Where Souls Spoil (57 page)

Joshua Wilcox was a year behind me in school, but he and his two buddies, Ian Buckley and Ryan Stone were legendary around campus. Josh now goes by Duke— for a reason I’m not aware of— and like his felonious friends, he’s a member of the club.

Jeremy’s face falls and his arms drop to his sides. He clears his throat and scratches the back of his neck. Silently, I thank Mindy for gabbing about work so often. Apparently Nic used to have a hard time with Jeremy, but since she started seeing Josh, the boy has straightened up a lot. Mindy says all Josh has to do is give him a look and the kid behaves.

“That’s what I thought,” I say and put my phone away. Thankfully, Jeremy doesn’t call my bluff. I don’t have Josh’s phone number, but even if I did, I’d never call it. I only know him by proxy and what I know of him tells me that I’m better off not getting to knowing him. “Class. Now.”

Jeremy gives Cheyenne “the nod”, pulls a cell out of his pocket, and quickly sends a text message. Just as he shoves the phone back into his pocket he disappears in the direction of his class. Now that I know mentioning Josh really does work as well as Mindy says, I’m going to use it liberally. Cheyenne tries to step away and sneak off down the hallway, but I’m not having that. I’ve gone to bat for her— I’m still going to bat for her— and she’s ditching class.

“Oh no you don’t,” I say and snap my fingers. She stops in place, turns around, and walks back to me.

“He’s cute, right?” she says. Her eyes are big and dreamy and her cheeks are a dark pink. Crap. She doesn’t just kind of like him, she’s got full-blown love-face going on.

“Adorable,” I grumble. “But seriously, do you have any idea how hard I’m trying to keep your butt from getting expelled? I thought we talked about this, Cheyenne.”

“We did and I
am
being good. I was on my way back to class from the bathroom and Jeremy was standing here. He was really upset and I didn’t want him going to class like that! He just needed a friend to listen to him.”

“Mr. Beck is not going to give a rat’s patootie why you weren’t in class if he catches you out here,” I say. I mentally kick myself once the words are out of my mouth.

“Did you just say
rat’s patootie
?” Cheyenne asks. Her eyes are wild like I’m some kind of alien or something. Mindy and her damn phrases are rubbing off on me and making me sound like an imbecile.

“Not the point, girly,” I say in an attempt to redirect.

“You’re not going to tell my dad, are you?” she asks. I’ve tried twice now—unsuccessfully—to “break up” with him, but somehow, despite my attempts, Cheyenne says he’s told her that we’re still together. I think she’s starting to realize that something is rotten in Denmark, but she’s still asking these kinds of questions. I have no clue if I’m lying to say we’re still in a relationship or if it’s ended, and things are just messy. When asked, I try to play aloof and act like he’s in the doghouse—and really, if I could shove his ass in one, I would.

“You gonna behave?” I ask. She’s not my kid so I don’t want to be the one to tell her that nothing is going on between her dad and I, but eventually I’m going to have to draw a line in the sand with this stuff.

“You gonna tell him?” she asks with her eyebrows raised. She’s getting a little too high and mighty for my taste so I mean mug her until she backs down and sighs in defeat. “You know, my dad’s dated a
lot
of women, and I mean a
lot
, but they usually try to suck up to me so I’ll like them. I’m just saying.”

A slow smile spreads across my face and I point in the direction of the English class she’s supposed to be in right now. “Careful, kid. You’re starting to sound like an extortionist. Now go to class before you get in trouble.”

“Dad’s right. You
are
a ball-buster,” she says. The smile on her face is blinding when she says, “You’re awesome, Holly!” She throws her hands up in the air and backs away towards her class. When I’m confident that she’s actually going to class now, I head for my car with my own huge smile on my face. Her father may be a Grade-A asshole, and he’s certainly a very troubled human being, but I was most definitely wrong about at least one thing about him: he’s loves his daughter. I might not like him very much, but I can definitely respect a guy who manages to raise such an awesome kid.

Chapter 10

IT’S ENTIRELY POSSIBLE
that my headache has disappeared because I’m no longer hearing Mr. Beck’s voice. The last I remember the dull thumping in my brain was before I walked out of the office and saw Cheyenne and Jeremy talking at the lockers. Even both of them giving me attitude didn’t bug me, and by the time I was in my car on the way to the pharmacy, my shoulders had relaxed and I was able to take a deep breath without regretting it from the pressure in my skull.

Still, while I’m here, I pick up some ibuprofen, just in case. After my conversation with Mr. Beck today, I foresee many more headaches in my future. I’m not entirely sure what it is about Cheyenne Grady, but after the talk we just had, I’m more determined than ever before to help her succeed in school. I just have to figure out how to do that without taking Grady’s money, and that means avoiding him and his guys as best I can. It’s not been easy these past few weeks, but I’ve successfully ditched the two guys who, in addition to Grady, have tried to hand me a thick manila envelope. I know Lisa Grady told me to just take the money, but it’s just not something I’m comfortable with. I mean, they can’t chase after me forever, right?

After I grab the extra strength 60-count bottle of ibuprofen from the shelf, I head straight for the refrigerated foods. I'm overdue for lunch, exhausted, and willing to try anything that I don't have to make myself. The pharmacy isn't very big, but it's grown in the last few years in order to keep up with the national drugstore chain that moved into town. I know for fact that the 24-hour chain pharmacy has better prices, and probably better food judging by the selection that they have here, but I like my money to go to local businesses whenever possible.

The refrigerated food section consists of a single refrigerator that's better equipped to house only soft drinks it's so small. Despite its size, there are three sandwiches, two salads, what they're calling freshly made soup, and a wrap to choose from. If I learned anything from the short time I spent in college, it's to not consume meat from questionable sources. The wrap, sandwiches, and soup all have that some form of meat in them, but neither of the salads do. Being cautious, I opt for the salad. On my way to the register, I grab a couple small bags of peanuts, a bottle of Coke, and a pack of gum. I like to keep a few snacks in my desk drawer, but since I haven't been going anywhere, I haven't had a chance to refill my stash lately.

Just as I'm leaving the register after paying, I start to get that feeling I'm being watched. Unfortunately, it's a feeling that I have become accustomed to these last few weeks. I didn't see the short guy who's been following me around lately on my way here, but that doesn't mean he's not out there lurking somewhere. The thought creeps me out, causing me to pick up my pace and rush out of the pharmacy as quickly as I can. My poor Coke is being shaken all to hell inside the plastic bag that I'm gripping with my left hand. I fish my keys out of my purse and clutch them with my right hand as I head straight toward my Jeep. Nervously, I keep looking behind me, so distracted by the possibility that I'm being followed that I don't even notice the man leaning against my driver side door until them almost on him.

"Well, look who decided to venture out," Grady says in a grumble. His presence puts me on the edge immediately. I take a step back, fold my arms over my chest, and let my face give him a full explanation of how I feel. My eyes narrow, and my mouth turns down into a pout.

"How did you know I was here?"

"Remind me, babe, to give Jeremy Whelan a break next time he does something to piss me off," he says. I have to bite back the smile that's going to rat me out. I want, more than anything, to tell Grady that Jeremy is going to end up pissing him off quite a lot in the future. I'm willing to bet that, with a daughter as pretty as Cheyenne is, Grady has had his fair share of heart attacks. As much as his displeasure at Cheyenne's interest in Jeremy would entertain me, it's none of my business. I’ve learned my lesson—when it comes to Cheyenne, Grady doesn't want to hear my opinion. Not that he's particularly fond of my opinion on any other topic, either.

I’ll have to remind myself that Jeremy Whelan has such a big mouth. It’s curious that he saw fit to tell Grady of my whereabouts. Little asshole.

“Is your ass trying to clean the door of my Jeep, or are you trying to make a point?” I ask. In an odd reaction, he smiles. He almost looks friendly, and if I didn’t know better, it might relax me some. But I do know better. Grady smiling is never a good thing. I’m tempted to scan the parking lot to see if he ran someone over or maybe he sliced my tires. The paranoia is getting to me. I tell myself that I’m just being dramatic.

“What? I can’t just stop and say hi to my favorite secretary?” he asks. I raise an eyebrow and check my tires real quick. They all look fine, but there’s so many things he could do to damage the functionality of my Jeep. Brake wires can get cut, power steering fluid can mysteriously leak all over the pavement, and if he’s feeling particularly evil, he could even rig the thing with explosives.

“What did you do?” I ask suspiciously.

His smile widens, and a chuckle rumbles in his chest. I almost think he looks happy, but then I remember who I'm talking to. He shrugs and looks around as innocently as I imagine he can. I don't want him to know how much his being here actually bothers me. I mean, this entire situation is getting out of hand. Sure, I have kind of done it to myself. But why should I have to compromise my beliefs just because he has something to prove?

I shouldn't.

Mr. Beck is not someone that I want to be agreeing with right now, but I have to wonder if this kind of intimidation is standard behavior for the club. And if this is par for the course, then what kind of town am I living in? Maybe I'm just naïve, and totally out of touch, but in all my years living here in Fort Bragg, I never really considered that the awful rumors that circle about could be true. Yeah, I never imagined that the Forsaken Motorcycle Club were a bunch of choirboys, but I never really believed the rumors that they were thugs, either. Maybe I'm completely off base about Jeremy Whelan if he's tipping Grady off to my whereabouts.

"You're kind of paranoid, aren't you?"

Duh.

"No, of course not. Our meetings have gone so well in the past, Sterling. I'm thrilled you could pay me a visit," I say. More sarcasm falls off my tongue in those few sentences than I think I doled out during my entire adolescence.

"Told you, babe. Don't call me Sterling."

Now I'm the one with the huge smile on my face. It's true, he has asked me not to call him Sterling. It's almost funny that he thinks I would care after the way he's treated me. And what the hell is up with him calling me babe all of a sudden? While it is much preferred to bitch, it still makes me uncomfortable.

"There a reason my kid likes you so much?"

"I can only imagine that Cheyenne enjoys having a conversation with somebody who doesn't refer to every woman as either bitch or babe," I say. I'm not sure where this conversation is going, especially since he's being so…human. "Well, this has been fun, but I really must be going now," I say. I must be having horrible luck with the male species today, because he doesn't move. Not only is this conversation awkward and strange, but it's actually not progressed anywhere, nor has it served a purpose. At this point, we’re just standing here like a couple of idiots. We might as well be chatting about the weather and our expectations for the upcoming baseball season.

He waits another moment before he finally pushes off the car and strides right up to me. I order my brain to shut down any and all thoughts about the way he carries his large frame as he moves toward me. He's still an asshole, I remind myself. Even assholes, I suppose, are entitled to look good. I consider myself to be a woman of self-respect, and decent self-esteem, so the fact that he's able to get my mind racing about the build of his body really just pisses me off. Men with so little respect for other people shouldn't be allowed to look this good. Ever.

"Oh, and Holly," he says as he leans down. He's invading my space, and if I wasn't overwhelmed by being in such close proximity to him, I might be able to think clearly enough to be annoyed by it. "You're avoiding me. I don't fucking like it. Eventually, you're going to run out of steam, and you’ll be tired out. Just do yourself a favor and take the money. Because, make no mistake about it, baby, I have stamina to go for days." Arrogant jerk.

“You’re bipolar,” I say. My blood pressure is rising. I have to hold my hands down firmly at my sides so I don’t reach out and slap the smirk right off his face. His perfectly strong jaw is mostly covered with facial hair. It doesn’t look like he’s really shaved since I last saw him.

One moment, he’s practically standing over me, and the next, he’s walking away across the parking lot. I blink back my surprise and try to clear my head as I walk back to my Jeep. With my head in a daze, I grab at the driver’s door handle. Just as I think I’m an idiot for trying to open the locked door without the use of the key, the handle gives way under my grip and the door opens.

“Great, now you’re imagining things,” I mutter to myself as I climb in and shut the door behind me. My purse and plastic bag from the pharmacy fall onto the seat beside me. I could have sworn I locked the doors before going inside, but I guess not. All my frustration and paranoia are clearly having a considerable effect on my ability to think clearly. I pull the Jeep out of the parking lot and get stuck at the first light on the way back to work. The loud roar of an idling motorcycle engine sounds behind me. Lifting my head, I find Grady on his Harley in my rear view mirror. The longer I sit at the red light, the more I consider the validity of “accidentally” putting the Jeep in reverse and backing over him. But murder is wrong—it’s even one of those pesky Ten Commandments. I’ve been trying to live my life in a way that I can be proud of and not cut corners like I used to, but the man behind me it making that commitment more difficult than it needs to be.

Hunger gets the best of me, and I reach over into the plastic bag in search of one of those bags of peanuts. The rustling of the bag almost distracts me from the odd crunch that sounds every time I hit the bottom of the plastic bag. Feeling more than a little off my game, I pat the bottom of the bag a few more times. Something isn’t right. I give the bag a shove and, sure enough, there is something underneath it. A large manila envelope sits on the passenger seat, half covered by my purse and shopping bag. I’d know that envelope anywhere. It’s the same envelope, right now to the nasty little note I wrote on it, that Grady and his friends have tried to give me several times over the last few weeks.

That asshole.

No really, that asshole.

I knew something about that entire conversation was off, and I
knew
my car door wasn’t unlocked when I went into the pharmacy. Here I thought I was losing my mind, but no. Sterling Grady hoodwinked me in order to drop an envelope with twenty-five grand into my car without my knowledge. Just as the light changes to green, I grab hold of the window crank and roll it down. The two cars in front of me take their time to get moving, and I take advantage of this by grabbing the envelope from the seat beside me. With my left hand full of twenty-five grand, I lift it out the open window and wave it at Grady behind me. My eyes are intently focused on the rear view mirror. I can’t see the look on his face, but he’s definitely paying attention. His mouth opens, and he’s shouting something over his ridiculously loud engine. It takes me a moment to realize he’s screaming, “Don’t do it!”

Don’t do what? Oh, he thinks I’m going to drop it out of the window. I shake the package at him as I start to roll away. His eyes dart around nervously as he changes gears and follows me. He’s still shouting and occasionally using one of his hands to point menacingly at me. He must actually think I’m going to just toss the money out the window. But I couldn’t do that, could I?

My fingers loosen and, before I can stop myself, I’ve let it fall onto the pavement. I can barely see Grady holding up traffic in my rear view as I drive away from the scene of the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. I’m a block away before I can breathe again, but I haven’t calmed down. By the time I get into the staff parking lot, I’m having a mild panic attack, my chest heaving and my lungs straining for air. I haphazardly park the Jeep and turn her off, but I don’t move.

“I dropped,” I mutter aloud in a dumbfounded whisper, “twenty-five… twenty-five…twenty-five-fucking-thousand dollars out of my moving vehicle.” Before I know it, I’m slapping at my steering wheel and cursing myself for my own stupidity. I don’t regret getting rid of the cash, no, I’d made that conviction already. Lisa Grady told me weeks ago that arguing was going to invite trouble, and now I’m afraid I just invited more trouble that I can handle. But I can’t just sit in my car and think about that all day. I have a low-paying job to get back to, and a life to resume living, holed-up at my desk and in my own home because I’m avoiding everything Forsaken. I just don’t know how much longer this can go on for—the following, the fighting, the chasing, and the total departure from sanity.

Maybe I should just take the money and be done with it. I can figure out a way to get right with that somehow. I’ve contemplated telling Grady why I’m not comfortable taking the cash, in full detail, but he wouldn’t care anyway, so what good would it do? It wouldn’t.

I grab my shopping bag and my purse and head inside the office. Margot immediately notices my arrival and looks up from her homemade sandwich. I must look awful—she pouts at the sight of me. I wave her off and don’t even try to explain. No good comes from her thinking about Grady or my possible relationship with him. She tries, she really does, but curiosity gets the better of her. We live in a small town, and gossip is what small towns do best.