The first crack in the Preacher’s composure shows. His face contorts almost imperceptibly as he nods; it’s back to normal before I can tell whether in anger, pain, or disgust.
“Rebel was at the party too,” Marissa says bitterly, and he raises an eyebrow. “The club brother she’s sleeping with is Dylan, my old man and the father of my child. His road name is Slim.”
“That does sound like my Rebel. So, you have a child with this Slim?” When Marissa nods, he takes a moment to walk aroundthe room, humming thoughtfully. “And how long have the three of you had this arrangement?”
“There was no arrangement," Marissa tells him quite rudely. "I only found out about the affair on the night of the party. Apparently, Rebel dumped Dylan years ago, and he never got over her. That's why he started dating me. These two aren’t the only ones who thought I looked like her.”
I hate the amount of pain and resentment in her tone. I run my tongue over my teeth, only to recoil at how dirty they feel.
“Ah. I understand.” The Preacher walks around some more. “I wanted to... talk to Rebel, but I find myself in quite a conundrum. See, a man in my position has to be very careful. I have a reputation to protect. We don’t want people to think that they can steal from my personal safe and get away with it,” he says with obvious distaste. “On the other hand, there are certain business dealings my bosses have with various players in this little game. I’ve been told that the business takes precedence over my personal grudge. Even cartels have a code of conduct, contrary to what you may have been shown on TV. I had hoped an independent third-party contractor might be able to help me out without attracting attention, but I think we can all see how well that’s worked out.”
The Preacher spreads his arms. “And here we are. Unfortunately for you, little Marissa Johnson,” he says with a smile that chills me to the core.
Marissa doesn’t respond. She just hopelessly stares at the floor.
“She looks unwell. Have you given her anything?” He asks the third-party contractors.
The two idiots shake their heads.
“She’s sick,” I speak up.
“No one asked the peanut gallery,” the Preacher tells me dismissively.
I bristle. “But she is, very, and she has a little boy at home waiting for her.”
He gives me a look that implies I’m insane for even bringing that up to him, but then raises his eyebrows as if intrigued. He starts pacing the room, muttering to himself. “Yes. That might upset her. Good.”
“Listen up. You two morons will be letting Miss Johnson go,” he finally announces.
“What?” Beavis’ disbelief borders on defiance. “And the money?”
“That money was for whoever delivers Rebel to me. Is this Rebel?” The Preacher gestures to Marissa with his eyebrows raised.
Butthead tries to calm his friend. “We can ransom her to the MC.”
“Do you have a cognitive issue in addition to your vision problems? Why would her cheating man pay money to get her back?” The druglord taunts them. “Just drop her off at the hospital and thank your lucky stars that I didn’t blow your heads off for wasting my time.”
“Yes, sir,” they mumble, and the three of them head for the door together.
The Preacher turns to us before leaving the room and says, “Good luck, Miss Marissa Johnson.”
After the door closes, she calls out to me. “Hawk, do you think they’ll let me go?”
“I don’t see why he would lie to us,” I tell her with a reassuring smile, trying to memorize every single feature on her face.
I’m glad she’s the last woman I’ll see before meeting my Maker. For a moment, I wish we had more time together. Maybe dying would scare me less if I knew the feel of her hand in mine.
“Who can I call for you? What’s your club’s name? Your prez? Hurry!”
“Marissa, no. I don’t want you involving yourself further in this once you’re free. Your responsibility is to your son above all else. I won’t hold it against you.”
“Stop, stop, no.” She shakes her head frantically. “Don’t play the hero right now. Just tell me.”
Something in her gaze convinces me she needs to do this.
“Look up the number for Blue Security in Phoenix, call them, and ask to talk to Squid. Tell him… Tell him you know he’s my sponsor. Tell him I miss Rat Park. He’ll know you’re for real then, and my club will come talk to you. Tell them everything that happened, and maybe they’ll be able to find me.”
“I’ll call, I promise,” she manages to croak out. “Blue Security, Phoenix, Squid the sponsor, Rat Park,” she repeats out loud several times.
