He answered on the third ring. “Hey, Tap. I’m glad you called, brother.”
I wasn’t nearly as happy about it. “Hey. Do you know how to stitch up a wound?”
“You hurt?”
“No, not me.”
He let out a breath, no doubt putting two and two together and figuring out that the “package” I’d picked up was actually a person. “Yeah. It won’t be pretty, but I can do it. I learned most basic medical procedures during my time in Special Forces.”
“Great.” I started pulling out ingredients and fired up the stove top. “I don’t suppose I can talk you into meeting me somewhere and letting me blindfold you and bring you to my house?”
He chuckled. “Not a chance in hell.”
That’s what I figured. “Are you sure?”
“Yep. You’ve been with us for a little over a year now, Tap. You’ve seen how we work—what we’re about—when are you gonna trust us?”
I cracked a couple of eggs into a bowl and pulled a whisk out of the drawer. “It’s not about trust.”
“Bullshit.”
First Link, then Havoc. I was over people who didn’t know the full story telling me what to do. “You don’t know my life, what I’ve done, what I have to protect.”
“Kind of the point. But itisabout trust. You got some demons in your past and you’re worried they might catch up to you. If you trusted us, you’d bring that shit to the club so we can prepare to deal with it together. We were trained to handle the enemy, and if we can’t even be trusted to protect our own, we might as well park our bikes, turn in our cuts, and swallow a bullet, because the club has no goddamn purpose anymore.”
His words formed a lump in my throat. Purpose was important to a veteran. No, it was more than that. Purpose was what kept us alive, what kept us from becoming one of the twenty-two veterans who committed suicide every day. I’d found my purpose in Hailey. The club found its purpose in helping veterans and the community. This shit was important for our survival.
“Look, man, I’m trying.”
“Yeah?” he asked. “Well, try harder. Give me your address.”
“Over the phone? No.” Giving my location over the line would be stupid. Careless. I’d never understand how people could just put their information out there like that.
“You better figure this shit out if you want my help.”
I had another option. Being only slightly less paranoid than me, Morse had worked with me to develop a code for situations like this. Sending him my address would safeguard the information against threats located outside the club, but he wouldn’t keep it from Link. Hell, the second I sent my address to Morse, he’d probably jump online and troll my house. The bastard could break into my security system and hijack my cameras, and he’d do it for fun, just because he could. I had to reinforce my shit to avoid a full-on breach.
But it was the only option I had.
Sasha needed help, and I wouldn’t let her down. “Are you still at the fire station?”
“Sure am.”
“What about Morse?”
“He’s here. He’s working on a project for Link.”
Convenient. All the stars seemed to be lining up, bound and determined to shine enough light to expose me. Thinking I could do it without the club, I tugged the phone away and glanced at the suturing video again. My gorge rose, tickling the back of my throat. Nope. Still couldn’t do it. Putting the phone back to my ear, I said, “Hang tight. I’ll send it to Morse, and he’ll decode it.”
I hung up and fired my coded address to Morse. Adding a thinly veiled threat, I asked the guru to give the information to Havoc, and Havoc alone, but that didn’t mean shit. There was a good chance the whole damn club would show up on my doorstep any moment. I had to be ready.
I finished cooking the sandwiches, poured two glasses of chocolate milk, and headed back downstairs to prepare.
Sasha
“WHAT THE FUCK is on your face?” Havoc asked, his eyes shining with humor as he studied Tap. I only knew that the newcomer was Havoc, because he fit Tap’s description perfectly: a giant black man with a shaved head and a full beard. He’d forgotten to mention that Havoc was also super attractive, or that he was a biker. I stared at his cut trying to comprehend why Tap would have invited a biker over. “Is that… Is that makeup?”
“It’s called a disguise, jackass,” Tap replied.
