Page 65 of Savage Daddies

Bullwhip sits up. “Enlighten us.”

The man turns to Wrangler. “You assaulted an officer.” He turns to Bullwhip. “Several.”

“And we’re sorry about that, but it was just the heat of the moment.” Wrangler fidgets in his seat. “Look, can we go? We’re working.”

“So are we.”

“Are you aware?” questions the second, “how serious of an offence this is?”

“Yes,” says Bullwhip. “And we’re sorry.”

I twiddle my thumbs, unsure how to contribute.

Baldie slips a laptop out of his briefcase and opens the lid. The white screen illuminates the network of fine lines on his face. Poor guy. Looks closer to sixty than fifty. I underestimated his age earlier. His fingers type something into the machine. Then he stops to click a couple times. His eyes peer at me over the top of the device.

“You.” He returns to the screen momentarily as if to check that the details are correct before he speaks them. “Harrison Reeves. You used to work as a literature teacher. Why did you leave?”

“Mental health leave. I was going through a divorce.”

It’s the truth. Some of it…except the midlife crisis part.

“Where are you employed now? Your social security number shows no current record of work.” Eyeing the other two, he types away again, probably to locate their records. He scratches his chin. Looks up at us. “Are none of you currently employed?”

“I’m on vacation,” lies Wrangler. “From Texas.”

“And I’m—” Bullwhip clears his throat. “Currently doing cash-in-hand jobs.”

“What trade?”

“Bike mechanics.”

“None of you are paying taxes. Are you all aware of this?”

Great. Fucking great.

“Yes,” I say. “But that’s because I’m currently seeking employment.”

“And you?” Baldie turns to Bullwhip.

“I’ll sort them out ASAP. I file them myself.”

A silence stretches between us as the two officers tap away on the computer together.

My heart thumps, breath shallow. One wrong word could ruin everything Grizzly has built. None of us can afford to see Venom Vultures taped up in yellow police tape. I took a gamble, and I can’t afford to lose. Even the safety net of returning to teaching is out of the equation now that I have this on record. Wrangler can’t afford to go under either, especially since he’s funding his parents’ retirement. And Bullwhip…I don’t know what the fuck he’ll do since killing is the only thing he excels in.

The door flies open again to reveal three more officers suited in sandstone.

“The meeting is finished. Now, you’ll each be escorted to a cell where you will stay the night.”

Oh, you’re fucking joking.

What about Zoe?

Where is she while all of this is going on?

An officer ushers me up, locks his hands around my wrists, and guides me out of the room. We lead the other two down a gray corridor that houses criminals. Most seem to accept their fate, but one young delinquent in cell number sixty-four screams, “Try a salad for lunch next time you big fat ugly slug.”

Cell eighty-two is home for tonight. Wrangler and Bullwhip disappear into other cells, each a fair distance apart. Great. We can’t even chat.

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