Since my name isn’t very common and we were all wearing motorcycle helmets, a quick search of the DMV database and, boom…they’ve got me.
“Everything okay?” Detective Rollins asks. “Looks like you’re having some deep thoughts. Considering talking after all?”
“No,” I mutter.
Hell, I’m not even going to tell the guys about this. If they find out Fiasco fucked up, they’ll give him hell; and he’ll spiral out of control, blaming himself. Dev too since we were there helping Jetta. And there’s no way they can find out about the chef, or she’ll be wiped off the earth.
I remember hearing her fucking screams. She was terrified and probably still has nightmares worse than mine. Maybe she was scared we would come after her. Whatever her reason for ratting, I won’t hold it against her or Fiasco.
What we did, it may have been a club decision, but I don’t care about that. If I have to carry the brunt of the entire ordeal on my shoulders, I will so that no one else has to pay the price for the consequences of our actions. This punishment is what I deserve. Trying to explain that to Malcolm or the other guys will be impossible. So, to avoid those discussions until I’m found guilty at trial or plead guilty and am sentenced, I don’t plan to give the MC a chance to talk me out of it.
“Look,” I tell the detectives. “I know you’re going to do whatever you need to do here, and that’s your job. All I’m asking, no begging, is that you please don’t put me in solitary. I’ve heard that being in the hole alone like that can make men go insane. I need to be able to talk to my boys.”
As soon as the man and woman look at each other, I know I’ve hit my mark using reverse psychology, just like Malcolm used on me with Lucy.
“You know what?” Detective Ashby starts. “I think a month in solitary may be the best thing to give you time to think about your next step.”
“What? No!” I exclaim, trying to sound enraged. “You can’t do that to me! Only the guards can put me in the hole!”
This is perfect because I didn’t have to try and hang myself or kick someone’s ass to get away from the cramped living space.
Detective Rollins goes over and flags down the guard waiting on the other side of the door. As soon as it unlocks and opens it, she tells him, “This one here just told us he doesn’t plan to make it to trial alive, so he needs to go into protective custody, solitary, for at least thirty days and then have a psychologist check him out.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the guard agrees. “Let’s go, Kincaid.”
“No! Please don’t send me in there!” I shout for shits and giggles as the big man grabs my elbow and yanks me to my feet, dragging me out of the conference room with me fighting him.
As soon as we’re in the hallway and the door slams behind me, I give up and follow along like a well-behaved inmate.
“Show me to my new living quarters, Jeeves.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Lucy
* * *
“There’s my girl!” Devlin says, hurrying over to Jetta as soon as she steps into the pool hall.
“Hey! It’s nice to see you again,” I say when I follow him over and give her a hug.
“Lucy? What are you doing here?” she asks me.
“Trying to help Nash,” I answer with a wince. “We’re hoping you can too.”
Charging into the meeting room, Jetta says, “How can I help Nash?”
“We need you to think hard about that night, Jetta,” Malcolm turns to her and says. “Did you ever hear the name of that chef at Cox’s house?”
“The chef?” she repeats. “Why? You don’t think she turned in Nash, do you?”
“We’re running out of ideas,” Devlin responds as he slumps down into his chair. “So, yes, possibly.”
“And if I do remember her name, what then? Are you going to kill her?” she asks them pointblank.
“No, of course not!” Devlin says, but then immediately looks to Malcolm to confirm.
“We’re not gonna kill an innocent woman, even if she did rat out our boy,” their president thankfully confirms as his fingers tap against the armrest of his chair. “But we need to find her and convince her not to testify against him. At worst, she may need to disappear for a few weeks until the DA’s forced to dismiss.”
“Disappear her but not kill her?” Jetta reiterates. “You swear, Malcolm?”
“I swear,” he says. “There are plenty of ways to convince people to keep their mouths shut without physically hurting them.”
I don’t exactly like the sound of that, but this may be our only option to help Nash.
“Why can’t we see him?” I whine as Malcolm and I leave the front office of the jail a few days later. The officer checking people in couldn’t give us any details at all. Nash simply ‘isn’t being allowed visitors at this time’.
“Fuck, I don’t know!” Malcolm exclaims. “Maybe the sheriff is just being a dick, or maybe they’re about to transfer him to county. There’s no telling what’s going on. The attorney said he would look into it this morning.”
“What are we supposed to do until then?” I ask.
“Wait patiently,” he grits out.
I know I’m getting on his nerves, so I shut up and drive myself back to the Aces bar. The rest of the guys in the club are all gathered there, sulking in the pool hall, drinking before noon because they’re worried about their friend. I am too, which means I’m sitting my ass down on a barstool and staying here until they get answers whether they like it or not.
Sleeping since Nash was arrested has been impossible. All I do is toss and turn, worrying about him, terrified that something bad will happen to him in the jail and that I may never get to see him again without handcuffs on his wrists.
I lay my head down on my crossed arms on the bar just to rest because my body feels exhausted from lack of sleep and all the anxiety.
Why didn’t I just tell Nash that I knew about the charges last Thursday and drive him across the Mexican border? If I had, he wouldn’t be in this situation right now.
“Sorry, Malcolm. I tried to set you and Lucy up for a visitation, but it was denied,” Jay Hughes, the attorney the guys hired for Nash, explains as soon as he walks into the pool hall in his grey suit and tie.
“Why the hell was it denied?” Malcolm snaps.
“Apparently Nash got himself put in solitary. And until he’s out, he doesn’t get to have any visitors except for his counsel.”
“Shit!” Malcolm grumbles while punching the wall.
“W-what do you think happened to get him in solitary?” I ask in concern, my arms crossed over my chest.
“I asked about infractions, but Nash’s record was clean on those. So, if I had to guess, I’m sorry to say that he could be on suicide watch.”
“No!” I exclaim.
“We’ve got to get him the fuck out of there!” Malcolm roars.
“There’s no way he’s getting bond,” Jay explains. “Unless there’s some huge breakthrough in the case, he’s not going anywhere until there’s a trial, which could take months.”