Page 72 of Biker's Tribute: Property of Bear

I call Owen for advice.

“Don’t do it,” Owen says when he picks up. “Don’t go all in on that pig.”

“I’m not gambling.”

“What’s wrong?” Owen asks, laughing in disbelief, or maybe just outright mocking me. I don’t care. He’s a dickhead.

“My girl went over to her friend’s house… maybe for the night. I need someone to tell me it’s not a stupid idea to break in and bring her back.”

Owen laughs again. “Is this what you call laying low?”

Between the lines: Wyatt is going to kick our asses if you get into trouble.

“I don’t care if I go to prison.”

“You are fucked in the head. What’s wrong? What did you do to her?” He gets more serious, and I remember why I called Owen instead of Wyatt.

“Why are you assuming it’s my fault?”

“Because we’re brothers. And gamblers.”

“She’s in her head because I don’t trust her business partner.”

“You don’t trust anyone. You’re paranoid.”

“I’m not fucking paranoid. I investigated and watched Reed Hollingsworth pull the teeth off some fucking paisano from Pittsburgh…”

My stomach turns. Reed laughed the entire time, but I had to stiffen up to stop myself from getting sick. Darragh was all business about the situation, he didn’t even flinch. I’m not a bitch, but blood is goddamn disgusting. I would have run it a little cleaner so we didn’t have to get rid of all that blood spatter.

“Right. You found out there’s some mob family out in Pittsburgh that hates the Irish, hates the Italians from Buffalo, even if they’re all Italian… Who the fuck cares?”

“That girl could be from a mob family.”

“The black girl?”

“Are you fucking listening, Owen?”

“Can you calm the fuck down?” Owen growls at me, like I’m in the wrong somehow. My brother pisses me off sometimes.

“Not the black girl. Her friend.”

“Is her last name Italian? Does she gesture with her hands when she talks?”

“You’re not funny, Owen.”

“I’m paranoid.”

“What if she doesn’t have her father’s last name? What if she cut him off or something. Or her mom is a goomar”

“You are out of your mind obsessed with this chick,” Owen says. “Why don’t you get her tatted and calm down. Your paranoid thoughts will relax eventually.”

“This isn’t about me being possessive.”

“Have you tried talking to her?”

“Why the fuck would I do that?” I’m beginning to question my judgment for bringing this to Owen in the first place. When has talking to a woman ever made her see reason? I’ve been nothing but kind to Amanda. I even moved back to Boston with her and now… she’s gone and off with this woman I don’t trust.

Owen sighs. “You might get information without flying off the handle. Buy her some flowers, say sorry for being an asshole and get her to come back home.”

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