“I’ve got a lot in the next day, but if I’m still here, let’s do Monday.”
I hadn’t meant for it to sound so morbid. But if she was going to be with a biker, she needed to get used to morbid, dark, terrible yet sometimes funny things being said. And sometimes, she just needed to hear ugly things.
“OK, sounds good,” she said. “I appreciate it, Sonny.”
Those last words were so said so softly and so sweetly, it left me speechless. I hadn’t heard anyone speak to me with such appreciation and kindness since…well, my mother, and that obviously was an entirely different context than this. To hear a woman I could be with say it like that…
It was great to know.
But I needed to focus.
“Sure. We’ll talk Monday.”
I hung up as she said, “Bye.” I leaned back into my pillow. I needed to focus.
But one thing was for sure now.
I could not die.
I cared about her too much.
I wanted to see where it went.
Leigh wasn’t going to distract me from my mission. She was going to make me even better at it.
And now, finally, as if a switch had been flipped, I was able to fall asleep.
* * *
Sunday Night
If I had any doubts about being in the wrong place, the fact that I came to an apartment complex with two men holding assault rifles outside it gave me all the “reassurance” I needed.
The men glared at me with the kind of unbridled hatred that suggested if they’d seen me in any other context at all, they would have murdered me. Their looks suggested not even the presence of King inside—I hoped—would be enough to hold them back. The only difference between them and dogs trained to kill was they didn’t bark.
I kept my hand on my gun, ready to pull at any moment, but they didn’t make any motion beyond watching me approach the door and knock. I heard footsteps moving casually, almost smoothly, on the other side. The door opened.
And there he was, in the flesh, before me.
King.
The man responsible for my father’s coma, the death of too many Devil’s Patriots, and the anarchy that had preceded us in Santa Maria and Springsville.
And he didn’t look the least bit worried to see me. In fact, his facial expression resembled a cousin eagerly awaiting the return of a friendly face that he hadn’t seen in some time. It was disconcerting that he had such a relaxed expression, not the least because it seemed to imply he had more waiting for me.
“Solomon Briggs, right on time,” he said. “Oh, don’t act so surprised I know your real name. You think I’d engage you and your father on such serious matters if I didn’t know who you were?”
“That’s not supposed to be public information,” I groused.
“Who said anything about it being public? And besides, I can assure you that there are much easier ways to find out your information than you think. Just because you and the rest of the underground world likes to live by its own rules doesn’t mean society respects it.”
I stuffed my left hand in my pocket and just glared at him. My right remained on my gun.
“I like to think of myself as the man at the intersection of many contradictions. Underground and mainstream. Rich and poor. Criminal and societal. But of course, I have to act the part. Won’t you come in?”
He stepped aside and laid his hand out for me, as if I was a fucking lady who needed to be shown to her seat. The damn gesture was obnoxious, but I reminded myself King was doing this to get under my skin. If I called it obnoxious, I would react as if it were, in fact, obnoxious. If I didn’t call it anything, perhaps I would luck out and not have any reaction.
Perhaps.
