Fallen (2 page)

Charlie and the driver casually stroll out of the gas station… and the woman on her knees begins to vomit blood.

Six Days Earlier

Alexis Romera is safe.

Sometimes a phrase will haunt you for hours.

Alexis Romera is safe.

Sometimes, no matter how hard you try, a certain thought is all you can keep thinking inside your head, over and over again.

Alexis Romera is safe.

This is the phrase that I suffer through on repeat as we drive away from San Jacinto, until the words begin to fuck with my head. Sloane is sitting in the passenger seat, wearing a pair of ass-hugging shorts that I’m pretty sure I somehow dreamed into existence, her long, perfect legs stretching out into the footwell, and all I can think is,
Alexis Romera is safe. Alexis Romera is fucking safe.

These words, roughly translated, also mean,
Sloane Romera no longer needs you, Sloane Romera no longer needs you, w
hich is why they’re stuck inside my head on a goddamn loop that I can’t seem to shake.

“Right. Right.
Right!
You’re gonna miss the exit!” Sloane clamps her hand over the steering wheel as though she’s going to swerve us off the exit ramp, but I give her the death look.
The
death look. The one that tells her she better remove her hand from the steering wheel at her earliest convenience or risk losing the thing. No one drives the Camaro but me. And no one touches the damn steering wheel, either.

“I know my way to Dana Point, Sloane.” I take the off-ramp, making sure to leave it until the very last minute in order to scare the crap out of her when I swerve. Sloane inhales sharply, but she doesn’t say anything. She disapproves of my reckless driving. Which makes me even more reckless. I just love lighting a fire in this woman, by whatever means necessary.

“You think you’re so smart, don’t you?” she says, staring straight out of the window as we begin to head south.

“Mostly.”

“Good. I suppose you mostly don’t care that you didn’t give Michael and the others chance to see where you were going, then?”

My boy Michael has been following behind us in his sedan since we left San Jacinto, accompanied by Cade and another Widow Maker called Carnie on their bikes. I left the exit until the very last second to piss Sloane off, sure, but I also did it for another reason; I wanted to lose those guys. I give Sloane a non-committal shrug, which she scowls at. I don’t see the scowl; I feel it, burning with supernova intensity into the side of my face.

“Why would you tell Michael to come with us if you didn’t actually want him to come with us?”

“Because I need him to do something for me after we pick up Lacey. I didn’t think Cade and Carnie would insist on giving us a fucking cavalcade, though. The last thing you want is Rebel’s crew rocking up on Ma and Pa Romera’s front lawn. I’m gonna send him straight to the job.”

Sloane grunts at this. “My father
would
have a heart attack. But then…”

“What?”

She chuckles a little, and I don’t like the twisted edge to it. “Well, my father’s gonna have a heart attack anyway, the moment he sets eyes on
you
. Cade and Carnie would just have been the icing on the cake.”

Oh, I’ve been waiting for
this
. “Sweetheart, you might as well get ready to tuck and roll. This car won’t even be stopping in front of your parents’ house. And I sure as shit won’t be getting out of it. I’ll do a lap or two while you say your goodbyes and then I’ll come collect you guys.”

I expect Sloane to make some sort of objection to this refusal to meet her parents, but she doesn’t. I don’t want to even turn and look at her just in case she’s giving
me
the death look, but I can’t fucking help myself. I want to see that cute-ass scowl. When I dart a quick glance at her out of the corner of my eye, the scowl’s not there, though. She’s not even fazed. She’s just staring out of the window, watching middle-aged, average-paycheck America pass her by.

She’s not fazed. If she’s not fazed, then she has to be fucking
relieved
. It’s better for her if her parents don’t ever meet me; I know that. They’re probably just waiting for the day that she calls to tell them she’s marrying some fucking reliable plastic surgeon or something. Someone who works with her at the hospital—where is she ever gonna meet anyone else, given her schedule?—and in their mind that will be for the best. He’d understand her priorities. Share them. Know that she won’t be available twenty-four seven to go out to dinner or cook and clean. But Sloane’s parents, they’re church people. They probably
will
expect that life for her at some point. They’ll want her to be the stay-at-home mom. They’ll expect her to give up her career to sit on her ass, getting fat while she looks after her two point five kids.

I doubt very much that that’s on Sloane’s agenda, but she might not want to have that fight with them just yet. And showing up with me on her arm would definitely cause a fight. I’m not the guy to give her the two point five kids. I’m not the guy to make her stay home and cook my meals. I’m the kind of guy to make her get tattoos and waste all of her money bailing my useless ass out of jail every weekend. Or that’s how they would see me. I’m sure that’s how the rest of the world sees me, too. Good thing I don’t give a fuck what the world thinks. But Sloane’s parents…why the fuck do I feel like shit right now? Two seconds ago I was laughing at the thought of meeting them.

I shouldn’t care. I really shouldn’t give a fuck about them. Sloane doesn’t ever seem to feel the need to conform to her parents’ will; it’s unlikely she would avoid me at their request. But still…her not fighting me on this feels…it feels fucking shitty.

“Are you grinding your teeth?”

Sloane’s noticed me grinding my teeth. Perfect. “No.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Just get ready. This is their neighborhood, right?” I draw my brows together, making a point of focusing on the cookie-cutter streets in front of me—looks like the place is inhabited by dentists and fucking accountants.

“Next on the right,” Sloane instructs me. She doesn’t hide the curious tone of her voice at all. In fact, I’m pretty sure she knows why I was trying to mill my teeth into dust just now. We find her folks’ place and I do as I said I would—I barely stop to let her out of the car. The tires squeal as I tear off down the street, and I’m sure I’ve left an inch of rubber tread back on the asphalt.

Fucking stupid bastard. Fucking stupid motherfucking bastard. I call myself a combination of these words for thirty seconds, only stopping when my phone rings. It’s Michael.

“Hey.”

“Hey, boss. Take it from the sharp exit that you need a moment. Anything you want me to be doing?”

“Yeah, actually. Rick Lamfetti. Julio’s boys beat him up pretty bad. I stowed him in Anaheim. Track him down, see if he’s still alive?” I have reasonable hope to believe Rick’s alive. Reasonable enough to waste Michael’s morning trying to hunt the fucker down. From Julio’s comments back at the compound, the guy told him everything—about Sloane, Alexis, my ruck with Charlie. And from the pictures Julio shared with us, it looked as though they roughed him up a hell of a lot more than Michael, but still. They undoubtedly knew putting the hurt on Michael wouldn’t have done them any good, so they saved their energy. Rick probably squealed after the first hit. And the information that people like Rick impart after the first hit is never the truth. It’s the thing they say in order to make whoever it is with the heavy fists stop causing them pain—generally a half-truth, in some weak but typically useless attempt to maintain their loyalty.

Any decent professional knows all there is to know about the guy who squeals right at the beginning. They know well enough that if they push a little bit harder, fuck with them a little bit further, the half-truths become all-truths, and they’re usually pissing their pants, spilling everything they know about everybody, relevant or not, in their attempts to save their own lives. I’ve always held little but contempt for people like Rick. Such a big fucking guy, with his ridiculously toned upper body and weedy little chicken shit legs. Way to skip leg day, asshole.

There’s silence on the other end of the phone for a moment as Michael ponders my request—he knows I’m asking him to go hunting for a fucking shallow grave in the dark and shadowy parts of Anaheim. The sound of Michael’s resigned exhalation distorts the line. “Sure thing, boss. I didn’t like these shoes anyway.”

“Good man.”

“What do you want me to tell the Widow Makers? And does Alexis know what your girl’s up to? I get the feeling that your old prison buddy is quite attached to her sister.”

“No, Alexis knows nothing. Sloane wants to keep it that way. Better not breathe a word.”

“So now we’re diplomats?”

Yeah, my thoughts exactly, buddy
. But I don’t say that. I grunt into the phone, conveying my mild displeasure at being questioned. Anyone else would be reamed out, but Michael gets away with fucking murder. “Just trying to keep the peace. Won’t help us if Sloane and Alexis are at each other’s throats.”

Michael laughs softly at this. “Ahhh, you want the sisters to get along.”

I roll my eyes; if the guy were here, I’d belt him in the arm. Give the fucker a bruise for being such a pussy. “No, man. We’re getting the fuck out of this godforsaken state as soon as possible. And my life will be fucking unbearable if Sloane’s still bitching about her messed-up family problems on the drive back home.”

“There’s a very simple resolution to this problem, you realize?” Michael says.

I know what that very simple resolution is: leave. Get up and walk away. No, fuck that. Fucking
run
. “Yes, asshole. I’m aware. Just head to Anaheim, okay.”

Car horns blare on the other end of the line; the deep, throaty rumble of motorcycle engines, too. “Okay, okay. I’m on it. Hey, Zee?”

“Yeah?”

“I had no idea my cousin was involved with Alexis. You know that, right?”

I grunt—yeah, it would have been a lot fucking easier to find Sloane’s sister if Michael kept up with his relatives on a regular basis—but this isn’t his fault. Families are fucked up. I should know. “Yeah, man. You wouldn’t have been hanging around outside Julio’s place looking for a ghost if you had.”

Michael laughs off the comment. “Yeah, would have saved me a partial beating. So, do you think she really does love him?”

I’ve been thinking on this. Thinking on it a lot. I’ve heard the worst things about Rebel, but then again I’m sure people have heard terrifying shit about me. That doesn’t mean I’m the devil incarnate. Rebel might not be either. I’m not one for giving people the benefit of the doubt, but I can usually tell when people are bullshitting me. “Who knows, brother? Weirder things have happened at sea.”

Weirder things have happened in Dana Point, too. This comes to me as I realize I’ve somehow found myself parking outside Sloane’s parents’ house.

And I’m getting out of the car.

“You’re…honey, I’m sorry. Can you please repeat that?”

Ever since I was a kid, my mom’s been the same; she just can’t handle surprises. Me turning up with Lacey the other day probably knocked her for six, and now me coming back here and saying these words to her—her brain’s not equipped to deal with this sort of shock. The small, plain silver cross she’s worn around her neck for as long as I can remember shuttles up and down the chain as she worries her fingers over it. Funny how you can really tell someone’s age from their hands. Difficult to hide that kind of aging. I long ago learned to glance down at a Californian woman’s hands before assuming her facial appearance was a true guide to how many years she had on the clock. Not that my mom’s had any work done, of course. But a lot of Californian women have. Especially ones married to doctors. Their husbands all know the best guy at the best practice, who can give them a discount on a little tuck here or little nip there.

“I said I found Lexi,” I repeat. As I walked into the house, I tried to think of a way to cushion this, to help it make more sense to them, and yet when it comes down to it, these are the only words that matter. For years now, they’re the words my mother and father have been waiting for someone, anyone, to speak. And now they’re coming from me. I would much rather they came from the police. Or in light of the truth behind my sister’s missing status, from my sister herself. But it turns out she’s too cowardly to do that. To say I’m mad with her wouldn’t even come close to covering what I’m feeling right now. Betrayed. Lied to. Lied
about
—how the hell could she say those terrible things about me to that guy? But mostly I feel abandoned. For so long this terrible guilt has pressed down on me, robbing me of any positive emotion I might accidentally feel during my everyday life before I remembered the loss of Alexis, and how it seemed as though me moving on, or taking the rare moment to laugh over some stupid joke, felt like I was abandoning her to her suffering. That I should be suffering, too. When in reality, my sister was the one who left me. She left me behind, in the darkest of places, and let me wallow in all of that suffering unnecessarily. And why?