Page 36 of Rough Return

Sage nodded and smiled. “That’s great, man.” He glanced back. Grier could hardly see the truck anymore or the orange and red glow above it, but a fire truck blew past, lights spinning, siren blaring.

He swore again. Harder. Loud enough Sedotal sat straight again. “What?!” He blinked a couple of times and looked around.

Grier had a lot to work out. A line across the road could have killed them. Probably would have if it was done right. Of course, the competency of the killers wasn’t something he could count on. He could check the bikes though. The damage would tell the story. Still, Grier knew Sage, knew he loved that bike and wouldn't risk a scratch just to throw Grier off his scent, and it definitely looked like he’d come off his bike, laid it down. Besides, Sage was a “collector” at the club. If he wanted to steal, there were much easier ways to do it than this.

Sedotal, on the other hand, looked more like he’d taken a blow to the head. Wouldn’t have been a picnic for him if it was faked, but if he’d been put down, he should’ve been a little more messed up than a single gash in his forehead.

And no matter what, the merchandise in the truck was gone. Whatever could be salvaged would be taken into evidence—no way the Demons could claim it—the rest would be tossed after the crime guys got finished. And there would be crime guys since the driver had been in the truck. Poor bastard.

And while the truck was unregistered with stolen plates, he didn’t know if the driver had left any paperwork that would somehow survive the fire and lead the cops to the clubhouse door. Or if fingerprints would or could be lifted off the door or the boxes inside or… anywhere else. For now, he’d have to hope not.

More than any of that, though, he had to figure out how this happened. Someone had lit the fire. Someone who wanted to pick up all the lost Demon business. Or someone with a grudge. Not like the Demons made friends easy. But they controlled a lot of the “free enterprise” in and around Pine Hill. Also could’ve been someone or a group of someones looking to edge out the Demons. Fuck. Could’ve been anyone. Even the cops.

He dialed the clubhouse as he turned onto the turnpike. He needed to get Sage to Jez so she could clean him up. Sedotal, too. It wouldn’t do for the fucker to die in the backseat of the rental. He hadn’t gotten the insurance.

No answer. He called Hamilton direct. “Yeah?”

“Get the trailer. Sage and Sedotal laid their bikes down off the 93 by Medford. We need to get those bikes back to the club.” He didn’t want to say more now. He’d talk to Hamilton when he got a moment alone. “Jez still around?”

“Nah. She left a couple of hours ago for dinner with Fiona.” Grier shot a sideways glance at Sage hoping he couldn’t hear Hamilton’s deep voice.

Grier switched the phone to his opposite ear. He waited a second to be sure then said, “Call her back. We need her. They’re both hurt.”

“How bad?” Hamilton wasn’t completely healed, but thank God, he sounded better than he had even a week ago.

“Not sure. Can’t take them to the hospital though.” There would have to be protruding bones and a lot more blood for a hospital visit.

“Gotcha.” Hamilton hung up, and Grier glanced again at Sage. He stared out the window, still holding his arm.

“You hurt anywhere else?” Nothing he could do, but he needed to see how Sage answered.

“No.” But he didn’t look at Grier, and it didn’t take a genius to know that was bad.

Fiona stared at the little blue plus sign as she held the phone with her shoulder. She couldn’t concentrate on everything Sage had said. She made him repeat it again. “He lied. He said… God Fiona, he said he was with you.”

“With me?” He’d used her as his alibi? After ignoring her for a month, accusing her of screwing Tyler Sedotal, and keeping his own nasty little set of secrets.

“Yeah, but I knew you and Jez were going out to dinner. She told me it was girls’ night.” He sighed. “I wanted it to be anybody but him.” Sadness made his voice quiet.

Fiona knew, had known, Grier hadn’t wanted to come back from Belize. Knew he didn’t want to be married to her—he’d certainly proved that time after time. But she never would have thought, or even considered he would go this far—trying to ruin the club—to get out.

She needed to get off the phone. Didn’t even say goodbye—couldn’t—before she hung up and sank to the floor next to her bed.

And she’d been dumb enough to get pregnant. Not that she couldn’t raise a baby on her own, but she would have to tell that baby that its father…

Oh, God. Hamilton would kill him. And if he didn’t, the others would. Grier was a dead man walking. A picture of him flashed through her mind. Standing in her shower, singing some horrible eighties tune while he washed his hair oblivious to Fiona watching from the doorway.

Tears slipped down her cheeks, and she swiped at them for a while then gave up. They came faster than she could flick them away. She would have sold the house for a drink, but she couldn’t. Her baby would have every chance she could give it.

Suffering through this without alcohol wouldn’t kill her. Her broken heart might, though.

No. She didn’t care about Grier. He’d proved he wasn’t worthy of being cared about.

She didn’t care who knocked at the door—persistently. Probably Hamilton. Sage would have told him by now that Grier was the rat, the traitor, the son of a bitch who was trying to bankrupt the club. And while he knew what had to be done, he wouldn’t do it without her say-so. Not because Grier was her husband, but because she was the president, the boss, the go-to girl for all club decisions.

Tomorrow, she would call for a vote. Tonight, she earned the right to cry out her feelings.

She looked again at the pregnancy test in her hand. Threw it across the room and watched it break apart into five or six pieces of jagged plastic.