Losing Me, Finding You(59)

“That's right,” Kent oozes, turning away and kicking his dirty clothes out of the way with his boot like those pieces of fabric have personally o-f*cking-ffended him. “We live for the motorcycles, we host the mad, and we do it all with that magical thing called money.”

“What about your other 'enterprises'?” Kimmi asks, making little hooks with her fingers. She's still pissed about that cigarette; I can tell. Kent flicks aside the curtain on his balcony and looks out, pretending like he's real interested in something off in the distance. Personally, I just think he's crazy. I used to look up to Kent Diamond, but not anymore, and our name, our triple M's, they meant something to me. But now, now they're just becoming words, and Kent's turning from a protector of the outcast, a father to madmen and twisted folk, into a complete and utter * driven by greed and personal gain. Makes me sick to my f*cking stomach, but like I said, unless Kent really f*cks up, there ain't nothing I can do about it.

“Business is slow, Kimmi.” He pauses and glances over his shoulder at us both. “And you're supposed to be the backbone of the group, the ones that keep us afloat through hard times.” He blows a puff of smoke against the glass of the sliding doors and watches as it drifts lazily back at his long, pale face. “No worries, though. I've got some other ventures lined up that should be taking off real, real soon. Until then, I need you. They need you.”

Kimmi looks over at me and we exchange a long, hard glance. We've never told Kent about Fort Clinton. Like I said, he's a greedy motherf*cker, and if he knew there was a hit this big out there, he'd have made us try for it years ago. Then again, he's right. Triple M needs money, and people need lookin' after, and I will be damned to the fiery depths of hell before I let my group suffer.

“Kimmi's right about this job. We gotta let it go.” Kent listens to me talk and I watch as a vein pulses angrily in his neck. I lick my dry lips and wish I wasn't about to say what I'm gonna say. I'd rather see Kent unhappy than see the maniacal glee that's going to cross his face as soon as he hears this one. “But there's another hit we could try, one that Kimmi and I've been working on for awhile. It's about … ” I think carefully. “A hundred times the size of what St. Marlin's would give us.” Kent spins around and laughs. In fact, I'd even go so far as to say he cackles.

“We were going to do Long Horn next, but I think we should go straight there,” Kimmi continues, speaking mostly to me and not really at all to Kent. “To Fort Clinton.”

“So what do we do about Walker's group?” Kent asks, watching me carefully. “Should we teach them a lesson or two about who the big jobs belong to?”

“No,” I say, despite every instinct in my body screaming for me to yes, to truly avenge Mireya and see some sort of justice come to pass. There isn't enough of that in the world. Thing is, if I play vigilante, then I'm taking a big risk, too big. Not when I have people that need me. Not when I have little Amy Cross curled up in my room, trusting me with every beat of her heart. “And we don't run out of here neither. If we go skittering across the plains, they'll follow. We stay as planned; we just don't do the hit. We pick a time on Wednesday morning and we leave as usual, and when we go, we do it quietly and unobtrusively. They've got a big group, so if we move fast, they'll never catch up, and we can be in and out, just like that.”

“I like it,” Kent says, staring so intently at me that it feels like he really does have evil superpowers or some shit. “We take control, and we destroy our enemies by hitting them where it hurts. Just. Like. That.”



Chapter 43

I wake up in a wonderful mood, feeling more alive than ever before. I feel like the night's stripped me of myself and left me blank, like a canvas ready to be painted. Austin isn't back yet (or maybe he's come and gone), but I don't worry about it. I hop out of that bed and dance into the shower, throwing on a white cami and yes, a skirt. It's a black, lacy one that doesn't look so bad with my boots and my leather jacket. When I wore it before, I used to pair it with a pastel colored cardigan and ballet flats, and it looked more Mary Poppins than biker chick. I examine it in the mirror for awhile before deciding that I look okay, picking up my phone as I get ready to go out, thinking that maybe I can find Gaine and go for lunch again.

I have a message.

At first I think it's from Christy, but I'm quickly disappointed when Mireya's name appears on the little screen. I think about deleting whatever it is that she's sent, but end up wondering if maybe it has something to do with club business. I open the message.

It's a video. Just like before.

My heart gets caught in my throat and my thumb hovers over the play button like I'm waiting to cut the guillotine's rope. Whatever this is, I'm not going to like it, am I? I think as I build up my courage as quickly as I can and go for it.

Images begin to move in front of me, familiar ones. Pictures of Austin's sweaty chest and face, his skull tattoos and the pistols on his pecs. He's groaning and thrusting and growling deep in his throat, but this time, the girl in the video that he's f*cking isn't me.

I see bronzed breasts and a flat belly from my first person view as the camera bounces around with each pummel of Austin's hips.

Mireya Sawyer. He's f*cking Mireya Sawyer. I'm watching a video of Austin f*cking Mireya Goddamn Sawyer.