We pulled out of the drive to go to the funeral home, all of us in Dad’s car. Dad drove with a stone face, and Mom stared blankly out her window at the morning sun. The housing development where I grew up was located on the southernmost edge of town, off Valencia Road. It was nothing more than a huddle of small tract homes some developer with dreams bigger than his pocket book had started twenty years ago. The entire community consisted of a few paved streets of desert-style, cookie-cutter houses, and several more streets with vacant lots where – FANTASTIC NEW MODELS – as the sign said, were never built. The only thing on the lots now were the few weeds that could withstand the dry desert climate that stretched from here into Mexico. If I stood at the end of the last sorry-looking vacant lot with my feet on the lot line, my heels would be in unincorporated Drexel Heights, and my toes would be on Pascua Yaqui Indian reservation land.

Dad pulled the car around to the asphalt parking lot behind the funeral home and I heard a loud rumbling - the distinct, heavy thunder of exhaust pipes unique to Harley Davidsons - rolling down the street. I got out of the car and watched as the Saints of Sin arrived in formation and nosed their bikes onto the blacktop parking lot, Raz on point, leading the way, as if they were a squadron of fighter pilots. But they weren’t. They were a motorcycle club, maybe – probably – drug runners. I still wasn’t sure which, but I didn’t want to know right now. Not today. Today was Charlie’s funeral.

Today I was going to bury my baby sister.

My parents ignored the Saints’ intimidating arrival; Dad jutted his chin out and walked ahead, Mom put her head down and fidgeted with something in her purse as she walked. I breathed a sigh of relief at the lack of confrontation.

I didn't feel like playing mediator today.

We all knew Charlie had worked for the Saints’ hangout, a local bar that touted the name of the club in large blue neon lights out front of the building. We heard the same rumors about what they did as everyone else, and I was afraid Dad would make a scene. He reached for the door to go inside, then stopped in his tracks, causing me and Mom to crash into his stiff back.

“No.” He pursed his lips and shook his head. “No. They shouldn’t be here.”

Shit.

I kept my voice low, even. “Dad, don’t. Just let it go.”

He stood, holding the door open, but looked to the sky, not moving.

“Dad, let’s go inside. You’re making it worse.”

“No.” His voice was louder this time and firm. “I can’t allow them to come here and ruin Charlie’s funeral.”

Mom's eyes darted back and forth from Dad to the Saints. I glanced back. They were heading up the sidewalk toward us, their bikes glinting in the sun behind them.

I laid a hand on Dad's arm as he turned and glowered at Raz, Acer, and the other members who'd all known and worked with my sister. I’d heard Charlie mention their names, but looking at the group of them now, I couldn’t tell which one was which. They all wore jeans, black shirts, black boots, and black leather riding jackets. Except for Raz. I sure as hell saw him. His striking good looks stood out in the crowd of weathered and weary mugs.

“Dad...please…” I implored him.

“This is their fault…” He turned to face Raz and the rest of the group, raising his voice as he shouted, “This is your fault, your fault...all your fault…” The words started to fade.

I shoved on his chest, backing him in through the doors as he mumbled about Charlie, his baby – dead because of them. Mom came up and flanked his other side as I turned him around and directed him toward the chairs up front marked for family members. Before I spun around, I caught a glimpse of Raz’s face, a tortuous mixture of confusion, sadness...and what I wanted to believe was concern for me. Like he came to the funeral to try to help me, but just realized he was only making it worse.

Half-way up the short aisle of chairs, the funeral director, George Davis, son of Fred Davis, the owner of one of the stable businesses in town, rushed forward with his hand outstretched.

Funeral homes and Indian casinos were the two businesses that stayed afloat in this town, despite a crap economy. Who’d have guessed?

When George saw the Saints taking seats in the back, the perpetually concerned look on his face changed, and I knew he understood what was happening. He began a soft prattle of condolences and kind words in an effort to divert Dad’s attention and keep his focus on the flower-covered casket up front.

We took our seats in the front row as George continued talking about how the service would progress, reassuring Dad that it would be lovely.

Despite the abundance of ominous black leather occupying the last two rows.

Things took a turn to the south when Brad arrived and took one of the seats next to me. A seat marked for family. Not that we had enough family to fill all of them, but still, it seemed a little pretentious. As if he were making some kind of solidarity statement with us.

As he sat, he leaned across me and gave his condolences to my dad. Then he turned enough to throw a glance back in Raz’s direction. For some reason, that irked me more than the Saints being here. Really? Was he trying to show Raz that he claimed me or some other macho bullshit? At my sister's fucking funeral?

What really put Brad’s little show over the top, and what seemed to imply he was giving Dad the nod that he was on our side, was that Brad was wearing his police uniform to the funeral.

Maybe I was overreacting. My nerves were on edge. But it was too much. It felt like the whole room was filled with quicksand, and I was sinking fast. Who were these people? I felt like I didn’t know any of them anymore, like I didn't know this place.

My mind was running a hundred miles an hour over Charlie’s death and all the cryptic talk about suspicious circumstances of the shooting. What did it all mean? She'd been a drug addict. I loved her dearly, but I was so sick and tired of everyone avoiding the elephant in the room. If I could give my own life right now, just so she could live, I’d do it. But I couldn’t stop the toxic questions popping up in my mind. I didn’t know who or what to believe anymore, or who to trust. I just wanted everyone to stop pushing their own agendas, and let me have a few moments to grieve and say goodbye to my sister.

After a couple tense minutes, Dad pulled himself together and straightened from his slumped posture, tugging on his suit jacket. I think he’d been crying, but he was too proud to break down in front of everyone. He was fighting it.

I looked over at him and patted his hand, offering a weak smile. I knew he hated Raz, but I hoped he was wrong about suspecting Raz of having a role in Charlie's death. I didn’t want to believe it myself, but I was already forming a plan to find out the truth. It would be the only way for me to have any closure.

I stood and stepped past Brad and his pretentiously displayed uniform. I walked up to the casket for one last look at my little sister. Looking at her beautiful face, lying there looking so peaceful with her long, dark hair and her delicately flowered yellow dress, she looked like a fairy tale princess - like she was sleeping and would wake any minute. Her hands were folded across her stomach, and her long, slender fingers held her favorite flower, a single yellow rose.

I reached out and lightly touched the back of her hand with my fingertips. I had to feel it for myself, feel the coldness of her skin. I had to know she was really gone, because I was having a hard time accepting the reality of what happened. It still felt like a bad dream. I'd seen people killed in war, prepared myself for what I'd have to do as an FBI agent, but seeing her like this...I made a silent promise to myself, and to her, I would find the truth even if it killed me, too.

From the minute I left my seat, and all the time I stood in front of the casket, I felt Raz’s eyes on me, zeroed in on my every move. I should've felt uncomfortable, but it gave me an odd sense of comfort. Knowing that he was there helped me as I said a prayer, then whispered goodbye. I didn't let myself look at him as I made my way back to my seat, pushed him from my mind as the service began.

* * *

When it was over, most people headed straight for the glass double door exit, apparently eager to leave. Fortunately, that included the majority of the Saints. Raz and a red-bearded guy held back, standing behind a small group of others who were waiting to give their personal condolences to Mom, Dad and me. Almost against my will, I caught Raz’s eyes. He was hovering near the door and the small table where the sympathy book lay open, filled with signatures of those who’d attended. He looked like he wanted to leave, but wanted to talk to me first.

It was strange how much I felt like I still knew him, could understand him, even after all our years apart, after all the things both of us had been through.

I smiled at Mrs. Wooster, a long-time next door neighbor to my parents, and thanked her for coming. Charlie had babysat Mrs. Wooster’s kids the summer Mrs. Wooster got a job at the AT&T phone company. They were probably teenagers now, but I wasn't really listening to what she was saying. My attention was on Raz.

As she turned away from me to leave, I excused myself and wove my way through the crowd. I took only a couple steps, when Raz took me by the elbow and nodded to his friend.

“You can go. I’ll catch up with you later. Just want to have a few words with Jen.”

“Sorry for your loss, Jen.” The red-bearded biker walked out to the parking lot.

Standing near the door, it was easy to hear the Saints’ muscle machines fire up as they left, but I was still focused on Raz, especially where his touch burned against my skin. He pulled me aside, moving close enough that I could smell the worn leather of his jacket. His handsome face was a mixture of emotions, and I couldn't help but see the changes the last eight years had brought. His strong jaw was covered with a dark beard that matched the long hair falling into those amazing, indigo eyes. Eyes that I hadn't ever really been able to forget.

He was all hot and gorgeous, a serious bad boy. Fucking kryptonite. Everything a girl like me shouldn’t want, and yet I'd felt it the moment he hugged me at the gas station. The zing that shot through me, startled me. From the look on his face at the time, Raz felt it, too. Or, at least I thought he had. I could’ve sworn that it was as loud as thunder cracking between us, but the fact that he let me go made me think that maybe I imagined it.

He faced me and took my hands in his before he said, “Jen, how are you holding up?”

Fuck. When he said my name it sounded all velvety and hypnotic, bringing back that unexplainable, floaty feeling I had at that gas station. Oh god, he was doing it again, making me like him.

“I’m okay. Thanks for coming,” I lied.

I wouldn’t let myself break down now. I was like my dad in that way. Plus, I learned in the Marines to suck it up and be tough. Later, when the time was right, I’d allow myself to let go, and it would be bad, but until then, I'd stay strong.

He smiled, his eyes full of concern. “I know your Dad is pissed that I came, but I had to. Charlie was a sweet girl, but...I came for you, too.”

“Pissed is an understatement. And it didn’t help that you brought the whole club with you.”

He almost looked proud. “Yeah, they are a rather intimidating entourage, but all the guys knew Charlie from the bar. They always said she poured whiskeys straight up like a hero.”

“Um, doesn’t ‘straight up’ mean you just pour the whiskey into a glass? How much talent does that take?” I was glad to laugh, even if it hurt. The lightness of it felt good. It was nice to remember my sister in that way, even if it was just pouring a good drink.

“I know, I was kidding.” His smile softened, making him look more like the guy I'd known. “It was the way she treated everyone, like they were special. She had a way of making everyone feel welcome, like she was their friend.”

My heart twisted painfully. “That’s nice of you to say. I appreciate it.”

Standing so close, talking with Raz about Charlie, was comfortable, good. It helped me forget the sharpest parts of my grief. Without thinking, I reached out and tugged on his leather jacket.

“You couldn’t put on a suit for a funeral?”

He caught my hand and held it to his chest. My heart gave a different kind of thump as I suddenly became more aware of him than I should. I could feel the solid power of his muscles. Feel the heat of him.

“Sorry, no monkey suits for the Saints.” There was no hint of an apology in his voice. “We might be businessmen, but no suits, no casual Fridays.”

He kept his tone light, trying to lift my spirits, but my mind got caught on the word "businessmen," and I remembered the rumors about the Saints of Sin's "businesses." Right. Their business was part of what had been killing my sister before she was shot.

My tone hardened as I asked, “Have you found out any more details about the shooting?”

He looked down. “Nadda. Wish I had something, but sorry...”

Damn, not the answer I was hoping for. Was he telling the truth? Or holding back? Maybe he didn’t want to talk, too many ears.

Before I could ask anything else, he leaned in, my hand still pressed against his chest, shot a glance to the side, and then kissed me on my cheek. Before completely pulling back, he said in a low voice, “Here comes Brad. Gotta go.” He leaned back, putting a polite distance between us. Before dropping my hand, he added, “If there’s anything you need, just let me know. I’m here for you.”

Then he turned and slipped around Mr. and Mrs. Newberg, who were standing near the exit doors.

I could still smell the leather and grease...and the part that was just him.

I plastered on a fake smile when I saw Brad approaching and readied myself to make polite and appropriate conversation. He was the first of many who formed a sloppy line to come give a hug, or a touch on the arm, as they drifted from talking to my parents to me. I put myself on automatic pilot, nodding at the right time and saying the correct thing. I knew it’d be a long time before I could be alone with my thoughts and work over the plan that was brewing in my head.

* * *

We’d invited guests to the house after the funeral for some food, so I spent more time smiling and pretending to care about small talk. Then I helped Mom clean up the dishes – mostly paper plates and plastic cutlery, fortunately – and headed to my sister’s bedroom. My old bedroom had been turned into a sewing room slash storage room the day I told my parents I was joining the Marines. More than half the boxes held all of the things I wasn't able to take with me.

I shut the door behind me and kicked off my black heels, giving my feet a chance to breathe. A copy of my leave papers sat on the small computer desk, catching my eye, the end date blaring like a neon sign.

I sighed as I snatched up the top sheet, as if staring at the date would make it any less real. I flopped down on the edge of the bed, mentally cursing the numbers in front of me. I couldn’t leave now, not until I found out what really happened to Charlie. If I left now, I’d never know the truth. Brad could say that he was on it, but I didn't really have any faith in his investigation skills.

I hated that I had suspicions about Raz’s involvement in the shooting, even if it wasn’t direct involvement. It wasn’t a stretch to imagine that he and the rest of the Saints’ club could’ve been involved somehow, especially if drugs had something to do with it. And knowing Charlie's past, it was a pretty good bet.

I tried to rationalize that I needed to stay a little longer for this reason alone, not because I couldn’t get Raz off my mind. I kept thinking about seeing him at the gas station, walking up to me with that confident stride, all tattooed, hair falling in his eyes...damn, he was gorgeous. Better than I remembered him looking. And then we hugged and he kissed my cheek, making every nerve fire up. The same thing happened at the funeral, a kiss, a mere peck on the cheek, and the electricity was crackling again.

It was difficult to stop thinking about him, and it wasn't about who shot Charlie, or the murder investigation. No, these were lustful fantasies about being in his arms, feeling his lips on mine, feeling my hand pressed against his solid chest, and his entire, naked body. To experience all of the things I once thought I'd get.

I touched my hand to my cheek, wondering if my face was as flushed as it felt. I closed my eyes. This was ridiculous. I needed to stop this foolishness, focus on Charlie’s death.

I returned the papers to the desk, and picked up my cell phone from where I left it. I knew what I had to do. The chances were slim, but I had to give it a shot. I’d ask Agent Gutierrez to grant me more leave time. Except I knew the FBI didn’t pay people to go through twenty weeks of training just to take time off the day after graduation. They’d been generous enough with the leave given, but since I was still awaiting my first assignment, maybe, just maybe, Gutierrez would sympathize with my situation and allow more time. I doubted it. But I had to ask.

When I looked at my phone I saw a missed call from Marc, my failed milk-toast relationship.

Shit.

I’d called him on Monday after I arrived at my mom’s house, intent on starting the detachment process. I wasn’t the kind of girl to text every five minutes, but I assumed he would've gotten the clue when frequent became even less so. Leaving him at the graduation should've been a huge clue, but apparently not. I felt bad for leaving him that way, and normally, I wouldn’t have behaved like that, but all of this shit with Charlie had me behaving out of the ordinary. I apologized to Marc over the phone but still...I’d left the poor guy standing there.

I grimaced as I remembered the conversation. I tried to keep things short, let him down easy. He said he wanted to help me through my grief and all, but I gave him the old line about needing to be alone. When that didn't help, I ended the call with a lie about needing to go help my mom with something, putting him off yet again, nothing resolved.

A fresh surge of guilt washed over me.

Was I stalling, hoping the relationship could work? So much had happened lately, it was hard to focus on what I really felt for Marc, on what our future could possibly be. And then there was Raz.

I touched my cheek again, spurred by the memory of Raz’ soft kiss. It was just a friendly kiss on the cheek, twice, but I still remembered what the brush of his lips felt like against mine, and it made me wonder what a real kiss would feel like.

I shook my head. I needed to call Agent Gutierrez, but I knew there’d have to be one more call, one bad one, where I’d have to be firm with Marc. Cut things off completely. Being soft on him would do him no favors.

I sighed. Shit. I’ll call Marc after Gutierrez and break up for good.

After a couple minutes, I got Gutierrez on the phone. Before I could start with my request, he started talking.

“Goodwin, I’m glad you called. I was about to call you with your first office of assignment.”

Fuck.

I kept my voice even. “Thank you, sir. But before we get to that, I was wondering...you see, my family really needs me right now. With the circumstances surrounding my sister's death...well, it’d be different if she was older or died in an accident...well, you know what I mean. Is there anything in the rules about leave that would allow for an extension on time?” It wasn’t a complete lie, my parents did need me, but more importantly, I needed to find out the truth about Charlie's death.

There was a long moment of silence before he spoke, “You do realize you just finished training, and you’re scheduled to be sent to your first station of assignment, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir, but I thought that maybe since I haven’t been assigned yet, it'd be better to do this now, before I have my placement, rather than have something happen with my parents after I start. Or are there any rules about extenuating circumstances around bereavement leave?” I chose each word carefully.

“Not that I know of, off the top of my head, but I’d have to check with another office…”

Shit. My heart sank. The other graduates went to their assignments right after graduation. It was too much for me to ask for an exception in my case. I was disappointed, but understood.

“Well, thank you, sir.”

“Where did you say your family lives again? I seem to recall on your application paperwork, it’s somewhere in Arizona, right?”

I was confused, but answered, “Um, well, yes. Drexel Heights, just outside Tucson. Fairly close to Mexico.”

He was quiet for a minute, but I waited.

Finally, he spoke, “Something came across my desk just this morning about our Phoenix division. An ongoing investigation into illegal drug running has gone dry in that very location. Their drug enforcement unit is looking into starting that up again. Maybe you could help.”

I sat up straighter on the edge of the bed. This might work out even better than an extended leave. “Yes, sir, I'd be happy to help with an investigation.”

“This could be a good fit for both of us, then. There’s just one thing…”

I heard shuffling papers, and then he came back.

“Ah, yes, here it is. A small, easy job, try to get some intel on the drug running business, if it still exists, including connections to local gangs. The case has been stagnant for quite a while, so there might be nothing there. Do you think you could do that? Of course, you can’t reveal that you’re FBI…to anyone.”

My mind was already racing with ideas, but the one I was thinking about back at the funeral stood out in my mind the most. “I think I can get a job at a local bar, the one my sister used to work at, actually. I know the owner, he’s an old...friend from when I lived here. We went to school together. I’m sure he’d at least give me a part-time job.”

I withheld the name of the bar on purpose, and the fact that the Saints of Sin were one of the gangs rumored to be involved with the very criminal activity he was describing. I didn't want him to know I had a personal connection that went beyond my sister. For a moment I wondered if I was crazy. This was my boss, my mentor, a new job, yet something inside me made me hold my tongue, reluctant to give him the information until I knew for sure what was going on. I just needed to be one hundred percent, before I ratted out Raz to the FBI. Plus, who said he would hire me anyway? All this worry could be for nothing.

“A bar would be good,” Gutierrez agreed. “It’s a place people go to talk and socialize. It’d be a good place to get some intel. Maybe you’d hear something.” He paused, and then added, “Did you say your sister worked there? The one who passed away? Because, if it’s too soon for you to be in the place where your sister spent her days, another place could work just as well.”

“It’s fine, sir. I want this assignment. I’ll do a good job, I’ll make you proud.” I glanced at a picture of Charlie and me pinned to her bulletin board, taken at my graduation.

I'll make you proud, too, little sister.

The call ended after Gutierrez told me a few more details about being officially assigned to the drug unit of the Phoenix Division. The field office in Tucson was headed by Assistant Special Agent Shatner – I was sure he got a lot of shit about that last name – and it just so happened that Drexel Heights was an unincorporated area of Tucson.

Damnit. It looked like Mom got her wish. I was stuck in Drexel Heights after all.