Page 54 of Spyder
I wave him off but can’t stop the small laugh that passes my lips. I take a drink of my beer as he grins at me.
“So y’all are basically a couple at this point, but you’re all butthurt because she hasn’t said those three little words just yet?”
As ridiculous as it sounds in my own head, it sounds ten times more ridiculous when he puts it that way and I suddenly regret bringing it up at all. But then, Domino’s expression grows serious.
“Did you stop to consider the fact that you’ve had these feelings for Bellamy like, for basically forever? You’ve been carrying this torch you’ve got for her since high school, man. This is still a new thing to her. Of course, she’s not going to spit those words out right away. You know her. She’s always been a cautious, conservative girl. Did you think that would change overnight?” he asks.
“Well, no. Not really. But I—”
“Just give her a little time, man. Even if she hasn’t said it, that don’t mean she’s not feelin’ it. I mean, the fact that she’s been with you just about every waking moment means something,” he goes on. “But when you actually say the words, it changes things. That’s when shit gets real. And Bellamy has never been a jump-into-the-deep-end-of-the-pool-straight-away kinda girl. You know that. So, cut her a little slack and go easy on her.”
Everything he’s saying is true and somewhere in this addled mess in my brain, I know it—have known it—and it’s good to hear him say it. It actually does make me feel a bit better about things. I open my mouth to tell him, but then the door to the clubhouse bangs open, hitting the wall behind it with a hard thud that’s loud even over the music that’s blaring.
“Turn that shit off,” Sheriff Singer demands.
All eyes turn to Prophet, who’s sitting off in a corner with Doc and Cosmo—we take our orders from him, not Singer. Prophet gives one of the guys a nod and a moment later, the music cuts off and silence drops over the room. All eyes are on the sheriff, who is looking none too pleased at the moment. He takes off his aviator shades and stands in the doorway, his thumbs hooked into his gun belt, surveying the room around him.
“We got a report of a gunfight out at the old Steadman cabin,” he announces. “Reporting witness came in today to tell us about it. Said it happened a couple weeks back and sounded like a goddamn war was startin’ out there.”
If he expected anybody to say anything, he must have been disappointed. Nobody said a word for several long moments. Singer studied us all, looking like he was waiting for one of us to stand up and confess to igniting World War III. Fat chance of that happening.
“Why’d it take them a couple of weeks to report it?” Prophet finally asks.
Singer shrugs. “No idea. But the fact is they reported it. So, we went out there and guess what we found?”
“That a war hadn’t actually been started?” Prophet said. “That maybe one was averted instead?”
“Huh,” Singer says, rubbing his stubbly jawline. “Don’t know about that, but what we did find was a cabin riddled with bullet holes and blood everywhere.”
“Wow. Sounds intriguing,” Prophet says. “But since the old Steadman place is actually outside town limits, that means you don’t have jurisdiction out there. So… what’s the issue here, Sheriff?”
Singer’s face turns beet red and his nostrils begin to flare as he narrows his eyes on Prophet—all sure signs of an impending explosion.
“Don’t get cute with me, Prophet. You know what the issue is. This war you’re having with the cartel has got to stop. It’s getting really goddamn close to the town—”
Prophet shot to his feet, anger painting his features. “And it’d be a whole lot closer if we weren’t doing what we’re doing, Sheriff. Do you even know how many shipments of drugs bound for Blue Rock we’ve shut down? And those assholes in the Steadman cabin were cartel soldiers here for one reason and one reason alone… to start a war. So, yeah, we took care of business.”
“That’s not your job, Prophet. I can’t have you out here runnin’ and gunnin’ like this. This shit’s gettin’ messy,” Singer hisses.
My own frustration boils over and I get to my feet. To be fair, my frustration is only partly directed at Singer. If I’m being honest, most of it’s because of my situation with Bellamy. It doesn’t stop me from lashing out, though.
“It’d be a whole lot messier if we weren’t doing everything in our power to keep Zavala out of Blue Rock, Sheriff,” I almost shout. “We’re putting our asses on the line to protect you and this fucking town.”
The silence in the clubhouse is so absolute, it feels like we’re in a vacuum. All eyes turn to me, the expressions on the faces of the guys ranging from amusement to surprise. I’m not usually big on making speeches or anything, so my outburst caught everybody off guard. Like I said, my frustration boiled over. At the wrong time, obviously. And now, given the fact that Singer is staring at me like he wants to physically tear my head off my shoulder, I should probably tone things down a bit.
“Look, I’m sure your deputies are good guys, Sheriff,” I say, trying to mollify him. “But Zavala’s guys are animals. Your boys are not ready to roll with that. We are. And so, we’re doing what we have to do.”
“Stand down, Spyder,” Prophet says gently.
I give him a nod and take my seat as Prophet walks over to the sheriff, and together, they walk outside to continue the conversation. I drain the last of my bottle as Domino looks at me, chuckling.
“Wow. Somebody’s nuts just dropped. I’m impressed,” he says.
“Eat a dick.”
We laugh together for a moment and he counsels me further on the situation with Bellamy. Eventually, Prophet comes back in and closes the door behind him, and I hear the sheriff’s SUV rev up and drive out of the compound. Prophet looks at us for a moment, then looks over at Doc and Cosmo, giving them a nod before turning back to us. His face is grim but determined.
“Singer’s okay. He’s still in with us,” Prophet says. “We need to keep him in the loop, but he did say he appreciates all of us putting our asses on the line. He isn’t discounting what we’re doing out here.”
