But worse, there are light scuffs, a faint twist mark. It wouldn’t be obvious to the untrained eye, but I have a sinking suspicion this has been tampered with. With that thought in mind, I check every other connection, then get to my knees and look beneath the car.
There are no signs of cut fuel lines or brake lines. Plus, I think that would have taken more effort, time, and equipment than tampering with her relay would.
“Did you get those cameras hooked up yet?” I ask Isla as I stand, hoping that even if she couldn’t ask us, she asked someone else.
She shakes her head as she glances at the camera on the porch that would have told us everything we needed to know. “Not yet.”
“Garrett,” I say, using his real name given he’s told Isla to call him that. “Make that happen while I get the truck.”
If he senses concern in my words, he doesn’t show it.
And I jog home, let myself into the house to get the keys, and then hop into the truck. But before I drive off, I send a text message to Wren, asking if they can find out where Isla’s uncle lives.
I grew up in a house filled with love. My dad loved my mom with his whole heart until we lost him to prostate cancer two years ago. But they also loved Ginny, who was like a second mom to me. And Mom loved Nascha.
They all showed me how it was possible to love multiple people, to work through jealousies, and to make it seem easy.
I’ve always known it was possible to feel like you’ve already given your whole heart to someone, then give it to another, without your love for the first person being diminished. So, in my head, it’s easy to wonder what it would feel like to fall asleepwith my arms around Isla, and Garrett’s arms around the two of us. Of letting him have all the love he deserves from the two of us. What’s harder to understand is why I’m thinking about Isla as a third? And why now, when we’ve known her for a while?
I shake my head. The chances of it happening are slim. On one hand, I have a man who is welded to monogamy. On the other, a woman who hates bikers.
I maneuver the truck onto Isla’s drive so that the jumper cables will reach. Isla watches anxiously from the porch, occasionally glancing at her watch to see the time. A part of me wants to walk over to her, tug her into my arms, and tell her it’s all going to be okay. That with the two of us looking out for her, she’s safe.
Once we’re set up, Garrett sits in her car, as I sit in the truck. It takes a heartbeat for her car to start, but the relief on her face is palpable when her engine roars to life. I guess it’s a cheesy fucking metaphor to think of the three of us bringing each other back to life, but it doesn’t stop the tumble my heart takes at the look Isla and Garrett give each other.
Garrett gets out of the car as I step down from the truck to remove the cables.
“Take it for a drive before you go to work,” he says.
“And message us if it’s dead tonight,” I add. “Don’t be hanging around that parking lot asking strangers for help.”
I reverse the truck off the drive and pull out of her way while she repeats the same maneuver.
“I checked she still has both our numbers,” Garrett says as he jumps into the truck for the very short ride across the street. “You see something beneath the hood?”
“Looked like a relay had been fucked with. I mean, it could have been marks from a previous repair, but it definitely looked messed with.”
Garrett rubs two fingers over his lips. “Good thing those cameras are now working.”
I nod. “Yeah.”
He turns to me and grins. “And because I helped her set them up, and might have been a nosey bastard, I know the username and password she set up for the account.”
As I park the truck in its garage, he messes around with his phone, then shows me what he’s done.
A live feed to all the cameras around her house.
“You know this probably constitutes stalking,” I say.
Garrett shrugs. “You really think we shouldn’t?”
I huff a laugh. “Legally, we shouldn’t. But who gives a fuck about the law?”
It takes us about twenty minutes to ride out to Grizz’s place, out by the old mine road. He’s pushing sixty and I’ve heard he was a decent rider back in the day. But he’s been missing meetings, missing shifts, missing everything.
With the exception of old age and ill-health, there’s a line between being involved enough to keep on carrying the ink or deciding you’ve left the club but are holding on to your ink and cuts as trophies. Every ounce of gear with the Iron Outlaws logo on it comes back to us if you leave for good.
When we step up to the porch, Garrett hammers on the door hard enough to rattle the frame.
