Page 11 of Gage

When he moved up the bed, his mouth was wet and one eyebrow had lifted. “Don't,” I said, although I was smiling. He didn't say a word, which only made the look on his face worse.

He brought me the water he'd left near the bed and stretched out beside me. I could still feel him in the ache between my legs, in the sting of my lip, in the places his hands had been.

“Preacher's definitely going to ask whether your judgment is compromised,” I said after my breathing settled.

“He already thinks so.”

“Is he right?”

“Probably.”

Outside, a motorcycle crossed the yard and the gate rolled shut behind it. Gage's thumb moved once over my hip. His cut stayed on the chair, and he made no move to reach for it.

CHAPTER 4

GAGE

Over the next two mornings, Elena worked through impact wrenches rattling the wall. She also drank half a mug of coffee before she touched food, thanked prospects without trying to charm them and asked before using the club phone. I noticed all of it, along with the fact that staying out of her bed had become more difficult since I'd left it.

Elena sat at the end of the bar with her work laptop open and one finger pressed to the same spot on the screen three times. When the page rejected whatever she wanted again, she muttered something in Spanish that sounded expensive.

“Problem?” I asked.

“The insurer denied a claim because the modifier is missing.” She turned the screen toward me. “The modifier is right there.”

“I have no clue what any of that means. What happens now?”

“I call, spend twenty minutes listening to music designed to break the human spirit and explain line four to someone who'll tell me to resubmit the exact same form.”

“So basically, they approved the procedure and won't pay for it.”

“That's the business model.”

I looked at the denial again. “So... theft with hold music?”

Her laugh came out before she could swallow it. It was warmer than the careful version I'd heard at breakfast, and I wanted to make it happen again.

“I could use you in appeals,” she said.

“Clinic wouldn't like my collection process.”

“Neither would the insurer. That's the appeal.”

The impact wrench started again. Elena turned back to the screen, still smiling as she reached for the phone, and I headed toward Deacon before I invented a reason to stay.

Deacon saved me from thinking about that by coming through the clubhouse with his laptop under one arm. “Got the Mora vehicles.”

Preacher came out of the room behind the bar. Smoke followed, and the four of us took the nearest table rather than calling every patched man inside.

Deacon opened a page of vehicle records. “Two trucks Havoc clocked yesterday belong to a produce hauler outside Deming. The company is real. So is the produce, sometimes. Javier Mora manages operations for his uncle, who owns the yard and three smaller outfits sharing the address. It’s partly legit to draw attention away from the shit they really get up to.”

Smoke studied the screen. “What do they move when it isn't produce?”

“Cargo nobody wants listed and whatever fits around it. They steal enough to keep local police interested and pay well enough that interest doesn't travel far.” Deacon changed pages. “They've got men, trucks and access Tomas doesn't have yet. Javier's uncle wants quiet, low-cost routes. He isn't looking to finance a war.”

“Then Tomas sold him the town as easy,” Smoke said.

Deacon nodded. “A sheriff in the hospital, cheap property and a club he thinks is tied up defending both. Mora gets storage and road access without buying anything in his own name. If it stays quiet, the uncle makes money. If it turns loud, he'll start counting what Javier costs him.”