“Thanks, man,” I sigh as I see the guard coming back with a folding cot that he tosses carelessly on the ground near me. “Guess I’ll get comfortable.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Lucy
* * *
“What are you doing to help Nash?” I ask Malcolm and the rest of the men sitting around the table in the back of the pool hall when I bust in on them the morning after Nash was arrested.
“Who is she?” a buff blonde man asks. “Someone’s kid sister?”
“I think she wants to be Nash’s old lady,” Malcolm replies. “What are you doing here, Lucy?”
“Well, after seeing Nash get handcuffed right in front of my apartment and dragged to jail, I’ve been driving myself crazy all last night wondering if there’s something I can do to get him out.”
“What the hell do you think you can do?” the guy with his head shaved on the sides snaps at me. “Sprinkle pixie dust on the cops to make them go to sleep so we can sneak in and unlock the cell block?”
“Actually, I’m a damn good hacker, asshole!” I reply.
“She really is,” Malcolm vouches for me.
“So, what can I do, Malcolm?”
“Jay Hughes, the attorney we hired for Nash, finally talked to the district attorney this morning. He said that they have eye-witness testimony; someone picked him out of a lineup. Only two people were there other than the ones in this room, and I’m certain that none of us are the rat. We’re looking for the guard we let walk even though it doesn’t make sense to only call out Nash,” Malcolm explains.
“You’re seriously telling her our business?” the big jerk with grease stains peeking out from under his cut says.
Malcolm sighs heavily as he runs his fingers through his long hair. “If it will help Nash, then yeah, I am!”
“My laptop’s in the car. Let me grab it, and then you can give me his name so I can track this bastard down,” I reply.
“Our PI has been searching for him since we found out about the warrants last week and can’t find him. What makes you think you can?” the guy with long, black hair asks. I’m pretty sure he must be Devlin, Jetta’s man. He’s almost too pretty; and with all that perfect hair, well, he’s a cosmetologist’s wet dream.
“Because I can search where others legally can’t,” I explain.
“It’s worth a try,” Malcolm tells the group. To me, he says, “Go get your laptop and get to work finding Dirk Chekov.”
“I’ll find him,” I promise.
However, an hour later, and my frantic search hits a major roadblock.
“So, I ran into a dead end on Dirk,” I tell the group who are still sitting around the table, looking frustrated, most of them smoking while I sit on the floor with my laptop on my outstretched legs.
“You can’t find him?” the shaved head guy asks.
“Oh, no. I found him,” I explain. “He’s dead.”
“Dead?” everyone exclaims in confusion.
“He died a few weeks back. Turns out there was another ‘fire’ at a porn studio out in the middle of nowhere, about forty-five minutes from here. A few comments on the Facebook article said that they think it was an MC called the Savage Kings seeking vengeance for some kidnappings and actually praising the violence.”
“The Savage fucking Kings,” Malcolm grumbles with a slap of his palm on the table. “Let me give Torin Fury a call and see what the hell happened. If we’re lucky, maybe Dirk ratted out Nash before he died and now they’ll have to throw out the case.”
“I could try hacking into the police station,” I suggest.
“On our IP address? I don’t fucking think so,” Malcolm replies when he gets to his feet with his phone in his hand. “Give me a few minutes. Dev, make the introductions.”
The guy with long, black hair nods as Malcolm leaves the room. “I’m Devlin. The dumb blond is Fiasco, the dirty mechanic over there is Wirth, and the dude with a bad mohawk is Silas.”
“I already knew all of your names,” I admit. “But it’s nice to put faces to them.”
“How did you know our names?” Wirth asks.
“Research from when I was looking for Nash.”
“If you say a word about us to anyone, we’ll fuck you up,” Silas threatens.
“If you try to fuck me up, I’ll tell everyone what’s on each of your computers and phones.”
The guys all stare at each other uneasily for several silent seconds before Silas smirks and responds with, “Touché.”
A few moments later, Malcolm returns, and he doesn’t look happy. “Dirk wasn’t the rat,” he says. “He died before the warrants were issued. If he was the witness, they wouldn’t have bothered going after Nash.”
“So then who else could be the witness?” I ask them.
“Had to be the fucking chef!” Devlin exclaims.
“Fuck!” Malcolm shouts. “How was that bitch able to call out Nash when we don’t even know her goddamn name?”
“Jetta might have heard her name,” Dev says with a visible gulp. “I’ll call and ask her to come in.”
“Sure, let’s invite all the old ladies to the table,” Silas huffs as he lights up another cigarette. “May as well bring Naomi and Honey in here too! Bunch of pussy-whipped motherfuckers.”
“Watch it,” Malcolm warns him.
Nash
* * *
The dude, Frankie, I spoke to was right about the cramped quarters and constant noise in the general population. Sometime, around the middle of the night after I was officially charged, a bastard started singing “I’m Blue,” that idiotic old song by Eiffel 65. And instead of everyone telling him to shut up, other guys joined in, and now it’s stuck in my head on repeat and I want to blow my brains out.
I think I would pretty much do anything to get a cell all to myself.
Before I can figure out a way to do that, though, the guards come and get me.
“Let’s go, Kincaid,” one of the two uniformed men calls out.
“Where am I going?” I ask as I step out of the unlocked cell door, even though I have an inkling.
“You’ll see when you get there, won’t you?” the second guard mutters while the first slaps metal cuffs around my ankles that are connected by a chain. “Hands out.” I hold my wrists together for them to slap another pair of cuffs on them before one guard gives me a shove forward to get me moving, making me stumble thanks to the chain.
It’s hard as fuck to waddle around in the restraints, but eventually we get to a locked door with a tiny window up top. Through it, I can see a man and a woman sitting at a small table on the other side, both in nice suits. Since they’re not the club’s attorneys, I assume they must be detectives finally ready to grill me for the names of who else was at Cox’s house the night shit went down.
“I’m surprised it took you all this long,” I mutter when the guards shove me into the room.