Misfit(211)
“I’m here, Charlotte,” Brooks said in a tired voice.
“Please forgive me, darling. Of course you’re free to represent Outlaw. If—”
“Brooks?” Meggie interrupted. “Whatever you’re doing, stop and go to Christopher. Otherwise, I’ll have no choice but to get Johnnie’s help.”
Brooks choked. “Not necessary, Meggie. I talked to Johnnie yesterday. Now that you’ve spoken to my wife, we’re all on the same page. Is there anything else you need me to do?”
“There won’t be any repercussions for Brooks, right?” Meggie asked Charlotte. “No threatening divorce or kicking him out? Nothing of the sort?”
Charlotte threw her a dirty look.
“I tried to explain the dynamics to her myself,” Brooks said, the background noise indicating fast movements. The squeak of a chair as it banged against a desk. The snap of briefcase locks. “She thought sending Outlaw a note with her demands would work in Kendall’s favor.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Outlaw shot me once.”
“Maybe, it’s time to rethink your position in the club,” Meggie said, “if you can no longer handle the tasks Christopher gives to you.”
“That’s not necessary, Meggie,” Charlotte said quickly. “I still haven’t completed my renovations.”
Meggie lifted a brow at her, then exchanged a glance with Stretch. “Right.”
“You won’t involve Johnnie?” Brooks sounded desperate.
“Not if I don’t have to.”
“Nor does Outlaw have to know about this small hiccup,” he pressed.
To Stretch’s way of thinking, this was a big hiccup. He’d threatened to leave Outlaw in jail, without the benefit of private counsel.
“Small?” Meggie repeated incredulously. “We have very different definitions of what a small hiccup is.”
“Meggie, please. Please, Meggie. If either Outlaw or Johnnie gets a small idea that you were desperate enough to threaten me with Johnnie…God! They’ll kill me, anyway.”
“I want my husband home,” Meggie said quietly. “You get him back to the clubhouse by tonight, I’ll keep this to myself.”
“It’s nearly four.”
“Not my problem. You should’ve been doing your job in the first place. Call the mayor, the governor, the president. Whoever. Call in every favor you have to. Do your job and get. Christopher. Home.”
“Give him until tomorrow morning,” Charlotte inserted, finally picking up on the gravity of the situation and losing some of her attitude. “I was out of line. Please don’t have him killed.”
“That was never my intention,” Meggie said with some regret. “I came here to talk to you. Honestly, I never considered telling Christopher or Johnnie until our argument.”
“Then it was just a threat?” Charlotte asked, hope springing in her eyes.
“No. My husband’s freedom is on the line. If I have the choice between him or anyone else, it’s always him. I’ll do whatever is required of me to protect him and save him.” She lifted her chin. “I don’t lose where my family is concerned. Good day, Charlotte.” She looked at Stretch. “Let’s go,” she said, and stalked away.
A blanket of clouds covered the night sky. Any minute, Christopher expected rain to fall. The air blowing through the a/c in Brooks’ Benz smelled damp. In the two days since he’d killed assfuck and was moved to solitary confinement, he’d had a lot of time to think. Moments where he thought he’d be in for a while. He’d ache for Megan, wanting to see her and touch her. Hear her voice.
One day longer and he would’ve given in to his need to call her. Not trusting motherfuckers not to use conversations against him, if they were recorded, Christopher refrained. Recorded conversations could also be used to break Megan, and that he wouldn’t risk.
Being locked away was a hazard of the job, one he’d always sworn never to put himself in for Megan’s sake. That he had, pissed him off all the more. After her performance in the interrogation room, Christopher knew Megan would make him proud, even if he had major prison time ahead.
He’d resigned himself to another night in jail and without Megan in his arms, when he’d heard his name called and expected a variation of the shower shit. That hadn’t been the fucking case. He’d finally made bail.
Walking out into the breezy night, Christopher found Brooks waiting for him, with no goddamn explanation as to why the fuck his ass hadn’t had fucking freedom in a fucking week.
“Seven goddamn days,” Christopher snarled, settled in the passenger seat, finally controlling his temper enough to talk, as the lawyer glided to a stop at the traffic light. Brooks seemed as if he hadn’t slept in fucking hours, with big ass bags underneath his eyes.