. He knew because once he got in there, he was suddenly exhausted. He flopped down on his back and fell asleep, despite the lights and the noise around him. He slept like the dead, stirring only when he was jolted awake by the bang of a door.
He sat up and looked around, yawning, but couldn’t tell what time of day or night it was.
Around him, men were sleeping, or pacing, or just sitting. One guy was working out, doing pushups against the edge of his bunk, slow and steady. He was sweating like he’d been at it awhile. A guard was pacing slowly along the corridor, down at the end, his back to Heavy.
With a sigh, he flopped back down.
There was a crack in the gray paint on the ceiling. The crack was long, stretching the length of his bunk--which wasn't that long, these puny bunks had been built for skinny little junkies, not big guys like him. A bug was patrolling one side of the crack, scurrying along and then pausing every once in a while to peer into the crack. That crack must look like a canyon to the bug. And at the end of the crack, where the ceiling met the wall, was a small whitish web. If the bug kept going, he was gonna learn the hard way he should've headed in the opposite direction.
Kind of like him. He should've just stayed on the road he'd started on after high school, working at Big Tony’s Gym. Keeping his head down. Staying in his lane, bored outta his mind, and sick and tired of being stuck working for someone else... but safe. Nobody after him, trying to yank him down off the top step on the awards podium of life. No one trying to destroy everything he'd worked his ass off for.
Maybe his bitch of a mother and her boyfriend, and his father and older brother had been right when they laughed at him, and predicted he'd be back, with his tail tucked between his legs. Ready to settle for the life they'd chosen to stay in, working or stealing just enough to afford another high, another bottle. And winding up time after time in cells like this one, so regularly the local cops and jailers knew them by name.
Maybe this was the start of his own downhill slide, and the Seacrest Mobile Home Park, or its clone, was at the bottom, waiting for him.
Fuck, he hated the smell in here. Pine scented cleaner, so strong it nearly burned the hairs out of his nose, but not strong enough to quell the smells of urine, stale sweat and vomit that seemed to seep from the cement walls. And sure as hell from the thin mattress on which he lay. When he got out of here, he was never using pine cleaner again.
If he got out of here.
He pulled in a breath through his mouth, and blew it out, to quell the simmering urge to vault off the bunk, grab the cell bars and rattle them as hard as he could, maybe till he pulled them right out of the cement floor and ceiling in which they were anchored.
Sometime later, when he’d finally dozed off again, doors started banging, and breakfast was announced.
It was not great, but Heavy forced it down, along with the weak, tepid coffee.
Then he started doing yoga stretches. He worked his way steadily from there into calisthenics.
He'd already done a hundred pushups, at least that many crunches, squats until his thighs burned and quivered with the strain, and jumping jacks. He craved the extreme burn of pull-ups, but there was no overhead bar or rings, so he was shit out of luck on those.
And in every other way, far as he could see.
Booted footsteps rang on the cement aisle. "Hanks," called one of the jailers. "You got a visitor."
Heavy pulled out of a stretch, and out of his thoughts. "I do? Who is it?" He rolled off of the bunk and looked down through the bars at the jailer, a black man as big as he, although not as tall. The guy wasn't friendly, but he wasn't a jerk like the other one on duty today.
Jesus, please don't let it be Cassie. He didn't want her to see him in here, in this ill-fitting orange jumpsuit, being herded around like a lowlife.
The jailer was busy unlocking the cell door, shook his head once. "A mean-ass mothah in biker leathers. You in trouble with one of the local gangs, or you a member?"
"Member. But we're a club, not a gang," Heavy said automatically. He peered along the aisle, even though he knew visitors weren't allowed in the cell block, but waited in visiting rooms.
The jailer nodded, but the guy in the next cell laughed raucously. "Oooh, he ain't just a ‘roid-junkie, he's a biker too. Didn't know they even make motorcycles big enough for muscle-bound gorillas like you. Oh, wait, you must have them ape-hanger bars."
A few other inmates laughed, and one, a skinny kid with a blue faux-hawk and sallow, unhealthy skin, rattled his cell door, making a ferocious face at Heavy through the bars. "Fuckin' biker. You one of them assholes from the Heights? You are, you and me got a problem. Messed up my brother bad. Me an' my boys’ll mess you up, first chance we get."
"That's enough, Walls," the jailer advised with weary patience. "You know you ain't gettin' out in the commons at all, if you’re makin’ threats."
"I owe him!" the kid called after them. "We'll get him, one way or the other."
Heavy looked back at the kid and shook his head. “You’ve been watchin’ too many bad movies.”
The voices of the other inmates faded abruptly, as Heavy walked with the jailer through a set of heavy doors, and into a wide room dotted with small tables, nailed to the floor like the stools on one side.
Stick Vanko sat waiting at one of the tables.
Heavy's gut clenched. He'd been hoping for Rocker, or even one of the other brothers.
Jesus, was the president here to tell him they were gonna take his cut? Feeling like a condemned man walking, he moved to the chair opposite Stick, and sat.
"You got twenty minutes," the jailer advised. "Back for you then."
"Thanks," Heavy muttered, his gaze on Stick.
Stick’s brow quirked. Then he went back to looking Heavy over with icy thoroughness. Finally, he spoke. "Well, did you do it?"
Heavy’s heart sank as his worst fears gathered, ready to spring. Was his club president, a man he looked up to and admired, a man he’d do damn near anything for, accusing him of being guilty?
Stick spoke again. "Heavy. Have you been using your gym to sell drugs, along with your other services?"
"No!" Heavy roared, the negative tearing from deep in his chest. The jailers on duty at the doors looked sharply at him, and he lowered his voice, although it was still raw with emotion. "No. I would never do that. Not only will that shit mess these kids up, maybe for good, you really think I put every cent I had into my gym, and borrowed money from you and my brothers to push drugs?"
He gave a shudder of revulsion, shaking his head before glaring at Stick. Club president or no, Heavy wasn't taking that shit from any man.
To his shock, Stick nodded, his face relaxing in a smile. "Da. I believe you, brother. Just wanted to hear you say it. So now, our work is to learn... if not you, then who?"
Heavy was still reeling from his president's first words. "You--you believe me?" he asked, his voice rough.
Stick nodded again. "Of course I do. A man doesn't spend thirty years in and around clubs and not learn to judge people. I've known plenty of bad men, and as many good ones. You are a good man. I know this, and so do your brothers. We’re all behind you."
Pressure hit behind Heavy's eyes, and something swelled in his chest. "Thanks," he managed. He cleared his throat and blinked hard. “Good to know.”
"You're too trusting though," Stick added. "Gonna have to work on that."
Heavy looked up, and Stick raised his brows. "Someone's been using your gym as a funnel for this hero shit, brother. Selling it right under your nose."
“Yeah, I finally figured that out,” Heavy said. “I’m slow, but I get there eventually.”
“So who?” Stick asked.
Heavy scowled at the table between them, at Stick's big, capable hands clasped on it, his titanium wedding band gleaming on his left hand, a heavy carved silver ring on his right hand, along with a thin band on his pinkie, that looked like an old wedding band.
Some families passed down things like that.
His folks passed on a shitty attitude, and lessons on how to shoplift his breakfast, 'cause he wasn't getting it at home.
He rolled his shoulders. His sperm and egg donors didn't matter right now, he wasn't gonna let them matter. He had his Flyer family, the best one he'd ever have.
Cassie's pretty face filled his mind, and a strange peace penetrated his misery. At least he knew one person who wouldn't sell him out like that. She was like his Flyer brothers, true blue, through and through. And feisty and sweet too.
"Could be a gym client, I guess," he said slowly. “But that doesn’t… feel right.”
Stick shook his head. "Our source tells us the cops found the shit taped under a drawer in your desk. So maybe you want to look a little closer to home."
“The hell you say,” Heavy protested in revulsion. “None of the Flyers would—“
“Da. But how about someone who wanted into the club—but didn’t make it?” Stick asked quietly.
Heavy looked up. "You mean the prospect? You really think Jason's that cocky, to sell shit right under my nose?" Especially when Heavy was a member of the club Jason wanted so badly to join.
Stick gave him a patient look. "He fucked your snatch on your desk... so you tell me how cocky he is."
Heavy grunted. "She's not mine anymore ... but yeah, I see what you mean." Because Heavy had been fucking Britt then, as far as Jason knew, which should’ve meant she was off limits to any prospect of his club.
"Although I wouldn't take any bets on which of them initiated the sex,” he said now. “She'd been pissed at me for a while. Can't remember the last time we did anything but argue."
Stick grunted, a sound that could have been assent or his disgust with females in general. Heavy knew the man would die for his current old lady, Sara, but he also knew Stick's first old lady, the mother of his twin boys, had been a complete head-case.
Stick had the knife scar on his throat to prove that.
"Hanks, time's up," one of the guards announced. "On your feet."
"Just one more minute, please," Heavy asked, holding up a hand. He leaned forward, speaking even more quietly than before. "Stick, if Jason's the one that was sellin', and through the gym, what next? I mean–not that I can do shit in here, but have you brought him in? Uh, talked to him?" A polite euphemism for 'have you scared the piss out of him and slapped him around enough to make him talk'?
Stick rose, shaking his head slightly. "That opportunity has not been available to us. Now, Streak's working to get you out of here quick, since as a business owner, you're not a flight risk. You'll hear from him later today, or tomorrow. Meantime, you know your business better than anyone. Do some thinking. Say it was Jason. How was he passing it? And, where’s he getting it?"
Heavy rose and managed a nod. "Okay. I'll do that. And thanks. Thanks for coming."
Stick nodded. "One more thing. You’re not the only gym owner who’s been tagged for this. Dupres, who runs Smoky’s Gym over in Post Falls? He’s in for this, too. Since Post Falls is in North Idaho, he’s in Kootenai County jail.”
Heavy gaped at him, hands still planted on the table. “What? Hells bells… that means this is a bigger operation, doesn’t it?”
But his mind was whirling. “Jason knows Smoky Dupres,” he told Stick. “He told me he used to work out there.”
Stick raised his brows. “Another connection. So, by tomorrow, updates–or you’ll be out. We'll get you home, brother. Meantime, ride steady. Don't let any of the pissants in here get to you. You get in a fight, your chances of bail are in the wind."
“You’re right about that,” Heavy said, grimacing. “About the pissants, I mean. Skinny, ugly kid with a blue mohawk sound familiar to you? Says the Flyers did his brother, and he’s gonna get us.”
“No, but we have enemies. See if you can get a name, da? And ride steady, brother.”
Heavy nodded. “I’m good, Stick.”
Then, rather than watch Stick walk out the doors leading to freedom without him, Heavy turned and followed the guard back to his cell.
But he did it with a lighter step than before. His brothers had his back, and the Flyers were a force to be reckoned with, on both sides of the law.
And that little dickwad Jason better hope the law got to him before Heavy did.
Cassie leaned her elbows on the high counter by the check-in computer at Heavy Iron, and sighed morosely.
This was the second day Heavy had been gone, in jail. After a nearly sleepless night, Cassie had called Dina Torres and told her that she had an emergency, and was needed elsewhere.
Then she’d marched straight over here, and taken over management of the gym, with Stick Vanko’s somewhat amused blessing. She supposed she probably could have asked, instead of announcing that she was doing so, but she was determined that nothing was going to happen to the gym while Heavy was not here to watch over it. And so she’d told Stick.
Anyhoo, it had worked. But now, she needed to figure out how to get all of his clients back.
On a Thursday evening at a little after eight-thirty, the gym should be bustling with all the folks who wanted to get a workout in so they could take tomorrow evening off to hit the bars and clubs.
But the place was empty except for her, and T-bear and Moke. The two big bikers were presently in the locker room, cleaning up after a workout. After that, she knew, they would help her lock up and see her on her way home.
The Flyers and their old ladies had been doing their workouts here in shifts, to make the place look busy as many of Heavy Iron’s customers stayed home. Driven away by the scandal of having the charismatic owner knocked off his pedestal, accused of the horrible crime of pushing drugs to their youth, she was certain..
But there were only so many Flyers and old ladies to go around, and none of the kids except Con were old enough to use the gym on their own.
By the numbers, around half of Heavy’s clients outside Flyer family continued to come in for their regular workouts. But many of them had seemed tentative, as if they weren’t entirely sure they should be here. Like some miasma of evil was going to seep out of the walls and contaminate them, she thought crankily.
And as for the others, who hadn’t shown up, or bothered to call and cancel appointments they had with Heavy? Ugh.
“It just makes me so mad,” she said to her dad. “How can anyone believe he’d do something so–so horrible? I just want to scream.”
For once, her quick-to-anger father surprised her. “I know, baby girl. But look at it from the business angle. Heavy’s gonna be out soon, we’ll figure out who’s really pushing this shit, and the gym will get back to normal. Meanwhile, these are all his customers, right?”
She nodded, pouting. “I guess so.”
“Yeah, you know so,” he told her. “An’ if we get all judgy with ‘em, giving them dirty looks and saying shit, when this blows over an’ it’s time to come back to the gym, they’re gonna feel guilty, ‘cause most of them are good people, and if he’s not guilty then they were wrong, and nobody likes to be in the wrong. They’ll start makin’ up excuses so they don’t have to face Heavy. But if we’re friendly and nice, like we get it, they’re just bein’ safe and won’t it be good when this blows over, then… they get to come back to the gym, telling themselves what fine, fine neighbors and friends they all are.’
“And as for the ones who do come in, they’re the true blue ones, so put that business degree of yours to work an’ figure out some kinda promo thing or some discount to reward ‘em.”
Cassie eyed him with respect. “Okay, those are really good points. When did you study psychology?”
“Every damn time I go on shift, kiddo.”
She winced. “Right. Hey, daddy… you always let Con and me know you’re proud of us. But, you know I’m proud of you too. Your work is important, and… so is what you do with the club.”
Mac stared at her for a moment in obvious surprise. Then he reached out one arm and gathered her to him for a hard, rocking hug. “Thanks, baby girl,” he said, his voice rough. “I… well. Means a lot to know that.”
Ha, she thought, her head on his shoulder. Not very often a girl got to make her tough biker dad cry. Then she gave in and shed a few tears herself.
And, after their talk, she refrained from scowling at any of the faithless gym clients in town, and struck up cheery conversations with them instead. In doing so, she realized that her dad was right, they were mostly just good people protecting themselves and their kids.
Of course, not all were friendly. A few of them saw her coming, and made a point of turning their backs, or giving her sour looks, like she was gonna contaminate their space at the gas pump, or wherever. Cassie put her chin up and ignored them. Because they were the few, the stoopid, and they were the ones who were gonna end up feeling bad, when they had no awesome hometown gym to come to, because they’d essentially banned themselves.
However, she gave special treatment to two women, who saw her in the local grocery store, and immediately turned away and put their heads together, whispering loudly. She recognized both as clients of Heavy’s who had dressed up for him in their sexiest gym-wear and fawned on him.
Ghost him now and gossip behind his back, would they?
Cassie turned her head to one side of the aisle as if searching for something, put some speed on, and hurried her shopping cart up behind the two women. She bumped into soft flesh with the front of her cart, heard two thumps and two startled squawks.
With a theatrical gasp, Cassie stopped her car, threw a hand to her mouth, and stared in horror over it at her two victims. One woman was straightening up from being doubled, ass-up, over her friend’s shopping cart, the other was sitting behind said cart in a cardboard aisle display of Keebler cookies, her arms outflung, mouth open, with the Keebler elves smiling cheerily over her shoulder.
“Oh! I’m so, so sorry!” Cassie cried. “Oh, just look at you, bumped into by poor, silly me. It’s just that I’m so, so upset by all this horrible talk, this horrible mean, cruel gossip—all the lies that people are spreading about my poor Heavy, when he’s not here to defend himself.”
She sniffled into the tissue she’d pulled from her bag. “I-I just thought if I brought him some c-cookies, it might make him feel better, y’know? But now, you’ve sat in his f-favorite kind, and they’re probably all broken, and besides, who wants cookies with ass on them? Euww, it’s all so awful!”
Sobbing into her tissue, she turned and hurried away, leaving stunned silence in her wake.
She managed to contain her smile until she was in the checkout line, where the young clerk smiled back. “Did you find everything you need today?”
“Sure did,” Cassie replied, handing over her credit card, “I bumped right into a couple of items I’ve been wanting to check off my list.”
Remembering the incident now, she smirked to herself.
But her smile fell as she looked again at the clock on the check-in computer. Eight-forty-three pm, whoopee. This must be how time passed in a graveyard.
She was glowering at the front doors when she registered that a vehicle had pulled up outside. Right in one of the two handicapped spots to the right of the doors, in fact.
Two guys got out, neither one handicapped far as she could see. Both were kinda greasy, and skinny. The older guy had the look of someone who used to be big, but now he was stooped, sallow. He reminded her of someone, vaguely.
The pair walked in, and the older man leaned on the high counter and smiled. Cassie shifted backward so her ass met the counter behind her, and kept her face even with an effort. His dental hygiene was even worse than his general hygiene.
“Hey, pretty girl, who might you be?” he asked, in a voice that said he smoked--a lot.
“I’m Cassie,” she said, giving him an impersonal smile. “How can I help you guys?”
The younger guy snickered, although it sounded more like a nervous habit than that he thought anything was funny. He was staring around the gym avidly.
Huh-uh, nope. Something was off about these two. They were not the type who hung out in a fitness center. She reached for the keyboard of the computer, ready to press the button that would sound an alarm.
The older man pressed a hand to his heart. “Who me? Why, I’m the daddy of the owner of this fine ‘stablishment, Armand Hanks. Here ta help out my boy in his hour of need. This here’s his brother, Mitch.”
Holy shit. This wreck of a man was Heavy’s father? But yes, she could see it, though only in the eyes. These two had the same hazel, heavy-lidded eyes, although this man’s were bloodshot, the whites yellowed, and with deep, discolored bags beneath them.
“Uh… okay,” she managed, through her shock. “Nice to meet you, Mister Hanks. And Mitch.”
A straight-up lie, because it was not. Dear baby Jesus, no wonder Heavy refused to talk about his family.
The young guy snickered again, and the older man nodded briskly, as if that settled that.
“Aw’right, then, missy,” he said, straightening and pounding his fist once on the counter. “Why’n’t you just show me the ropes, then, and I’ll take over.”
“What?” Cassie yelped. She lifted her hands, palms out. “Whoa, whoa. We don’t need your help here. Thanks, anyway.
Armand Hanks’ expression shifted in a heartbeat, such that Cassie would have backed away from the malevolence in his gaze, had she not already been against the back counter.
“What t’hell?” he barked. “Don’t you be sassin’ me, missy. My boy is in jail, and he needs fam’ly to watch his back. Make sure no one is stealin’ from him, if you know whatta mean.”
Oh, yes, she did know. And it pissed her off. So much that she had trouble controlling her voice, and her words.
Cassie straightened, and narrowed her eyes at him. “Marcus’ club hired me to work here while he’s–while he’s gone, and I would never do anything to break his trust or harm this business. Now, if you want to talk to him, you can call the jail and find out when visiting hours are. But as far as taking over here—no. Not happening.”
The man’s head went back, and he looked at her as if she’d sprouted another head.
“What t’hell?” he barked again, more loudly this time. “You nuts or somethin’? You call me up, tell me my son needs me, and now you’re givin’ me lip about it, after I come all the way across the state? Don’t think so, ya little cunt.”
Armand Hanks moved to step around the desk.
“Stop right there, mister,” a deep voice thundered across the gym.
Cassie had never been so relieved to see any of the Flyers as she was the two big men striding across the gym toward the desk.
Marcus’ brother’s eyes widened, and he shuffled backward, away from all of them, toward the front door.
His father was not as wise. He jerked around to face the two bikers moving his way like a tidal wave of muscle, but then he straightened, puffing out his caved-in chest.
“Now looky here, this is between me and this gal,” he said. “Nothin’ to do with you fellas.”
T-Bear stopped so close he could look down on the older, stooped man, which he did, his broad face red, and his eyes glittering with fury.
“It’s everything to do with us,” he rumbled. “Seein’ as how Heavy’s our club brother, and this lady is ours too.”
Moke loomed beside him like a dark mountain with a storm gathering over it. “And we got Heavy’s back,” he said. “That means we’re watchin’ over his gym while he’s gone. And so is she.”
“No, ‘cause she called me ta say he wants me here,” Marcus’ dad insisted, pointing a gnarled, stained finger at Cassie. “Tell ‘em the truth, bitch.”
“Watch your mouth in front of a lady,” T rumbled, his face going red as he moved in, looming over the smaller man.
“Fuck this shit,” Marcus’ dad snarled, backing away—and nearly tripping over his son in doing so. “We’ll just see what my boy has to say ‘bout that… and then you’ll be the ones who’s out, and I’m in.”
“Yeah, you go do that,” T-Bear said. “We already know what Heavy’ll say, but you gotta hear it for yourself, then get to it. One thing though–you come back around here, make damn sure you remember to talk to this gal, an’ everyone else in the place with respect. Or we’ll teach it to ya.”
Marcus’ brother emitted another nervous laugh as he dodged out of his father’s way, opening the door behind him. “It’s cool, it’s cool,” he said. “C’mon, pops.”
“I’ll come when I’m good an’ ready,” his father snarled. But since he was backing toward the gym’s front door as he spoke, the Flyers and Cassie ignored his words.
When the door closed behind the two, and they headed for the ratty, rusted Blazer parked at the curb, Cassie realized she was shaking.
“Oh, my God, omigod. I cannot believe that man helped make Heavy,” she said.
“I can’t believe how bad he stank,” T replied, grimacing. “I’ve smelled dead skunks sweeter’n them two.”
The pair had left behind a certain odor. Pulling up her Heavy Iron tee over her nose and mouth, Cassie reached under the front counter and brought out the pump bottle of lemon-herb room spray. She spritzed it three, then four times in all directions, and put it back. “Better?”
“Yup,” T nodded, and then winked at her. “You keep that under there for us stinky lifters?”
“Not you, Uncle T. Some of the young guys forget to wash their gear,” she said. “Gets pretty sour.”
She frowned, wrapping her arms around her middle as she watched the old truck out front start up with a series of clanks and rattles, and then roar out of the lot, tires squealing on the pavement.
“Don’t you worry, sweetie,” T said. “You won’t hafta deal with those two again, we’ll see t’that.”
Cassie shook her head. “It’s not that. I just feel so bad for Heavy, having them in his past. And here’s what’s really weird--his father said I called him to come here, because Heavy needed him.”
She looked to the two Flyers, shaking her head. “I didn’t call him. Why would I when Heavy won’t even talk about his family? Not to mention, I have no freakin’ idea how to get hold of them, or-or even where they live.”
“From the looks of them two, I’d guess under a rock somewhere,” T rumbled. “Anyways, I wouldn’t worry about the shit the old man was spoutin’. Got the look of someone who’s wrecked hisself with drugs and booze. That messes with the brain, y’know.”
This was true, but still... “I wish they’d hurry up and let my man out of jail,” she said, hugging her arms around herself. “Or that I could go see him.”
T shook his head, smiling at her. “Your dad don’t want you doin’ that. He’ll be home soon, you can talk at him then.”
“Streak’s on it,” Moke agreed, also smiling at her. “And so are we. Now, how about we help you lock up, and get you home.”
Since the gym was now empty of other clients, and the wall clock read eight-fifty-nine, she nodded.
But she was going to find a way to talk with Heavy, even if she had to go against his wishes and visit him in the Spokane County jail.
Because the only time she’d seen him angry, other than the day he fired Jason, was a night when his mother had phoned him, wanting money. He’d kept his voice quiet, but he’d also made it clear he did not want to hear from her, or his dad, ever again.
And now Cassie totally got why.