Burn in Hail(2)

     



 

I'd seen that girl's story in the newspaper. I'd read her accounting on  what happened, and what Tate Casey had done to save her from that  obvious hell.

I knew, and I didn't. Freakin'. Care.

My dad, however … well, he sure did.

Violence is not the answer, Hennessy.

He'd said those exact words at the breakfast table the morning I'd read about Tate Casey's impending incarceration.

Tate worked for Hail Auto Recovery, and had been on a job one night when  he'd come upon a gang of young men raping a girl. After beating the  guys responsible for the actual rape to death, he'd then gone and taken  out five more of the gang members who were just egging them on, before  he was caught and detained by police officers.

He hadn't touched the police officers. He'd surrendered willingly, and  had done everything asked of him to cooperate with authorities.

He'd been calm, cool, and collected while also being covered from head to toe with the blood of the men he'd beaten to death.

This was the second session of a mandatory twenty sessions, and he was  about as approachable now as he had been the first meeting.

"I've heard of the Hail Raisers." I said, acting like I was considering my notes as I did. "Can you tell me more about them?"

Was that appropriate to ask? I couldn't tell.

I was winging it here.

Literally, I'd never once been this attracted to one of my patients before.

This was all kinds of screwed up, and if I wasn't careful, this would cross the line into ‘no-no' territory.

I couldn't help it, though.

I needed to know more about this man, and if he didn't tell me, I'd then have to ask people around town.

They'd, of course, know that he was being seen by me.

Half the town had been present when he'd arrived at my office over an  hour ago due to the town's Summer Fest Parade passing right past our  door.

If I said something almost as if in passing, surely everyone else would  fill in the blanks without me having to do any asking at all … right?

Shit.

This was bad.

Bad, bad, bad.

"Hail Raisers?" he feigned ignorance.

I nodded.

"The motorcycle club."

He huffed out a laugh.

"We're not a ‘club,'" he admonished. "Half the men in The Hails' employ  don't even own a motorcycle. That was just something that was made up  one day by some random Joe, and has stuck. Mostly because this fucking  town can't let go of the past."

I didn't correct him or admonish him for the coarse language.

He seemed to like it when he got a rise out of me.

"Okay, then tell me about the men in The Hails' employ," I amended.

"We're just a bunch of like-minded individuals," he shrugged.

"Individuals that have all seen prison time." I filled in the blank.

He shrugged. "I don't think any of them but Evander has seen prison  time." He paused. "But I haven't really heard much about him since I've  been in the slammer, so it could've happened. As for me and Evander? I  think we're just misunderstood."

I wanted to laugh.

I didn't dare.

"Misunderstood how?" I persisted.

He tilted his head to the side.

"Is your dad coming to interrupt us today?" he asked, changing the subject.

I frowned and looked at him quizzically. "No, why?"

His arms were crossed tightly over his chest, and he was as closed off  as one could be without actually getting up and leaving the room.

He gestured to the window behind me with his chin, and I turned to find  my father standing in the inner sanctum of my office, staring at me  through the glass window that portioned off one half of my office from  where I met with patients.

"Apparently, he is," I said, standing up. "If you'll excuse me, I'll see what he wants."

Tate shrugged and put his feet up onto the coffee table that'd been separating our two chairs.

I got up, making sure that both of my feet were firmly underneath me, before I took a step in my heels.

I was still getting used to them.

I was more of a flats kind of girl, but I'd been informed by my best friend that professionals didn't dress like I did-or had.

She'd then gone out and forced me to buy a whole new wardrobe. For the  most part, I adored the clothes, but the heels were taking time to get  used to.

The clothes made me feel free. The heels were an almost defiant thing  just for me, that I wore-even though it was likely that professionals  did wear flats-just so I could act like I wasn't the preacher's daughter  that everyone knew before I went away to college.         

     



 

The only problem was that normally my father wouldn't see me in them.

I knew the moment that I got up, and his eyes went from the top of my  head to the bottom of my shoes, that this wasn't going to go well.

I thought about closing the blinds, and then sending Isidra, my  receptionist, a text message to tell her to get rid of my dad, but I  couldn't do that to Isidra.

I glanced once over my shoulder to find Tate's eyes not on me or my  father, but on the window that led outside. Specifically, a car. My  father's car.

I should've known when Tate's eyes first strayed to the window, and I  heard the familiar purr of the engine, that it was my father.

I should've paid more attention. I should've closed the blinds.

Instantly, I pushed that thought away.

I was a psychologist. Sometimes I had patients that were all over the  spectrum. Some of them could be completely sane, while others could have  problems.

I didn't want to be closed in my office, and not have a way for  Isidra-or anyone walking by-to see that my patient was going fucking  nutso and killing me with one of my paperweights.

Yes, I had an overactive imagination, and no, I'd never had any  indication that a patient was going to kill me. However, a lot of times  my patients were unstable, and I wasn't a stupid woman. I planned ahead,  just in case.

My father knocked on the door again, his impatience evident.

I winced and hurried.

He'd never once come to my work.

Why had he now?

I opened the glass door and smiled at my father, my belly immediately  tightening into a knot of dread at seeing the displeasure on his face.

"Hennessy Harmony Hanes, what in God's name are you wearing?"

I looked down at my outfit.

It wasn't bad.

The skirt was below my knees. It was tight, yes, but it wasn't  revealing. The shirt was a flowy black number that was held in place by a  wide red belt.

The only thing one could call revealing about the entire outfit was the  lace camisole I had on underneath of it, circumventing the cleavage that  one would normally see with this shirt. Even then, the camisole was  above the part in my breasts.

"I'm wearing a skirt and shirt, Father."

My father looked disgusted with me.

"You're wearing hooker heels."





Chapter 3


Ladies, Wal-Mart panties will get the same attention that Victoria's Secret panties will if you're with the right person.

-Food for thought

Tate

"You're wearing hooker heels."

My eyes went from the reverend's car to the reverend himself, and what I saw made me want to gag.

The man hadn't changed a single day since I'd last seen him before he'd gone to prison.

He was still as nasty now as he was then.

Dressed impeccably in a white button-down shirt, black slacks, and  patent leather shoes, he looked like he was about to head straight to  church.

Did the man ever wear jeans?

I doubted it. In the years I'd known the man, and my mother had forced  me to go to his fucking church, I'd never once seen him in anything less  formal than what he was wearing right then.

God, sometimes I just wanted to rub my dirty, grease stained hands down the front of his stupid white shirts.

I'd also love to do it to his daughter's white fucking skirt that fit her like a goddamn glove, too.

What was it with this family and white?

"I'm wearing red heels, Father," she said calmly. Much more calmly than  any woman I knew would have. "And I'm in the middle of a session. Can  this wait?"

He narrowed his eyes at her. "Your father is less important than working with this useless, no good … "

I smiled, knowing that he was talking about me.

The naughty librarian, I mean psychologist, hissed a ‘shhhh!' at him.

I nearly started to laugh right then and there.

I'd never been the greatest fan of the preacher, and for sure he hadn't been mine.

It'd all started in the first grade when I'd started Sunday school.

I hadn't wanted to be there, and I'd taught every single kid in the class the F word.

That F word being ‘fuck' in case you were wondering.

From then on, he'd barely stood the sight of me.

"I'll have to talk to you later, Father," she said, closing the door. "I  have another thirty minutes here, and then I'll give you a call."

The rev's eyes flicked to mine, and I didn't bother to let on that I  wasn't listening to every single word that they were saying.

Nor did I take my eyes away from the man's calculating ones.

"Call me when you're finished here," he ordered. "And make sure you keep your phone on you."         

     



 

Hennessy, I mean Ms. Hanes as she'd instructed me to call her, looked at me, and then back to her father.