When the vice president returned, he stood close to the bed and held up his phone with the screen facing me.Damn, Birdie!When she told me about her friend who was a member of the Kings, she didn’t say a word about him being a silver fox. If I had a thing for older men, and his friends weren’t planning to kill me, I might’ve let him bump my coochie.
“I ain’t your daddy or your granddaddy,” Coochie said.
“I’m Dove Collins’s granddaughter, Kalani. Please call her. And please help me.” I spoke quickly, not bothering to hide the urgency in my tone.
“You’re Chad’s daughter,” he said slowly, realizing exactly who I was. “You’re the one who?—”
“Yes!” I interrupted. “That’s me. Please call Birdie. Please.”
“Birdie,” the president repeated, as if her name was familiar. “Birdie Collins.”
“Turn me around, Biscuit,” Coochie said.
“Please!” I shouted as the screen disappeared.
“What’d she do?” Coochie asked as Biscuit stepped away.
Biscuit is the vice president, which must mean Whisker is the president.
While I strained to hear the rest of their conversation, I could feel the other men staring at me. Ignoring them, I kept my eyes on Biscuit, watching for anything that might indicate my future until someone knocked on the door and drew my attention away.
The man I stabbed walked to the door like it was his job. He knocked twice. Four knocks returned, followed by, “Beaver.”
He opened the door, and another biker walked in carrying a laptop. He was clearly the youngest of the men in the room. I wondered if he was the youngest in their club. Then I wondered why the fuck I was thinking about that when I was about to be turned into shark shit by the local bikers.
“Need you to find everything you can about Hugh French,” Whisker said to young Beaver and pointed to Matthew. “And Dove Collins’s granddaughter Kalani.”
Oh fuck. They were all going to know what Coochie almost blurted out moments before. I wasn’t embarrassed about my past—quite the opposite actually—but even I knew trying to get out of killing someone with a knife wasn’t the time to proudly announce murdering my uncle the same way.
“His name isn’t Hugh French,” I shared, hoping to put the focus on him and take it off me. If I could stall long enough for them to get in touch with Birdie, maybe I could keep them from finding out. Oh, who was I kidding? Coochie probably spilled the beans the second Biscuit stepped out of earshot.
“What was that?” Whisker asked.
“His name isn’t Hugh French,” I repeated more clearly.
“What is it?”
“Matthew Mitchell,” I lied. I knew they would eventually find out the truth, but I wanted to delay that for as long as I could.
“Why’d you kill him?” Whisker asked. He sounded genuinely curious, which is probably why I answered with the truth.
“He’s selling his six-year-old niece tomorrow,” I said. “Or he was.”
“You sure about that?”
“Completely.” I had more than enough evidence to prove what I said was true. I wondered if I could exchange it for my life. Did bikers do that?
If Whisker cared one way or the other, he didn’t show it, which didn’t bode well for me. It seemed most people, regardless of their criminal status, were against human trafficking, especially when it involved children. “Beaver, see what you can find on Matthew Mitchell.”
“On it, Prez.”
Someone knocked on the door, followed by, “Coochie Coo.” The man I stabbed—what is his fucking name—opened the door and Coochie stepped inside. He briefly spoke to Whisker and Biscuit before he walked over to me.
“Damn,” he breathed. “You look just like her.”
“Yeah,” I agreed and looked at my wrists tied with paracord. They were bound with handcuffs when I was arrested for murdering the man who killed the woman I looked like—my mother.
“Did Birdie tell you to ask for me if you got in trouble?”
