Chapter Seventeen
Derby
The holding cell smells like bleach, old sweat, and men who should have made better decisions.
So, familiar.
I sit on the narrow bench with my elbows on my knees and my cuffed hands hanging between them, blood dried in the creases of my knuckles.
Jeremy Vale’s blood. Not enough of it, but enough to keep me from grinding my teeth down to dust while I wait for Twila Dix to decide how much of her afternoon she wants to ruin with me.
The fluorescent light overhead buzzes like an insect with a death wish.
Across from me, a drunk in a John Deere hat snores against the wall. He got picked up for trying to fight the inflatable tube man outside a tire shop. Apparently, he claimed it was mocking him.
I respect that more than I should.
My phone is gone. My cut is gone. My belt is gone. They took the knife from my boot and the second knife from the inside pocket of my vest because Twila has a suspicious nature and good instincts. She found the third one too.
That irritated me.
A man needs hobbies.
The door beyond the bars opens, and Twila steps into view with a folder in one hand and an expression that says she has already dealt with too much male foolishness for one day and I’m not even the worst of it, just the loudest.
Whiskey comes in behind her. He’s got his cut on, yeah. But also, a clean shirt. Trimmed beard. Calm eyes. Not a hair out of place. He looks like the kind of man who pays bail with a credit card that earns points.
Twila hates how useful he is.
I can tell by the way she ain’t looking at him.
Whiskey is absolutely looking at her.
Not like an idiot. Whiskey is too careful for that. He looks at her like she is a locked door with a loaded gun behind it, and he is already thinking about which key fits.
Twila feels that too.
Her lips pucker.
Interesting.
If my hands weren’t cuffed and my temper wasn’t eating its own tail, I might enjoy this.
“You,” Twila says, pointing at me with the folder, “are a pain in my ass.”
I lean back. “Deputy, you wound me.”
“You assaulted a man outside a county building while he was on his way into family services.”
“He should’ve walked faster.”
Whiskey closes his eyes for half a second like he is asking God for patience, which is funny because I’m pretty sure Whiskey and God only speak through lawyers.
Twila steps closer to the bars. “Next time you want to assault a man with a lawyer’s smile, do it where I don’t have to pretend I didn’t see it.”
I lift my brows. “That your way of saying thank you?”
“That’s my way of saying don’t make me arrest you twice in one week.”
“Week ain’t over.”
“Derby.”
The way she says my name has enough warning in it to make the drunk stop snoring for one second. Then he goes right back to fighting demons in his sleep.
Whiskey finally speaks. “Jeremy ain’t officially pressed charges yet.”
My head turns.
“Why?”
“Because he is weighing whether the assault charge helps him more.”
Twila’s mouth tightens. “And because if he makes a formal statement, I get to ask him formal questions.”
I smile.
It ain’t nice.
“Maybe I should have hit him again.”
Twila walks to the cell door. “Do you want to stay here?”
“No.”
“Then stop helping your own prosecution.”
Whiskey slides a look at her. “I told him the same thing.”
“I imagine he ignored you too.”
“Consistently.”
She unlocks the cell with more force than needed. “Your president made enough noise that my father got irritated. Your treasurer made enough calls that people with county pensions got nervous. And I don’t have time to babysit a grown man with fists where his brain should be.”
“I got a brain.”
“Then take it out of whatever dark place you store it and use it.”
Whiskey coughs into his hand.
I stand as Twila opens the door.
She steps in and unlocks my cuffs. Her fingers are efficient, no nonsense, but her eyes catch on my knuckles.
Split.
Swollen.
Still dirty with Jeremy’s blood.
Now she looks up.
There is something in her face then that law can’t quite cover. Anger, maybe. Not mine. Hers is colder. Cleaner. A woman’s anger who has seen too many men use procedure as a leash.
“You know why I hit him.”
“I know why.” She pulls the cuffs free and steps back. “I also know that if you give him enough bruises in the right place, he will walk into court wearing them like Sunday clothes and tell everyone Amelia is surrounded by violent criminals.”
“She is surrounded by violent criminals.”
Whiskey says, “Please stop confessing in public buildings.”
Twila points at him without looking. “For once, listen to the man in the expensive shirt.”
Whiskey’s mouth curves. “Deputy Dix, that sounded dangerously close to respect.”
“It was exhaustion. Don’t get sentimental.”
“Never.”
Their eyes meet for one second too long.
Oh, there is definitely something there.
Terrible time for it.
Perfect, then. That is how this club operates.
Twila looks back at me. “You walk out of here today because I have bigger concerns than your bad aim and because Jeremy Vale is already making himself look interesting in ways he did not intend.”
“Interesting.”
“Suspicious,” Whiskey clarifies.
“I knew that.”
“No, you didn’t.”
I glare at him.
Twila hands me a paper bag with my belongings. “Your cut is with the front desk. Your knives are not coming back until I feel like it.”
“Those are expensive.”
“Then behave and earn visitation rights.”
“You taking hostages now?”
“Evidence.”
“I wasn’t arrested for knife stuff.”
“You were arrested for being stupid in public. The knives are collateral for my irritation.”
Whiskey laughs under his breath.
I point at him. “You enjoying this?”
“Deeply.”
Twila turns toward the door. “Out.”
I follow because the only other option is staying, and I need to get home.
Home.
The word hits wrong.
Not the house.
Not the couch.
Not the half-broken porch or the garage full of parts.
Home means Amelia standing in my kitchen with fear in her eyes and August asking whether I’m coming back.
That scares me more than jail.
At the front, I sign papers I don’t read while Whiskey reads them over my shoulder and tells me where to put my initials. Twila watches with her arms crossed. A deputy behind the desk slides my cut toward me like it might bite him.
Smart boy.
I put it on.
Feel more like myself.
Less like myself too.
Because something changed while I sat in that cell. I keep hearing Amelia’s voice.
If you go to jail, he wins.
I did exactly what she feared.
I let Jeremy pull the rope, and I followed it straight to a county cell.
The thought makes me angrier than the cuffs did.
Whiskey walks with me toward the exit. Twila follows because apparently releasing me requires a police escort and moral disapproval.
Outside, the air is wet and sharp with evening rain. Widowmaker is parked near the curb. Oaks stands beside her with his arms crossed, glaring at the world. Legend is leaning against his Harley, phone in one hand, rage held so tight it looks like calm.
He looks at me.
“You done?”
“No.”
“Wrong answer.”
“Too bad.”
Legend steps closer. “You gave him exactly what he wanted.”
“I gave him a bloody mouth.”
“You gave him both.”
I look away.
Because I know.
That’s the problem. Everybody keeps being right today, and I’m tired of it.
Twila comes down the steps behind me. “You boys done measuring dicks, or should I open a conference room?”
Legend looks at her. “Thank you.”
Her brows lift. “That hurt you to say?”
“A little.”
“Good.”
Whiskey smiles again.
Twila catches it and points at him. “Don’t look pleased with yourself.”
“I was pleased with you.”
Her face hardens, but there is color high on her cheek. “That’s worse.”
Oaks mutters, “Lord, I can smell the trouble from here.”
Twila’s gaze snaps to him. “You volunteering for cuffs too?”
Brittany would probably pay to see that.
Oaks grins. “Depends. You got bigger ones?”
“Jesus,” Whiskey says.
Legend rubs his forehead. “Everybody shut up.”
Twila gives me one last look. “Go home, Derby. Stay there. If Vale pushes, document it. If he sends anything else, call it in. If you see him, walk away.”
I laugh.
She doesn’t.
“Walk away,” she repeats. “Or next time I make the paperwork stick long enough for you to miss whatever matters most.”
That lands.
She knows it.
Then she turns and walks back inside like she ain’t just kicked me where the bruises don’t show.
I watch her go.
Whiskey watches too.
Legend notices.
Of course he does.
“That,” Legend says, “is a problem for another day.”
Whiskey smooths his beard. “I have no idea what you mean.”
Oaks snorts. “Sure.”
Whiskey looks at him. “I control your club reimbursements.”
Oaks stops smiling. “You look handsome today.”
I’m too tired to laugh.
Legend turns back to me. “Go home. Don’t stop anywhere. Don’t call Vale. Don’t text Vale. Don’t breathe in his direction.”
“He’s still breathing.”
“Yeah.”
“Fix that.”
Legend’s face goes colder. “Not today.”
“Then when?”
“When we can do it without handing him the rope for Amelia and August.”
I hate that name in his mouth because he is right. Again.
The kid.
Always the kid now.
Legend steps closer so only I hear. “You love them angry, you’ll destroy them by accident.”
I look at him.
He doesn’t blink.
“I don’t love anybody.”
“Lie better.”
I walk past him before I say something that gets me punched by my president in a courthouse parking lot.
Widowmaker starts under me with a roar that feels good in my bones. I ride home with Oaks in the truck behind me and Whiskey probably telling Legend I’m a liability.
Fine.
I am.
Always have been.
Difference is, now being a liability can cost someone besides me.
The road to my house feels longer than usual.
Every mile, the rage shifts. Less clean. More tangled.
Jeremy’s blood on my knuckles.
Twila’s warning.
Legend’s words.
Amelia’s face when I left.
August asking if I was coming back.
I ride too fast for the weather, but not fast enough for what is chasing me.