Retribution (Secrets & Lies #3)(42)
Chapter Sixteen
Nathan
Of the five sets of eyes that greet Melissa and I when we come out of my bedroom the next morning, four of them are filled with questions, while BA just looks like she's happy to see us.
“Uh, hi,” I greet them, running my right hand through my hair. “Thanks for letting me sleep.”
“I'm glad you're rested,” Andrea says, smiling softly. “But we've got a lot of questions about the past few days.”
“And not just about New Orleans,” I reply, causing everyone to nod. “Okay, so which do you want, the news about what happened in New Orleans or what happened last night?”
“Bad news first,” Jackson says, shaking his head. “I want to end this all on a high note. And I heard enough to know the news between you two is good.”
I glance at Melissa, who nods. Our little decision can wait a little bit. “Okay guys. But if you don't mind, can we do it outside? I could use some fresh air.”
“Why not?” Carson says, standing up. “Hey Katrina, you mind if I hold my niece for a bit?”
BA is happy with the arrangement, nestling against Carson in her little sling as we head out behind the main house, where I see the truck I bought, parked in a different spot than where I stopped when I pulled up. “So I guess you and Jackson drove it down to town?”
“Yep. Nice ride, man,” Carson says, running his hand over the front fender of the five year old GMC Super Duty. It's not a Duramax diesel, but the engine's got plenty of power, and it's still a crew cab. “You certainly upgrade when you get my stuff crushed up.”
“Well, that and I have to ask you to lend me a pistol out of your collection,” I tell him, sighing. “I liked that Colt, too. Had it totally tweaked to my needs.”
Carson shrugs and pats the hood of the truck. “No problem, I brought another 1911 with me. So what happened down there, anyway?”
I tell them everything about what happened, not wanting to give the gory details but forcing myself to, even though I can see from the look on her face that Melissa's happy she hasn't had breakfast yet. Jackson and Andrea take it hardest, they both knew Margaret better than I did. Even if she was a terrible excuse for a mother, she was the woman that Jackson called Mom for most of his life.
“Jesus...” Jackson finally says after I finish the New Orleans part of my story, lowering his head and leaning against the truck. “Jesus. And she did it just to f*ck with your head?”
“I doubt it was just that,” I tell Jackson, hoping to move on quickly. “If she just wanted to divert my attention, Isis would have left Margaret alive long enough to distract me, killing Margaret cleanly afterward. No, I thought about it on the drive back, she did it under orders.”
“You mean... Peter wanted that done to her?” Andrea asks, pale with disgust. “Why would... I'm sorry, I need a minute to settle down.”
She walks away, heading into the trees where we hear the sound of retching for a minute, then she comes back, wiping her lips with the back of her sleeve. “Sorry. Pregnancy, you know?”
“It's not just that,” I reassure her, pushing on. “I suspect Peter is going over the deep end. Isis is a crazy bitch, but she does draw a line. At least, she used to. She is more like what happened later.”
“So what's this about you getting shot in the ass, anyway?” Katrina asks, forcing a chuckle. Anything to change the subject from Margaret getting a Colombian necktie. “Did she really put one in your butt?”
“Yep. When she tried to collect the contract on my head the last time, I was nearly as lucky as this time, but she grooved me a good one,” I say, turning to the side and unbuttoning my pants. I'm not trying to show off my ass, but the forced humor is needed, and I understand what Katrina's trying to do. The scar is pretty impressive, starting about two-thirds of the way to the outside of my butt and halfway down, just where the muscle is at its biggest before arcing up to end right at where the waistband of my pants lies, and is about two fingers wide for most of it. “Ironically, I was jumping out a window last time when she shot me, that time with my own pistol. I was lucky, I'd mistimed my jump and caught some of the ledge of the window on my thighs which flipped me down, or else you guys wouldn't be talking with me right now.”
I pull my jeans up, snapping up and buckling my belt quickly. “So after that, I dumped Carson's truck. Sorry Carson, I tried to get anything personal out of it.”
“When did you start getting a fever?” Jackson asks, his eyes hardening as the news of his mother's death starts to sink past the initial shock. “In Memphis?”
“About,” I agree. “I had to drive super calm all the way out of Louisiana, and I didn't get that shirt until I stopped for gas in Brookhaven, Mississippi.”
“Let's cut to the chase. What now?” Andrea asks.
“What do you mean?” Melissa asks nervously. “Taking the fight to them?”
“I think Andrea means yes and no,” I answer her, taking her hand. “We need some sort of advantage. Peter has the advantage in New Orleans, with the people who still owe him favors, and Isis. She is too good for us to take her and Peter down without one of us getting hurt or even killed.”