He leaned across the table. "I was walking to the bar, saw you sitting here, and couldn't believe this seat was actually empty."
"Because it wasn't five minutes ago."
"Then I got a good look at you, and I figured it out." A big flash of glowingly white teeth. "I'm guessing there aren't many guys with the balls to sit in this chair, considering who you are."
I looked at him, blank-faced. Then I stood. He grabbed my wrist, pinning it to the table, gripping it so tight I winced. I was about to yank my arm away when a hand grasped his fingers and peeled them off.
The guy looked up at Gabriel. Then he leapt up, swinging. Gabriel caught the blow and threw him onto the dance floor.
Gabriel pointed at my empty glass. "Do you want another?" Behind him, the guy had gotten to his feet. He glowered at Gabriel and then stalked off.
Gabriel asked again. "Would you like another?"
I stared at him. Then I shook my head, threw a twenty on the table, and walked out. Gabriel followed. He didn't say anything. Even when the noise of the bar faded enough to talk, he acted as if nothing had happened. I got in the car and we went back to his place, without a word exchanged.
SEEING RED
Ricky gripped his cell phone under the table, waiting for the vibration. He sure as hell wouldn't hear a call in this place, the country music cranked too loud for the shitty sound system, every guitar twang raking down his spine. He wasn't even sure he'd feel the phone, considering the whole damned table was vibrating. His untouched beer sloshed in the dirty glass, foam rising like the sea against a storm-tossed ship.
CJ motioned to the beer. Ricky waved for him to take it. CJ grinned and exchanged Ricky's for a glass from his collection of empties.
Don sat in a quieter corner, across from the leader of the Lost Rebels, a club out of Indiana. This bar was neutral territory, the meeting to discuss an issue of non-neutral territory, namely that controlled by the Saints and coveted by the Rebels. While the Rebels had been eyeing the Saints' southern edge for almost a decade, it'd been years since they'd made a direct strike. All that had changed yesterday. And it was, in part, Ricky's fault.
Just over a week ago, Ricky had been helping Wallace confront some morons who fancied themselves a motorcycle gang and decided they'd take a slice of Saints territory. It happened. Usually all the Saints had to do was knock some heads together and the newly formed "club" would decide they should stick to joyriding. Except, in this instance, the leader got more knocking around than he'd bargained for. He'd been released from the hospital two days ago, with a list of injuries that would keep him off his bike for a while. The person who put him there? Ricky.
There were plenty of guys in the club who lived for knocking heads. Ricky wasn't one of them. Of course, he could fight. The Saints had been training him since he was old enough to throw a punch. But that night, Ricky had been on edge, his father starting to suspect he was seeing Liv. When they'd gone to warn the knuckleheads off their turf, the leader had taunted Ricky about the photo of him and Liv in the Post. Then he switched to insulting Liv . . . Well, Ricky had heard other guys talk about "seeing red," but he'd never understood what they meant until that night. It was like his temper went from smolder to detonation in two seconds flat, and the next thing he knew, the guys were pulling him off his target, who was lying bloody on the floor.
For a lot of the guys, that fight was the best thing Ricky could have done to show them he was indeed growing into a man they could follow. His father had not been nearly so pleased. Then the guy's "gang" took their complaint to the Rebels and threw in with them. So, in effect, Ricky had caused the current crisis.
When his phone finally buzzed, he scrambled out of his seat. Don looked over and his eyes narrowed, telling Ricky he'd better sit his ass back down. Ricky walked out the door.
No one tried to stop him. CJ even chuckled under his breath. Outright rebellion would be cause for concern--the boss was still the boss. Submission, though, would be just as worrying, supporting what they feared most--that Ricky was a little too easygoing, too laid-back, given too much to thinking and too little to acting.
Subtle fuck yous in his father's direction met with equally subtle approval. Ricky didn't give a shit about that. He didn't plan to win the gang over by rebelling against his father's authority or beating the crap out of rival leaders. It would be at least a decade before his father stepped down, and that was ten years to prove that Ricky was the man they wanted in charge, and to do it his way.
Right now, though, he didn't give a shit what Don thought, either. He'd told his father that Liv was going to visit Todd in prison for the first time, and he'd explained how difficult that would be for her, and asked if there was any chance he could bail on part of tonight. Maybe leave early? Or arrive late?
No. That'd been Don's answer. No discussion. No room for negotiation. If Olivia had a problem with it, then Ricky should cut her loose now.
Cut her loose? Sure, because she was the one who pursued him and, really, it wasn't like he cared about her. Oh, wait.
Ricky let the bar door slam. Don refused to understand how important Liv was to him, and what made it all the worse was that it was, quite possibly, the first time in Ricky's life that his father hadn't understood him.
He pushed that thought aside and answered the phone with, "Hey, thanks for calling me back."
He could barely hear Gabriel's reply over the booming beats of Madonna's "Vogue."
"Damn, it's louder there than it is here. Where are you?"
"At a bar."
Ricky tried to picture that and failed. When the Saints had first hired Gabriel, Don had made the mistake of suggesting they meet at a strip club. Their last lawyer had expected that. Hey, that was the advantage of representing bikers, right? Hanging out in dive bars and strip clubs, associating with gun-toting thugs, surrounded by barely clad young women. Which had proven the lawyer didn't know much about the Saints. Don had accommodated him . . . until they replaced him with Gabriel, who'd gotten as far as the door of the strip club, turned his cool gaze on Don, and suggested that it might not be the most conducive environment for business.
"Is Liv still with you?" Ricky asked.
"Of course," came the frosty reply, as if Gabriel was offended Ricky would suggest otherwise. "If she hasn't contacted you--"
"She texted to say she was fine."
"Then she is." Impatient now.
"Just because she said she's fine doesn't mean she is, Gabriel."
Silence. Ricky could imagine him struggling to process the possibility. There were guys in the gang who joked that Don had hired a cyborg who did a remarkably lifelike impersonation of an actual human. Gabriel wasn't robotic. He just wasn't exactly personable. Or emotionally literate.
"I'm worried about her," Ricky said.
"I'm watching out for Olivia. I've seen no sign of Morgan--"
"I'm not worried about her safety, Gabriel. She just saw her birth father for the first time since she was two."
"And she's fine. She's having a drink."
Ricky relaxed a little. "So she talked you into a bar?"
"No, I thought she might need it, so I insisted."
Ricky leaned against the tavern wall. Okay, maybe Gabriel wasn't as emotionally illiterate as he seemed. At least not with Liv. Maybe that should worry Ricky. Hell, the whole Olivia-Gabriel situation should worry him. It didn't. Gabriel had been perfectly clear that he had absolutely no romantic interest in her. Which was bullshit. But he'd given Gabriel the chance to step up, and he hadn't, which meant it was only a passing interest. If Gabriel wanted something, he'd never let someone snatch it from under his nose.
"Okay, so you guys are having a drink--"
"Olivia is. I'm having coffee. Under the circumstances, I need to remain alert."
"Macarena" began in the background, loud enough that he had to raise his voice another notch. "Did you choose the bar?"
"I found it, yes."
"Not to question your ta
ste, but Liv might prefer something . . . uh, quieter. She probably wants to talk about seeing Todd and . . . well, not much talking is happening in that place, I'm guessing."
Silence.
"I know you can handle this, Gabriel. I'm not questioning that. I'm just worried. I could blow off this meeting and--"
"No need. Don wants you there."
"Forget my dad, Gabriel. If you have any reason to think Liv needs me, say the word and I'm on my way."
"She's fine."
"Okay, then. I trust you to make that call." Not exactly true. He didn't trust that Gabriel would necessarily be able to tell, but he did trust that Gabriel would tell him if Liv had given any indication she wanted Ricky there.
"She's fine," Gabriel said again. "You're seeing her for breakfast, aren't you?"
"I am."
"You can speak to her then."
"I know. Sorry to be a pain. I'll let you go. And thanks. I appreciate you being there for her tonight."
--
What the Saints lacked in numbers, they made up for in cash flow. The Rebels left the meeting salivating at the possibility of a minor trade alliance, declaring the borders fine where they were. Whether the alliance came about depended entirely on the profit analysis Ricky would run after delving deeper into the Rebels' finances, but in the meantime, the Rebels were getting off Saints territory as fast as they could, lest it damage their prospects.
Don, Ricky, and Wallace met briefly back at the clubhouse. After Wallace and CJ left, Ricky grabbed the Rebels file from the back office. He was coming out when his father said, "We need to talk."
"Nope," Ricky said. "Pretty sure we don't."
Don was in his path before he reached the door. "It's becoming a problem."
Ricky stopped dead. "What?"
"You and Olivia."
"I was there tonight for all but five minutes, when I stepped out to talk to Gabriel."
"You're getting too serious about this girl."
Ricky rubbed the back of his neck, struggling to control his temper. "Yes, I am. I'm a helluva lot more serious than I've been about a girl since . . . well, ever, I guess. But it has no impact on my commitment to the club or to school. I went to Miami, without complaint, despite the problem she's having with her ex--"
"You don't want to get mixed up in that."
"Get mixed up--?" He bit his tongue. Keep it calm. Reasonable.
"You said she's with Gabriel tonight. We can't afford to lose him, Ricky."
"And he can't afford to lose us. This isn't about Gabriel, so don't use him as an excuse. It's not about Liv, either, because you like her just fine. So what is the problem?"
"I just don't think this is wise--"
"That's not good enough. I need a reason. A real one."
"You don't belong with her."
"What the fuck does that mean?"
When Don pulled his gaze away, Ricky sidestepped to catch it again.
"No, seriously," Ricky said. "What does that mean?"
"I have a bad feeling . . ."
"A bad feeling? You want me to dump a girl that I'm crazy about because you have a bad feeling?"
Don's jaw set. "I don't like this relationship. Does that work better? I just don't like it, and I want you to end it."
"Is that an order?"
His father gave ground as Ricky tried to close the gap between them.
"No, really," Ricky said. "You're the boss. You can give me the ultimatum: end it or walk away from the club. Is that what you're doing?"
"I'm asking--"
"Quit pissing around, Dad. You're always telling me I need to be decisive. So make up your mind. Are you telling me?"
Don met his gaze. "Yes, I am."
"All right, then." Ricky shucked his jacket and held it out to him. "Here's my answer."
When his dad didn't take the jacket, he dropped it at Don's feet and walked out.
--
Ricky climbed off his bike, then sat there, one foot on the curb, as he shivered. The night wasn't cold, but without his jacket he felt . . . Well, he felt a lot of things.
He rubbed the goose bumps on his arms and looked at Gabriel's condo tower. Liv was up there. All he had to do was park the bike, walk into the lobby, and buzz.
Where's your jacket? That's the first thing she'd say, and then he'd tell her, and her eyes would widen in alarm. Are you crazy?
Yes, maybe.
You don't want to do this, she'd say.
I know . . .
Has he called?
He'd nod and tell her yes, a half-dozen calls and texts from his father, none of which he'd read, let alone answered.
Call him and tell him if he wants to talk, he can meet at your place. Now. I mean it. You don't want to run back to him, but you need to talk about this. You need to fix this.
I know.
She'd hug him and he'd feel her heart pounding, worried for him, and that would calm his own racing heart, reassure him that this could be fixed, that she'd make sure he fixed it.
He knew exactly what she'd say and what she'd do. All the right things.
His father wanted him to give that up? Because he had a bad feeling?
Goddamn it! Ricky knocked the kickstand out hard and swung from his bike. He looked up at the apartment. Then he yanked off his helmet and started for the door. Knowing what Liv would say was one thing, but right now he really needed to hear it.
He strode into the silent lobby. Apartment 5512. He checked his watch. It wasn't ridiculously late yet, but admittedly, if he pushed that button at this hour, he might piss off Gabriel, which he really didn't need. He should text Liv first and make sure she was still up.
He pulled out his phone. He had five voice-mail messages. Four were from Don, but the last was from Liv herself. He hit Play.
"Hey, it's me. Really hoped to catch you before I went to bed." She paused. "Which sounds whiny, doesn't it? Sorry. Long night. I know you're busy. I'll see you in the morning."
He checked the time stamp. It'd come right after he'd stomped out of the clubhouse, ignoring all calls, thinking they were his father.
Liv had had a hellish evening, and she'd gone to bed to get some rest. How could he wake her up and dump his own problems on her? How the fuck had he even considered that? Hey, I know you were reunited with your father in a prison visiting room tonight, but I've got some dad issues, too, so let's talk about mine.
Ricky ran his hand through his hair and exhaled, shaking his head. What the hell was I thinking?
I wasn't thinking. I was reacting. It's all shot to hell and the only good thing left is fifty-five stories up, out of reach. But I'm going to do the right thing and let her sleep.
He pushed open the lobby doors and walked out. As he did, he caught sight of a Volvo parked across the road. The car was running, a man in the driver's seat, the window down as he watched the building. Seeing Ricky, the driver quickly put the window up, but not before Ricky got a look at a familiar face.
Morgan? Are you fucking kidding me?
The car pulled into the street. Ricky strode to his bike and hopped on.
You picked the worst possible night to pull this shit, Morgan. And you're about to find out why.
A REASONABLE MAN
Gabriel paced the living room, checking the locks and the security system, looking out the window, then sitting on the edge of the couch, hoping to settle in for the night, only to be compelled to get up again.
He'd given Olivia the bedroom. He felt better being between her and the front door. The chances of Morgan breaking in were as infinitesimal as the chances that Gabriel had somehow failed to engage the locks or arm the security system, but taking the couch helped dull the edges of his gnawing anxiety.
He should feel better about the situation. He and Ricky had come up with a rational plan for dealing with James Morgan. The problem was that Gabriel was becoming increasingly convinced they were not dealing with a rational man.
He'd had two e-mails from Morgan toda
y. The first had come late morning. A photograph with the subject line "Thought you might want to see this." Which had told Gabriel he almost certainly did not. He'd cautiously opened it on his phone, getting the smallest possible preview before realizing what it was, deleting it, and going into his trash and removing it from there, too, on the off chance he might somehow stumble over it later.
It'd been a picture of Ricky and Olivia. Ricky had told him Morgan had interrupted him and Olivia kissing behind the diner. While Gabriel hadn't seen much before he deleted the picture, he was quite certain "kissing" didn't quite cover the situation. That was not an image he wanted anywhere in his brain.
But it raised the question: What kind of man purposely walks in on his ex-fiancee with another man and takes a photo of them? And sends the picture to someone else? The levels of incomprehensible behavior were too much for Gabriel to even process.
He was looking out the window when he caught a noise from the bedroom. He walked to the closed door and listened, and then reached for the knob. He stopped himself. Yes, there was a bedroom window--fifty-five stories up without even a balcony to climb on. Most likely, Olivia was using the bathroom. His brain whirred through everything she could find in there. The most damning items--the weapons and the money--were gone, though. He'd removed them earlier that day. With Chandler's death, the defense attorney in Gabriel had finally overruled the little boy who needed his security blankets, and he'd stashed them in an untraceable storage locker he kept.
Still, he shouldn't have insisted Olivia take the bedroom. It wasn't about putting her in a safer spot, he realized. It was about giving her a better place to sleep as a way of saying, "I'm sorry for how monumentally I fucked up tonight."
When she'd insisted he stay out of the prison visiting room, he'd racked his brain for what he'd done to deserve the rejection. Whatever the cause, he hadn't taken the snub well. Not until he'd stood at that visiting room door, seen the tears streaming down her face, and all he could think was, Thank God I'm not in there.
It wasn't that he didn't want to deal with her emotional breakdown. He wanted to fix it. To make her feel better. And he didn't know how.
Olivia knew whom to turn to for comfort. She'd wanted Ricky. And he'd talked her out of it. He'd been hurt and, yes, jealous, unwilling to acknowledge that someone else could help her when he could not. So how had he handled the situation? By making it worse.