Betrayed 2(230)

“I’m gonna go talk to her,” Eddie said, trying to elbow his way past me. “That bitch needs some Eddie Wright cock in her ass.”

“Keep it in your pants, Casanova,” I said, holding up a hand that made them all take a step back. “Nobody’s sticking anything in anybody’s ass until I make sure she’s not a cop.”

Eddie blinked at me. “Dude, you think she’s a cop?”

“I think everybody is a cop,” I said. I tilted the bottle to my lips to drain it. “You fuckers stay here. I got this.”



SANDY



It took longer for me to sit in my car and muster the courage to walk into Dick’s than it did for someone to hit on me once I took a seat at the bar. I’d barely had time to slide onto the barstool when a slimy-looking guy wearing a wife beater and a Members Only jacket asked if he could buy me a drink.

I told him to fuck off and he started to say something back to me, but the bartender came over and gave him a look that sent him on his way.

The bartender, an older man with thick white hair, wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a tie pulled loose from his collar (he looked like Coach from that old TV show Cheers) swirled a wet rag over the bar in front of me.

He looked out of place compared to the bikers and sleaze balls lined up at the bar and sitting at the dozen or so tables that haphazardly dotted the room. There were three bikers shooting pool in the corner, leaning on their sticks and gawking at me like hungry dogs staring in a butcher’s window.

“What’ll you have?” the bartender asked.

“What do you have?” I asked. It was the first time I’d ever sat at a bar. I had no idea what a bad biker bitch like me would drink.

“Shots and beer,” he said, nodding over his shoulder at the bottles lined against the wall.

“Tequila shot,” I said, trying to sound tougher than I felt. I had tried to psyche myself up, but my insides were churning. I could feel my heart beating in my neck. I was a nervous wreck, but I knew I couldn’t show it. A little voice in my head kept telling me to just breath… show fear, and they’ll tear you apart...

The only tequila I’d ever drank was mixed in the margaritas at El Mexicana, the restaurant where Brent and I went when we had a craving for Mexican. I had never finished one of the icy drinks, served in a glass the size of a fishbowl. I put my elbows on the bar and tried to look tough as I watched the bartender bring over the shot glass of dark liquid.

“Run you a tab?” he asked, wiping his hands on the rag.

“Um, sure,” I said, picking up the shot and bringing it to my lips. The harsh stink of tequila filled my nostrils and made my eyes water. The old man chuckled and shuffled away. I set the shot on the bar without bringing it to my lips.

Movement on the other side of the bar caught my eye. There was a room in the back of the bar. Several large men were standing in the doorway, gawking at me. One of them, the biggest one, stared directly into my eyes. The blood froze in my veins. I had just made eye contact with Richard Wright.

I knew it was Richard Wright because I’d spent hours studying every line of his face. I had memorized every detail of his life that Mr. Beamon had sent me. I probably knew as much about Richard “Rick” Wright as the police did. I also knew everything there was to know about his brother, Eddie, and the rest of his band of thugs.

I was shocked that Rick had never been convicted of any crime. He was the careful one, I supposed. Then there was Eddie; the dangerous, younger brother who had spent more time in jail than out. His criminal record included arrests for assault with a deadly weapon, assault and battery, breaking and entering, car theft, and burglary. He had been arrested twice for rape and once for sexual battery, but had not been convicted of those crimes. I suspected that Eddie was the one who killed Brent. I would know for sure the moment he smiled at me.

I knew all this because Mr. Beamon had emailed me complete police dossiers of The Wright Brothers, sent to him by his pal on the force. I’d spent hours studying it, memorizing it, deciding how I could use it to my advantage.

The day after getting my hair done, I drove to a tattoo shop near the Cost Clippers where I used to work. I’d seen the place hundreds of times over the years but had never given a moment’s thought to stopping in for a tattoo. I parked near the front door, sat in my car for a few minutes working up my courage, then went inside.

The girl behind the counter had hair as black as my new dye job. She was wearing a skin-tight black tank top and skinny black jeans. She wore clunky combat boots on her feet. Her arms and shoulders were covered by tattoos; a mixture of colorful flowers, birds, butterflies, and smiling skulls. She had a small diamond stud on the right side of her nose.