Chapter Four
The next morning, Etta’s cell phone went off as she was driving to work.
When Etta had left the house earlier, Justice was still asleep, so she’d left him be. Although, she’d written a note, asking him to lock up with the spare key before he headed out.
“Hello?” She answered on the third ring and pulled over to the side of the road.
“Mrs. Williams?”
A knot formed in the pit of her stomach.
“Mrs. Williams is my married name. It’s Ms. Jameson nowadays.”
“Sorry, Ms. Jameson, the assistant district attorney wanted me to give you a call.”
“And…?” she prompted, anxious for the news.
“Your ex-husband’s parole was granted, and he’ll be out in twenty-four hours. We were supposed to contact you sooner, but our communication wires got crossed. I’m sorry for the—”
“It’s fine.” She swallowed. “Thanks for callin’ me.” Etta hung up the phone and flung it against the window.
Oh, God. He’s free.
***
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been a long damn time since my last confession.”
Justice sat in the confessional at St. Andrews church. It was smack dab in the middle of the day, and the sanctuary was nearly empty except for an elderly woman in the last row of pews.
“Page, I’m gonna strangle you.” The window slammed shut, and Justice smothered a laugh. Patrick Mills had joined the priesthood after their tour of duty had ended.
Justice didn’t know what to make of his friend’s change of profession. He wondered if Trick had made a deal with God while they’d been captured, and now he was fulfilling his end of the bargain.
Typically, Justice would’ve been covering shifts at Perdition, the bar, and clubhouse the MC owned. Since Axel’s announcement, Justice had nothing else to do, but sit by the fire and get high. Instead, he decided to play Trick a visit, and screwing with him never got old. In the military, they’d played pranks on one another as a way to blow off steam. If they hadn’t, the team would’ve gone crazy.
Well, crazier at least.
Trick, Woolly, and he were the only survivors. Every member of his SEAL team had a nickname. Jacob Lamb was called Woolly for obvious reasons. Trick was short for Patrick, and back in the day, Justice had been called Page.
Trick had always been religious, but he’d never given off a priest vibe. Before a mission, Trick would gather them up into a circle, and they’d pray together. It had become a ritual, a way to pull together. But Trick had a dirty mouth, a thing for blondes, and a taste for microbrews. Now Trick had sworn off women altogether and took his vow of chastity seriously, although, he still enjoyed a beer now and again.
Mind blown.
Justice didn’t know how a man could give up the softness of a woman beneath him, even for a good cause.
“Call me Justice, Trick, I ain’t goin’ by Page anymore.” Justice pulled back the red velvet curtain and stepped out as Trick let himself out the other side.
“And I’m Father Patrick, since I don’t go by Trick any longer, asshole.” The last word was hissed.
Justice wagged a finger. “Sweet Jesus. I ain’t ever heard a priest use such language. You should be ashamed of yourself.”
“And you took the Lord’s name in vain.” Trick gritted his teeth. “For the record, I’m a priest, not a saint.”
“Never mistook you for one, and we both know I’m a sinner.”
Justice took in the priestly get up his old friend wore—black robes, a collar, and an enormous cross. Though it suited Trick, oddly enough. He was a tall, muscular man with large blue eyes and a kind face.
He shook his head. “I keep thinkin’ that’s a Halloween costume.”
“Believe me, it ain’t.”
“Any regrets?”
“Naw, I thought about joinin’ for years, and I was an altar boy as a kid.”
Justice opened his mouth.
“So help me, if you make some kind of perverted joke, I’ll smack the snot out of you.”
“You can try.”
“We both know I’d wipe the floor with you. Speakin’ of changes, I can’t believe you became a criminal.”
“You mean badass, outlaw biker, and part-time vigilante? That’s me.” What he did with the MC might not be legal in the strictest sense, but they did God work’s too, at least when it came to the eye for an eye part, anyway.
“Whatever. Come with me, before someone hears us.”
Trick hauled ass down the hall and Justice headed after him. They ended up in his chambers beyond the sanctuary. It was a simple room—linoleum floors, a filing cabinet, and old seventies avocado colored desk.
And I thought my trailer was gross.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but why are you here?” Trick crossed his arms over his chest and sat on the edge of the desk.
Justice sobered. “Like you don’t know.”
He sighed. “It’s the anniversary of their deaths, and we should mark the occasion.”
“Let’s do a Virginia road trip in the next couple of weeks.” The rest of their unit had been buried at Arlington Cemetery.
“Hooyah, but before we head out, you need to make an appointment at the VA hospital.” Hooyah was the Navy SEAL battle cry.
Justice frowned. “Why? I feel fine.”
“We’ve been over this before. You should talk to somebody.”
“I’m awful sick of people tellin’ me what to do.”
“Since I used to be your commandin’ officer, you should be used to it. If I still had the power, I’d order you to see a counselor.”
“Like who? Nobody understands what we went through besides you, me, and Woolly.” Just because somebody had training in both the military and psychology, didn’t mean they comprehended his predicament.
“Then jaw at me some. I counsel people.”
Justice snorted. “I’m not that desperate.”
“Yeah, you are. Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look like a ball of chewed twine, and you smell like a bong.” He sniffed deliberately. “How long’s it been since you had eight hours of rack time? A hot shower? And how long’s it been since you were sober?”
A really long fucking time.
“I’m mostly fine. It comes and goes, but this is a rough patch.” He’d gone through ups and downs. Sooner or later, he’d be right as rain once more, until he hit another emotional bomb of course.
“Damnation. Why do you always gotta do things the hard way?”
“I’m doin’ the best I can. Nobody’s perfect.” Justice didn’t have a smart remark or defense for his behavior.
“Amen. You said it’s gotten worse lately…?”
“A few weeks ago, I walked into a place, and there was so much blood, Trick.” He shut his eyes, trying to force the memory out of his head.
It wasn’t working.
His shoulders fell. “I won’t ask you. In fact, I don’t wanna know.”
“You don’t approve of the work I do.”
“I’ve had enough fightin’ to last me several lifetimes. I prefer bein’ a man of peace.”
Justice couldn’t argue with that. “You wear it well, brother.”
The term “brother” meant something to Justice. He used it with men who’d fought at his side, who’d give their lives for him, like his MC brothers, or the soldiers in his unit. It wasn’t something to be taken lightly or tossed around.
“So this incident took you back to Afghanistan.”
“Yeah, but I always get a might tetchy around the anniversary.”
Once again, he’d been trapped in an airless room with Bulldog. The Taliban had separated all of them, fearing they’d overpower the terrorists, which had been a smart move. They were stronger as a unit.
“Then it’s not just me.” Trick grimaced. “And I’m gonna say this for the millionth time, but it ain’t your fault.”
He snorted. “Yes, it is.”
Justice suspected that while Trick had dealt with the trauma, he hadn’t quite gotten over it, per se. It would forever be part of their psyches, and no amount of therapy or drugs would change it.
Before Trick could argue, Justice changed the subject.
“You heard from Woolly lately? We should invite him along.”
“Nah, he’s been MIA lately.”
“I ain’t heard from him either.”
They both paused, and chills crept up Justice’s spine. He’d always had a sixth sense, an intuition when it came to danger. The night they’d been ambushed, and cut off from the rest of the team, he’d had a terrible feeling he couldn’t shake. He’d just known something awful would happen, and it wasn’t nerves. Justice had been in hundreds of firefights, but this particular one had spooked him.
Right now, he had the same sort of sensation.
“Got a hunch?”
Justice nodded.
“Then we should go see him.”
“My thoughts exactly. When?”
“I’m about to go on a church retreat. When I get back, let’s get Woolly, and then we’ll head over to Virginia.”
“Deal. In the meantime, I’ll call him up and touch base.”
“I’ll contact him, too.” Trick heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Now get outta here, I’ve got sins to hear.”
He smirked. “And I’ve got a few to commit.”
Justice walked out of the church.
He’d feel better once he’d spoken to Woolly. For once, he’d like to be wrong.
***
“How’s it goin’, Tyler?”
“Okay, I guess.”
After this morning’s bombshell, Etta had thrown herself into work, trying to occupy her thoughts. Tyler Jenkins fit the bill nicely. Since she’d been assigned as his caseworker, Etta had grown attached to him. She went out of her way to check on him, probably a bit too often, but the agency had never called her out on the preference.
Tyler was four years old with a mop of brown hair and bright blue eyes. He liked wearing overalls, and there was often a bug in the front pocket. He loved naming the critters and treating them like pets.
Etta enjoyed every minute she spent with him, but Tyler also broke her heart.
His heroin-addicted mother neglected him. When the family had come to the attention of social services, Tyler had been half-starved and injured. He’d wandered off down the street, after being left on his own for over a week while his mother had gone partying with one of her boyfriends.
Tyler had been placed in foster care while his mother went through drug treatment. After she’d failed to complete the program repeatedly, she’d signed away her rights, and given him up for adoption. Despite all the things she’d done, Tyler still missed his mother.
Older children had a harder time being adopted than infants. Most adoptive parents wanted babies they could raise themselves. With Tyler’s case history, she didn’t hold out much hope for him finding a new family.
“Do you like your new room?” A week ago, his foster care placement had changed, and transitions were always difficult.
He shrugged. “It’s nice here.”
“And the Robinsons?”
“They’re okay.”
The Robinsons were a couple in their forties. They were empty nesters who agreed to take on foster kids. So Tyler had a home with enough food and responsible adults who didn’t run out on him. They were kind people, but a foster family didn’t make up for being abandoned.
Etta wanted him to have everything— a forever home with parents who loved him. Sometimes, she imagined adopting him, being the woman who made his lunches and read him a bedtime story at night.
That’s insane.
She’d checked into adoption before. Her supervisor had encouraged her to become a foster parent, and she’d attended the parenting classes, believing it would give her an edge in the adoption process, but it hadn’t panned out. Agencies preferred placing children in two-parent households.
Besides, if Etta took on a child, she’d be a single mother. It would be a lot of responsibility for one person to handle. And while she might be a stellar social worker, Etta had failed to protect her own flesh and blood when it mattered most. She didn’t deserve to be a mother. Etta refused to let anything happen to Tyler because he’d been through enough already.
So, as his social worker, Etta would do her best to make sure Tyler’s needs were met.
Hers didn’t matter as much.
***
“Well, fuck.”
Etta lifted her glass. “I couldn’t have said it better myself.”
After work, Etta had gone over to the Lone Star Lounge, a strip club in Crimson Creek, in the next town over. It was an odd place to hang out, but her friend, Bonnie Beauregard, owned the joint and Etta needed to talk. As soon as she sat down at the bar, Etta had blurted everything out. Luckily, it was a bit after five in the afternoon, so the place was nearly deserted.
Etta sipped her whiskey sour, but she felt like gulping it down, and then having another and then another. Although, all the alcohol in the world wouldn’t cure what ailed her.
“I wondered why you weren’t in group the other day.”
“Yeah, I’ve had a lot on my mind.”
The group had a loose structure so members could come and go at will. She’d make it to next meeting, and they’d probably have to tape her mouth shut, because, boy, did she have some things to share.
“What are ya gonna do?” Bonnie asked.
“No clue.” Etta had no doubt Grady would come after her as soon as he got released. In his mind, she’d wronged him, by testifying against him and sending his sorry ass to jail.
The best choice would be running. But where? In this day and age, it was hard to fly under the radar. Eventually, Grady would find her. Besides, she’d made a life for herself. Etta had friends, a decent job, and a place to live. She refused to give up what she’d built over the years.
“Why don’t you ask one of those biker boys for help? Maybe the one who’s sweet on ya.” Bonnie grinned.
She rolled her eyes. “No thanks. I’m lookin’ to end this situation peacefully.” It would’ve been nice if the criminal justice system could’ve kept Grady in jail where he belonged.
The son of a bitch shouldn’t see the light of day. Ever. While Etta didn’t believe in the death penalty, if anyone deserved it, Grady did.
Bonnie took another drag on her cigarette. She had long blonde hair with occasional strands of silver mixed in. Bonnie was somewhere in her forties, although she’d never offered up her age, and Etta hadn’t asked.
Her skin was tan, a bit weathered. She wore a red tank top and tight, ragged jeans along with a pair of battered leather cowboy boots. On her right bicep, she sported a black tribal tattoo. Bonnie was a tough chick, but a shrinking violet wouldn’t run a strip club.
Loud music blasted from the speaker system—“Somethin’ Bad” by Miranda Lambert and Carrie Underwood. The club had a honky-tonk feel. Instead of standard tables and chairs, bar stools surrounded barrels branded with the Jack Daniels logo. The stage in the center of the room had three stripper poles, and a brunette was going to second base with it.
This wasn’t her kind of place, but it was popular with the local male population. Bonnie said business was booming.
“I hate my nephew, but I could give him a call.”
“There’s an even worse idea.”
Her nephew, Byron Beauregard, had been a hitman at one time and had ascended to a position as Underboss with the Lone Star Mafia, according to the local rumor mill. Asking for Byron’s help would land her in even more trouble.
“I’m guessin’ Grady didn’t change his ways in prison, huh?”
“We haven’t talked in a while, but I highly doubt it. There’s no hope for him.”
What’s more, Etta couldn’t forgive herself. She’s the one who married him, right out of high school. Their courtship had happened way too fast. At the time, Etta had romanticized it and told herself they’d fallen in love at first sight. They couldn’t help themselves because it had felt so right.
Now, she knew better.
He’d maneuvered her into a relationship, while she was still in the infatuation stage. If she’d stopped to think about it, Etta would’ve realized she’d been manipulated. A few weeks into their marriage, he’d hauled off and slapped her. From there, Grady had gotten more violent, until it all ended one horrendous night.
Bonnie placed her hand over Etta’s. “Hey, it’s gonna be fine.”
“Yeah?”
“I promise it’ll all work out. You’re a survivor.”
“We both are.”
“Bet your sweet ass we are.”
At least she could count on something. Etta had been through an ordeal and made it out the other side. She had resilience, and not everyone did. Every time someone knocked her down, Etta got up, dusted herself off, and kept right on moving forward.
Okay, time for a topic change.
And then she noticed a man watching them with avid interest. Since she could use a diversion, Etta seized on the opportunity.
“Okay, so who’s that?”
“Who?”
“The man at the end of the bar who can’t take his eyes off you.” She tilted her head to the side, studying him.
Hmm. Cute, in a rangy cowboy kind of way.
A tall, lanky man sprawled at the other corner of the bar. He nursed a tumbler of amber liquid, she assumed was whiskey. He had a buttoned-up black shirt and a silver cross around his throat. The cowboy wore a pair of snakeskin boots, faded Levi’s, and a shiny silver belt buckle.
He reminded her Dudley Do-Right from the old cartoon, all spit-shined and polished up like a brand new penny. She placed him in his early forties, judging by the gray hair at his temples and the lines carved into his forehead. Stubble covered his square jaw, and his gaze missed nothing, scanning the room like a predator hunting for a kill.
Or maybe I’m a touch dramatic these days.
Bonnie made a disgusted noise. “Him? He’s nobody.”
“There’s a naked woman twirlin’ on a pole ten yards away, and he’s gawkin’ at you. What gives?”
“He’s a fed.”
“A what?”
“An FBI agent. His last name’s Hawthorne.” Bonnie scowled at him for good measure. “And he’s here to spy on me, so the interest is purely professional.”
Etta leaned forward. “Why?”
“He’s been scopin’ out the club, as well as pryin’ into Byron’s affairs.” Bonnie rubbed her temples. “Once again, my family’s draggin’ me into trouble.”
Bonnie loathed her family. She’d done everything possible to distance herself from their illegal activities, yet it never quite worked out for her.
“Are you positive his interest is only professional?”
Etta had excellent people watching skills, and the agent’s gaze was appreciative whenever it landed on Bonnie. Hmph. Wouldn’t that be a match made in hell? A modern-day criminal/law enforcement version of Romeo and Juliet.
And then something awful occurred to her.
“Oh my God. Is he gonna investigate me?” Did this mean, Etta would end up on some kind of federal watch list since she’d stopped by for a chat?
Bonnie laughed. “Relax, they’ll run your plates, check you for priors, and you ain’t got none, so they’ll move on.” Bonnie rattled off the procedure because she’d probably been through it a dozen times. “Besides, I’m legit, so I got nothin’ to worry about, other than havin’ an unfortunate last name and neither do you.”
What’s the Godfather quote? “Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in.”
“Says the woman who suggested I hire some mafia or biker muscle.”
“Well, at the end of the day, I’m still a Beauregard. Like it or not, and believe me, I don’t, I’ve got inborn instincts that just won’t quit.”
“So you’re really not worried?” Etta would be freaking out.
Bonnie rolled her eyes. “Nah, this ain’t my first time bein’ under surveillance. Kinda familiar, actually. So I’m gonna smile real polite, pour him a drink, and sweep the place for bugs after he walks out.” She turned to the agent and pasted on a fake grin. “Don’t worry, this will blow over soon.”
The man touched the brim of his hat in acknowledgment.
Etta swiveled on the stool and did her best to look harmless. Although, she didn’t share her friend’s optimistic assessment of the situation. Hawthorne seemed determined.
Apparently, trouble was going around these days.