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“You should go to her. Love can still win,” he says in a voice so low I’m not even sure it’s for my ears. Then he coughs, shakes his head like he’s coming back to his senses, and says, “Sounds like you want to go to war with the Crimson Fury again.”
“Like I want to? No, there’s no wanting about it. I am going to war.”
“We need to call the club and have a vote. I know you’re going to go tearing off after this Rafael guy on your own, but give us the chance to vote and have your back, Dixon. Can you wait long enough to give us that?”
It’s so disconcerting hearing the concern in his voice that all I can do is nod in response. Who the fuck even is he? I thought I knew him, yet here is this strange side of him that seems full of things like human emotions and kindness and empathy. I don’t know what’s more troubling — what just happened with Alexandra or the new things I’m learning about the man who is my friend.
After I nod, Ghost makes the phone calls. He also sits me down in the corner, makes me a cup of coffee — to which he adds a decent pour of whiskey, and tells me to just relax and think calm thoughts while he organizes the vote. It’s bizarre. And even more bizarre is that, to everyone else he talks to on the phone, he sounds exactly like the Ghost that I’ve always known — cool, collected, capable of pulling someone’s teeth out with a smile on his face.
I’ve hardly finished my whiskey-coffee when Rook arrives.
“Clean this fucking shit up,” he says as soon as he catches sight of me. His eyes drift to the back room in which Erik Marquez’s body still lies. “And I don’t even want to know what the fuck happened back there. All I want to know is that it’ll be cleaned up within the next half hour. If you have a problem with that, well, you can go fuck yourself. We may all be your brothers, Smokey, but none of us is your fucking mother.”
In a daze, I set to work. The club keeps a pressure washer in a closet, and the floor drain makes cleanup a pretty simple process — just blast it all with water and let it go down the drain. Erik Marquez’s body, I wrap up in a bunch of plastic sheeting and toss it in the back of the truck that Reid’s Repairs uses for hauling cargo and making deliveries. Ghost helps, and he’s back to his old, usual self, now that others are around. Except for one strange moment when we’re carrying Marquez’s body to the truck around back behind the shop and he says to me, “I know you’re hurting right now, brother, but time heals all wounds and a good man like you won’t be down, or lonely, for long.”
“What the fuck did you just say to me?” I say.
“I said you need to keep your mind on the game. We have killing to do, but we can’t be sloppy about this. Rafael Reyes has been in this life for a long fucking time. He’s a cunning bastard.”
“I’m not going to just run at him like an angry child. I know better than that, Ghost.”
“Just making sure, brother.”
By the time we get back to the shop after cleaning up and moving Marquez’s body, the rest of the club is in attendance. There’s a circle of metal folding chairs, with two open ones for Ghost and me.
“Sounds like there’s a party in the works,” Bullet says. “A real fucking strange party that I’m not sure I want to be invited to.”
Bullet’s wearing a freshly stitched VP patch on his cut; he would’ve made a good president — his dedication to us all and his fearlessness when things came to a head with the Covington crime family proved that, but he isn’t Rook. No one else is that much of a grumpy bastard.
“Smokey, brother, you’re covered in blood and this place has that ‘fresh dead body’ smell. You doing all right?” Striker says. Concern sounds natural coming from him, especially considering the history I have with his sister.
“Can a dead body even have a ‘fresh’ smell? They all shit themselves as soon as they die. Can’t really call that fresh,” Thunder says. “Unless you’re used to grading the age of shit by smell. Something you need to tell us, Striker?”
“I’ve gotten pretty used to judging the age of shit by hanging out around you, Thunder,” Striker says, sniffing conspicuously. “When’s the last time that Amelia made you take a shower?”
Thunder checks his pits. “It’s been a minute, I’ll admit. You want to check? See if that sophisticated snout of yours can tell by the smell when my last shower was?”
“Stop sniffing each other,” Rook snaps. “Fucking ludicrous, I have to tell you that. Do you think you’re a bunch of fucking dogs? Because even dogs have more sense.”
“Sorry, Prez,” Thunder and Striker both mutter like two chastened children.
“But, to be fair, if we were dogs, we’d be smelling each others’ assess. You want to get in on this, Striker? Do me doggy-style?” Thunder says.
Rook raises a fist and Thunder, who’s mouth clacks shut and then Rook surveys the room. “Ghost, Smokey, you two called us here. From the looks of things, you’re about to bring up something fucking serious. Get to it.”
“You want me to handle this one for you, brother?” Ghost whispers, so low that I’m the only one who can hear it. I’m sure it’s intentional. Maybe it’s one of his mind games, something they taught him to torture people with. What else could explain him being empathetic and considerate while helping me clean up one murder? Either that, or all his work has finally broken his brain. Maybe his Darkest Confession is that he’s lost his mind. “You can take a beat, center yourself. Your heart must be really hurting right now, but we all got your back.”
“I’ve got this,” I say. I clear my throat and allow a moment for everyone’s eyes to turn to me. “I’m going to kill Alexandra’s father, Rafael Reyes. He’s the head of the Crimson Fury MC. I’ll go it alone if I have to, but I want you all to back me up.”
Words never have been my strong suit. You don’t need them when you’re in the military. But when everyone keeps looking at me for further information, I realize maybe they need more of an explanation; not all of them are former Jarheads who just need to be told when and who to shoot — these guys need a ‘why.’
“Are you just that determined not to have in-laws?” Thunder says.
“He wouldn’t be the first to go that route. I may have had a thought or two like that about Madison’s parents early on. Not now, though. We’ve sorted that shit out,” Bullet adds, hastily. “Though sometimes her dad… never mind.”
“Bro, you know I’d help you bury that body,” Thunder says.
Hawk clears his throat. “I’m in, you know that, Smokey. But that man’s a fucking MC president, and you’ve got history with the Crimson Fury. Before we dig open that old wound and spill a bunch more blood — which, again, let me add I am fucking behind you completely, and absolutely ready to slit their throats and make my hands look like, well, yours do right now — tell us why we’re killing your lady’s daddy?”
