“Because I told you to be.”
He nods slightly, accepting that. “Charlie’s gone off the deep end,” he advises me from under lowered brows. “Looking everywhere for you.”
“The boys know you’re alive?” I ask him.
“No. Heard that from the DEA bitch. Gave me a contact cell back when I started working for her. She. Is. Pissed.” He emphasizes each word, just to make sure I understand how pissed. “Was screaming ’bout arresting me for reneging on our arrangement and all. I told her I got out of town before I got dead. And I’m no good to her dead.”
“True enough.”
“She wants to know where I am, though. Wants me to work some of the biker charters around here instead.”
“Not happening.” I shake my head. “The biker charters that deal with Charlie see you, they’re gonna run their mouths and suddenly you’re resurrected. And Charlie knows I didn’t do what he asked me to.”
“You ran.” Rick rubs the back of his hand against his broad, twice-broken nose. “Figure Charlie probably suspects something’s up already. Lowell said another guy told her the old man is on the rampage, looking for some girl who was living with you. Wants to lay a few questions on her regarding your whereabouts. The DEA are keen to scoop up this chick, too. Seems they’re mighty interested in what you got going on, Zeth.”
I had expected that, the DEA to poke their noses into my business, but I hadn’t expected them to go after Lacey. Charlie knows all about Lacey. He pretends not to take an interest in my personal shit, but he’s up to his sticky fucking coke-rimmed nose in my business by all accounts. Must have listened in on a thousand conversations when the girl was asking me where I was, panicked, begging me to come home. The idea makes me angry.
But then something even worse hits me. If Charlie is serious about snatching Lacey up then that means…that means he’s likely to snatch up Sloane at the same time.
And there’s no way I’m gonna let that happen. My muscles stir, wanting to take immediate action; my fists throb with the need to hit something, to smash and pound, to make someone hurt. The rest of me twitches with unspent adrenalin, lighting fires in my joints, readying them to fight. I’ve never been this wound up from a single thought. Not ever. I’m worried about Lacey for sure, but when I think about Charlie laying hands on Sloane…
“You okay, man?” Rick’s staring down at the crumpled napkin I have fisted tight in my hand. My knuckles are white. I toss it aside, scowling. This woman is having a seriously fucked up effect on me. I can’t afford to be this distracted by her. She’s consuming every single waking moment of my day, when I need to remain focused on the task at hand. No point in worrying about things that probably aren’t even going to happen, either. I’ve set up my guys for that one specific reason—to watch out for Lace and Sloane, and to keep them from harm.
“I want you to reach out to this DEA woman,” I tell him, brushing off my momentary freak-out. “I want you to ask her which bikers she’s interested in. I wanna know what information she’s got on me, and I wanna know when they plan on picking up Lacey.” I scribble my burner’s cell number down on another less crumpled though still grease- stained napkin and tuck it roughly into the top pocket of the tee Rick’s wearing.
The guy grunts his assent, although he’s clearly none too happy about it. His sandy eyebrows knit together as he considers speaking. After a short while he leans forward, saying, “Why d’you care about that piece of ass, anyway? She was sleeping with Georgio Ramerez for months. You know he ain’t too careful with his possessions. Word is Frankie Monterello had a go at her, too. You never struck me as the kind of guy to be scooping up sloppy seconds from anyone, Zee.”
In my head, I do something Dr. Walcott suggested back in Chino—a coping mechanism that I don’t normally bother to put into practice. I imagine reaching across the table, pressing my chest against the tacky Formica, digging my fingers into the nape of Rick’s neck, engaging the muscles in my arm and then slamming his face down into the table. His nose makes a sickening crunch and the explosion of blood follows right after. It’s vaguely satisfying. Like I said, I don’t do this very often; to imagine the action without the follow-through is counterproductive. The goal is usually to vent the anger away from my body, whereas just thinking about it frequently directs my rage inward instead of outward. But right now I can’t draw attention to myself or to the fucktard sitting across from me by committing to the action. No, now’s the time for a cool head. Rick knows his question was a mistake, though. I just fix him in my gaze and he shifts uncomfortably in his seat.