Page 21 of Roses Are Dead
Satisfied I hadn’t pilfered anything of his, he tossed the empty backpack at me. “Clean that shit up.”
I stuffed everything back into its place under both of their watchful eyes. Bear took the bag from me, then Carl groped me. His hand poked at my crotch and squeezed my boobs hard as he made certain I had nothing stuffed down my pants or into my shirt.
His grin as he smoothed along the cilice was awful. His hand paused where the tape residue made the fibers in the fabric dig in worse. He leaned close and whispered, “Try to keep this. I’ll want you in it when you return.”
Then he shoved me at Bear. “You’ll love her under garments. They’re custom made.”
The night air was chillier than I had anticipated. I shivered as Bear herded me onto the back of his bike. Carl watched us leave, standing in the doorframe, lit from behind. Almost like a parent bidding their child goodbye. Light bounced off his sinister grin.
Bear fired up the motorcycle, and I grabbed onto his coat to avoid being tossed off by the violent jerk of power as he tore out of Carl’s realm and entered his.
I was truly screwed. Loaned to a biker with less care than a library book gets. I should just let go and roll to my death.
One thing kept me clutching at the dirty black leather coat Bear wore.
It was doubt.
What if Beth didn’t get better? What if I needed Carl to save her again? If I were dead, no one would be able to con or bargain with him to help. No pleas for mercy would be heard. That was beyond his ability to care. Carl only helped himself. I knew this long before I’d approached him for a deal. It was a miracle he’d agreed.
It was an even bigger miracle that he hadn’t demanded more.
6
Bear
This wasn’t in the plan. I drove—not exactly paying attention to the road as much as I was trying to figure out the point in the conversation where Carl took the upper hand.
I’d reacted as expected. I got a good deal. Carl’s promise of eight grand on time and a buyout at the end of the month was better than good. We finally could cut Carl loose without him setting us up.
So, why did this sit all wrong?
The girl clinging to my back was one good reason. The other was Carl’s utter lack of fear. The only times he showed any emotion were when he dangled Roishin by the hair and when he corrected me on the date.
What kind of nutjob gets that worked up about a fucking holiday? And what was that shit about martyrs? I had some research to do.
Good thing I could delegate. I slowed down and pulled over along the highway. Out of habit, I put my hand on Roishin’s leg and said, “Stay seated, just making a call.”
She squirmed.
What if she bolted? I tightened my hand and tried to scroll for Skinner’s number with my thumb. It wasn’t working well and took longer than I wanted it to.
The connection finally went through.
“Yo, you out?”
“I am. Got a rabbit hole for you. Why would someone call November first the day of martyrs?”
Behind me, Roishin made a noise.
“Call you back.” I disconnected the call and twisted around to lay down the law. “When I’m talking to my brothers, you don’t listen, and you don’t make a sound. Got it?”
“In the year 609 or 610, Pope Boniface the Fourth stole, sorry, converted the Pantheon from use by the polytheist worshippers in Rome to reconsecrate it to the Virgin Mary and the martyrs of the Christian church. It was celebrated on May first until Pope Gregory the Third stole Samhain from the Celts and designated that day as the day the Church would remember the consecration. It was named All Saint’s Day for the martyrs—of which, they collected like Pokémon by that point.”
Her eyes dipped to my neckline.
I glanced down to where my hammer had worked its way out of my shirt from the vibration of the bike. Then looked at Roishin, where she waited for a response.
“Fuck those assholes.”
