Protect (11 page)

She kept her thoughts to herself as he
maneuvered out of the parking lot and into traffic. Once they were
on the open highway she decided the broach the real issue of the
moment. “So tell me. Why in the world do Jasmine and your dad think
you can’t be left on your own?”

There was a deep, theatrical sigh, but she
didn’t excuse him from answering. They had a twenty-five minute
drive ahead of them; he was talking.

“Well?” she prompted when the answer wasn’t
provided immediately.

“Mom, you know Jasmine. She’s such a
prude.”

Sharon knew her eyebrows went up. “Shit,
Brayden. What did you do?”

That fucking sigh again; she hated when he
did that. “Nothing!”

“It wasn’t
nothing
to get this
reaction. What did you do?”

He made a face and refused to look at her,
but he eventually answered, like she knew he would. “She was out
for a spa day with her friends and one of them got sick so they cut
it short. She came home and I ... I had a girl over.”

“Shit, Brayden.”

“And we’d smoked some pot.”

Now she felt her back straighten. “Brayden
Oliver Westhall.”

“I know, I know. I’m sorry. But Mom ...
pot
?”

“I don’t care. It’s illegal.”

“Mom—”

“
Mom
nothing. That pisses me off. Your
mother’s a sheriff, remember?”

He shook his head. “So it only matters
because it makes you look bad.” It was almost muttered to himself,
not a question.

“No, it pisses me off that you don’t fucking
listen
. It’s not just pot. When you buy that shit, you know
where the money goes?”

“Yeah, it goes to my friend’s older brother.
He sells it.”

She was shaking her head now. “And he’s
getting it from somewhere. And it’s not from a bunch of hippies
wearing flowers in their hair running around the woods barefoot.
Hippies have really shitty pot. The good stuff comes from
criminals, and you don’t want to be tied to that for any
reason.”

“You don’t know that!”

“Yes, Brayden, I
do
. You can trust me
on this. I know that for a fact.” They were silent, both staring
out the windshield. She wouldn’t be surprised if their jaws were
clenched in the same way. “It’s just been pot?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“If you’re lying—”

“I’m not, Mom!” She could tell from the
indignation in his voice he was being honest. “Pot is ... pot’s
fun. That’s it.”

“It’s not worth it, son.”

“Yeah, well ...” he let that trail off.

“I get it. You want to try it. It’s mellow or
whatever. It makes you loopy and giggly and—”

“Horny.”

She winced. “It does?”

Now he looked away from the road, mouth
dropping open. “Mom? You never smoked pot?”

She waved a hand to indicate he should be
keeping his eyes forward. “No, I haven’t smoked pot.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“Language, Brayden.”

“Sorry.”

“And I’m not shitting you. We drank when we
were kids. Our parents smoked pot, we weren’t interested in being
like our parents.”

“Grandma and Grandpa smoked pot?”

She laughed at that. “Christ, I meant in
general. Pot was what the older folks were doing. We wanted to do
our own thing, so we drank. And there was more booze in Markham
than pot back them.”

“Before there were bikers.”

“No, the bikers were there. I’m not sure when
the pot got into town, actually.”

It fell quiet and calm again, and she
contented herself watching the dessert roll by. Then she just had
to ask. “And the girl?”

“Girl?”

“The one Jasmine caught you with.” Sharon had
also been the one to give Brayden the sex talk. Steven nearly broke
out in a rash at the thought, and Jasmine got so flustered when she
tried the poor boy came out of the experience more confused than
anything else. He knew about the babies; they taught that in
school. But it was Sharon that had to sit him down and give him the
most important lesson: don’t be a prick.

It was a point of pride that her son seemed
popular with girls without resorting to mouth-breathing sports. He
was a good-looking kid, and he looked older than he really was. He
didn’t like sports or picking on people. He learned to play the
guitar. It was all pussy-magnet stuff that he did before he even
knew the effect it would have.

When he lost his virginity a few months’ back
he’d called his mother to tell her. That might be weird, and Sharon
had been shocked but still somewhat proud. Not that he did it, and
she certainly didn’t ask for fucking specifics, but that he
respected her opinion of him enough to call. The weirdest fucking
call she’d ever got, but she had to say she approved of his
milestone
achievement.

The girl had been a year older, not a virgin.
Overall, a good choice by her son. Not a clingy type; and the girl
had no aspirations of getting married immediately after graduation.
Plus, Sharon got the impression this nameless girl had been
kind
with her son about the whole thing.

Keeping sex a mystery was a fucking horrible
idea, by Sharon’s way of thinking. She knew how badly her own first
experience
could
have gone, and she could have ended up one
of those women who had no idea how good the act could actually be.
So for three years anytime her son had a question about sex he
phoned her, or asked on her weekend visitations. He asked smart
questions, intuitive questions. She hoped like hell she’d helped
develop a caring and attentive young man.

Hence, her questions.

“Just a girl, Mom,” was his answer, his cocky
smile back in place now.

“Older or younger?”

“Same age as me. She’s in my class.”

“You’re being good to them, right?”

Now his smile came back to her, not nearly as
cocky. More understanding. “Yeah, Mom. I think I’m being good to
them.”

“Good,” she replied, appeased enough to reach
out and tug on his man-bun. “I hear about you being an
asshole—”

“
Language
, Mom,” he teased. That made
her laugh, and she was secretly glad he’d misbehaved enough to get
sent to live with her for the summer. She might not have felt it
until right then.

“You sure you don’t want more people coming
with you?”

The question, from Jayce, was directed at
Buck. He shook his head, making a dismissive face. “Nah. Gertie’s
going to want to go the service and get home fast. She’s getting
along better with her brothers now but ... she just wants to get
this over with.”

Jayce nodded. “Understood.”

“Plus Mickey and Jolene are coming, which is
perfect. Jolene will keep her talking, distracted.”

The clubhouse door opened behind the three of
them with a squeak and Fritter offered the redhead his biggest
smile. “Hey Gertie,” he greeted, noting how thinly stretched her
smile back at him was. “Looking good, Momma.”

She shook her head but at least her laugh
sounded better. “Don’t lie. I’m as big as a blimp.”

“No you’re not,” he admonished, opening his
arms for a hug she walked right into. “You look gorgeous. When you
running away with me again?”

She gave that outraged but girlish giggle
again and someone was pulling him away from her. “Get your fucking
grubby hands off my woman.” It was said somewhat jokingly, but
Fritter caught the glint in Buck’s eye that meant he wasn’t amused,
but making a big deal about it in front of said woman would cause
more hurt feelings than he wanted.

Fritter backed off.

“You do look great,” Jayce assured her,
placing a simple kiss on her cheek. “You need any help with
anything, say the word. We’re here for you.”

She nodded, lower lip trembling again. Fuck.
What was Jayce doing? He just had her laughing, dammit.

“Okay babe, let’s go,” Buck suggested gently,
taking her by the elbow. “Jolene and Mickey are waiting.”

She nodded, offered a weak smile to Fritter
and Jayce then leaned on Buck as he led her to the Grainger’s
silver Escape. Jayce delivered a shot to his arm when they were
further away, and it really fucking hurt even though it wasn’t the
arm with stitches.

“You gotta cut that shit out. Even if you’re
just trying to make her feel better. That’s not cool. That’s his
wife.”

Fritter frowned. “I said the same shit to
Trinny.”

“I know, and I threatened to take your
fucking block off for it more than once.”

“You did?”

Jayce shook his head but he was laughing.
“You’re an idiot.”

“Hey, Jayce?”

The two turned to Spaz, hanging out the door
of the clubhouse and squinting at the brightness of the outside
world. He was the palest guy you’d ever see in California, but
that’s what spending all day attached to a keyboard could do.

“What’s up?”

“Got something for you. Those two that had
the rental on that trailer where they were keeping those kids.”

Jayce nodded, smile fading as he made his way
inside. Fritter followed, giving a sharp whistle that Knuckles
heard across the lot. He made a motion and Knuckles got up off the
picnic table, crushing his cigarette and making for the door.

Fritter let his eyes adjust to the dimness of
the clubhouse, then he headed for the hallway that led to Spaz’s
“office.” It had been a storage closet at one time, but now it was
filled up with a huge desk and a rolling chair. Two computer
monitors were mounted on the wall like TVs, all to make more desk
room for all the other tech shit the kid needed. Half of it Fritter
couldn’t identify.

“So, the trailer was leased to Kennedy Black.
Fake name, of course. It shows up on a driver’s license though, so
we have her picture.” He did a few things on the keyboard and a
picture popped up on a monitor.

Knuckles whistled. “Hot.”

“With face identification software I found
this.” Few more keystrokes and a different photo of the same
blonde-haired, blue-eyed woman appeared on the other monitor, this
time a mug shot. “Tiffany Pullman. This is from Kern County, about
three years ago. Possession with intent to distribute. She’s
married.”

“To who?”

To answer his Prez, Spaz went back to work on
the keys and then covered up the fake driver’s license photo with
another mug shot, this time a dude with a lot of hate in his face
and darkness behind incredibly dark brown eyes. His short hair was
military precise. There was a flash of recognition but Fritter
couldn’t place the guy. “This is Brian ‘Bunyan’ Pullman.”

“Bunion?” Knuckles scoffed. “Like, the things
on your feet?”

“Like Paul Bunyan,” Jayce corrected, leaning
in on the booking sheet. “Jesus, he’s six-four and almost three
hundred pounds.” The he sighed. “Okay, so why does he look so
familiar?”

Fritter was glad he wasn’t the only one with
that inkling.

“He was at Sturgis.” Now Spaz spun back to
face them, crowded inside his office doorway. “He’s with the Dirty
Rats.”

“Fuck,” Knuckles whispered.

“So a Dirty Rat came into Markham and rented
a trailer for the Mazaris?” Jayce connected a few dots.

“At least we know what brought the Mazaris
here now,” Fritter pointed out. “It wasn’t just looking for Gertie
and they liked the town so much they stayed or some shit.”

“We know the Gypsys were working for someone
when it came to that Thebaine they were trafficking,” Jayce mused
slowly, thinking it through.

“I assumed it was for G-Town.”

Jayce shook his head at Knuckles. “Nah, those
assholes aren’t that clever. They’ll sell the shit out of it but
they’re more into moving things that other people have handed to
them, ready to go.”

“No one noticed another club in town?”
Fritter found that surprising. Usually at least a hang-around would
see something and report back.

“He wasn’t on a bike,” Knuckles mumbled.
“Remember what Terry at the scrap yard told us? He saw a lot, and
he never mentioned a bike.”

The local junkyard owner had been the one to
report the trailer to Tank, and during a stake out of the site the
club had managed to rescue a kid that had been destined for
Bakersfield for who-knows-what. Knuckles had tuned the client in on
his own and the bust of the trailer had been turned over to the
cops.

“That’s true. Terry would have said
something. They were undercover to establish themselves for a bit
before they handed the property over to those fuckers.” Jayce
scrubbed his face with one hand. “But these two are gone now?”

Spaz shook his head. “Highway patrol issued a
speeding ticket to Brian Pullman last week, just outside of
Hazeldale.”

“You’re shitting me?”

Spaz shook his head as Jayce stared.
“Nope.”

“Cut off one appendage and an uglier one pops
up,” Fritter said unnecessarily.

“I hate the Rats,” Jayce muttered, closing
his eyes and rubbing his head with both hands. “I really, really
fucking hate them.”

None of them liked the Rats. They were worse
than the Gypsys; even more soulless and irrationally violent. At
least the Gypsys for the most part kept their bullshit to their own
town. Until they’d tried to kill Jayce’s family, that is. The Dirty
Rats were more unpredictable, and as far as Fritter knew their only
alliances were due to money. No one wanted them close for any other
reason.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if the woman’s in
Hazeldale somewhere,” Spaz said, bringing them away from the
frustration of knowing they’d have to worry about the Rats now.

“Why?” Fritter asked the obvious question. It
was kind of his
thing
.

“Her parents live there. Plus, she’s out on
parole. One of the conditions is she can’t be more than ten miles
from her parents’ house. She’s got an ankle monitor.”

“Holy shit.” Now Jayce was smiling. “That’s
lucky.”