Precarious(8)

I get to my feet and walk forward, pressing my fingers down onto his shoulder and pinching a nerve there—I learned this in training. He roars in pain and lurches forward, landing on the floor. It hurts, I know it hurts, but it’s an easy and effective way to take a prisoner down without the need for weapons.

I lean down, rocking on my heels as he stares up at me with rage in his features. In a low, growling tone, I say, “Don’t touch me again.”

Then I get up and leave.

They can deal with Beau Dawson.

~*~*~*~

“You look exhausted,” Claire says when I drag my backside into the house that night.

I throw my purse down and shrug my jacket off. “Mentally exhausted, perhaps.”

She pours a glass of the red wine she’s drinking, and brings it over to me as I drop down onto the couch. “Here you are.”

“Ohh, you’re a champ.”

She smiles and flops down beside me on the couch.

“Can I ask you something?”

I sip the wine, closing my eyes and groaning with delight. “Sure,” I finally manage.

“I overheard Leo talking this afternoon.”

My eyes pop open and I turn to her. “And . . .”

“And I heard that . . . Queen of Whoretown is pregnant.”

I snort at her choice of words. “I don’t know a great deal about it, but I did warn him last night that he needs to be careful.”

“What does he see in a girl like her?” She pouts prettily.

“She’s easy.” I shrug. “Leo is complicated and she doesn’t question him, she just gives him what he wants.”

“Complicated is certainly what Leo is.”

I nod, pursing my lips. “Does it bother you?”

She shakes her head quickly, too quickly, if you ask me. “No, of course not.” She waves her hand and snorts. “He can do whatever he wants.

I grin at her, but choose to say nothing more. I wish those two would pull their heads out of their backsides and see that there’s a serious sexual connection there.

“Did you get to see the crazy gunman today?” she asks, turning towards me with a curious expression. Her eyes are wide, her lips pursed.

“I did, nothing major happened,” I sigh, leaning my head back.

“Your job sucks.”

I laugh. “Some days I could agree with you.”

“You up for pizza and movies tonight? I’m too lazy to cook.”

I groan, kicking my shoes off. “Absolutely. I’m stuffed.”

“I got that new movie, The Fault In Our Stars.”

“Oh no,” I groan, pressing a hand to my cheek. “I heard that one will make me ugly cry.”

“Ugly, snot-pouring-out-your-nose, wailing kind of cry,” she nods.

“Can’t we watch something happy?”

“Trust me,” she says, standing and skipping into the kitchen. “It’ll be fun.”

It’s not fun.

Halfway through the movie I’m blubbering, clutching my wine to my chest, and wishing I had protested harder. This movie is so beautiful, but so incredibly heartbreaking. I can’t deal with this sort of emotion. It’s ruining me. Claire is sitting beside me, making the occasional sobbing noise, her hand pressed to her mouth.

Damn her and her sad movies.





CHAPTER FOUR


“In a better mood today, are we, Beau?” I say, leaning against the cell door and staring in at the broody biker.

It’s the third day, and they’re still trying to figure out what happened—there really aren’t enough details around it. He’s up for a sentence, but witnesses are being very unclear. Apparently one said Beau was arguing with the man, but didn’t shoot him. Another is saying that there was another man with him, and that he couldn’t pin who it was. Security cameras went down before the shooting, so it was absolutely planned.

Beau is saying nothing. His club is saying nothing. Beau rarely speaks at all, and if he does it’s to spit curses. Mandy said she couldn’t get a word out of him, that he won’t give her anything. He’s protecting himself; I get that. But I also think it has a lot to do with protecting his club.

I don’t know how, but it would make sense for him to keep quiet if they were trying to do something to change his sentence. After all, if he speaks, it could ruin anything they come up with. So, I continue on each day doing my rounds. Beau gives me the same, angry expression every time I stop at his cell.

I keep stopping there, though. Because, for some reason, I truly believe he likes it.

“The guards told me you don’t sleep a lot?” I say leaning against his cell door, “You bein’ picked on, Beau?”

He glares at me, and surprises me by muttering, “Do you ever go a-fucking-way?”