Page 59 of Devil's Own: Roughneck

The woman throws a well-manicured hand to her chest along with a sudden look of shock and horror. “Are you keeping her prisoner? Is that why she’s not here with you?”

“Prisoner?” I ask. This time there’s no holding back the laugh and the woman glares at me as if just realizing I’m standing next to her son-in-law.

“I’d like to speak with my daughter.”

Sarge shrugs. “Then call. I don’t have any control over that.”

“My Greer was a good girl until she met you. Now you have her…” The woman lowers her voice to a whisper. “Living in sin, with two children. It’s not right.”

“Not sure where you got that idea.” Sarge lifts his left hand, showing off his wedding ring. “I don’t believe in the concept of ‘living in sin,’ but we’re married. Been married since the last time she saw you.”

The sound of a boat engine interrupts the conversation. I keep looking over my shoulder while he tries to get rid of her. “Listen, I’m here for work.”

It’s almost comical how fast her face morphs from upset to hurt. “My daughter got married without telling me?” The bitch threw Greer to the metaphoric wolves for her husband and to keep her cush lifestyle, and she’s surprised that Greer didn’t call to invite her to the wedding? God, is she unhinged?

“Do you think you deserved to know?” he snaps and she winces. Yeah, he’s made his point. “Now I have—”

“I have grandchildren?” she whispers.

“Fuck. I have to—”

“What are their names?” she asks next. This bitch isn’t taking the hint.

“Our little girl is named Tasha after a friend of Greer’s who passed away.”

“Oh—that’s…”

“Yeah,” Sarge replies. “And our boy’s name is Ace. Tasha’s the spitting image of her mom. Ace, he looks a lot like her, too, at least right now.”

“Can I see them?” she asks.

He sighs, pulling his wallet out of his pocket, and unfolds it to pull out a couple of photos. An up-close one of both the kids and a family one where they’re all smiling. The kind of kick-in-the-gut photo where she can see that he’s keeping them happy. Their happiness shines through that damn picture. Any man would count himself lucky to have a family that beautiful, and any mother—orgood mother—should sleep well knowing her daughter has a man like that in her life.

Tears roll down the woman’s cheeks. He pinches his eyes shut for a moment before shoving the photos into her hand. “Here,” he says, and I swear gratitude radiates from her face as she holds them close like she’s holding the actual children and not their likenesses on paper—something I never thought I’d see, given Greer’s history with her family.

“Monique,” some other bitch calls out and she turns her head. “Come away from there,” the woman shouts.

“I need to go,” Monique says. “I’m having lunch with Louise.”

“Listen, I don’t know how Greer will receive any contact from you, but maybe try calling. It’s up to her whether or not you ever get to see the kids in person.”

And shit, the bitch rests her hand on Sarge’s arm for a moment before turning to leave. “I have to call my wife,” he says. Then it’s back to business for us.

About time.

18

After that huge meal, I just want to sleep. It’s amazing how my phone still hasn’t rung with anyone asking where the hell we are. It didn’t hurt that the three of us had been working from our rooms. Me studying to get my certification in Kentucky, Danni doing her online college courses. She does in person sometimes, but with the life they’d been leading, she and Green had decided she should take as many online as possible. Could he tell the future or what? And Dusty had been doing Zoom consultations to pass the time. All this means Waite shouldn’t come looking for us. Hopefully, the next time Rough calls, we’ll be safely back at the compound.

Dusty, Danni, Gillian, and I lie low in the hotel until it’s time for us to go. We stop at a Walmart to grab something that might look like what strippers would wear to work. We grab makeup, hairspray, combs, all that stuff. Obviously, Dusty isn’t going in as a dancer. She’s lookout. Danni and Dusty are both packing heat. I don’t own a firearm yet. We climb into Gill’s Kia and take off for Lexington.

The four of us walk into a McDonald’s restroom looking like everyday,running errands-type of women and walk out looking like strippers. A few facially constipated women make comments, and there are more than a few low, slow whistles and “Damn, baby” directed our way before we make it to the Kia. Then we head to the meet. We park at the convenience store across from the strip club and wait until we see the silver SUV.

We stagger one at a time and in small groups inside the establishment. As far as I can see, the best part of the plan is that we don’t have to work there; we just need those bikers to think we do. And with all the short, tight skirts and cleavage from glittery bikini-style tops on display, I guarantee they won’t question us.

Trish got a description of the men from the woman she talked to by nonchalantly asking like she wanted to know if she knew the men. The woman hoped she didn’t because, as she put it, “They’re crusty, nasty-ass, rank pieces of no-good shit.”

Don’t hold back. Tell us how you really feel.

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