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CHAPTER SIXTEEN
*Chaz “Cash” - Treasurer*
Those of our crew who remained when Kal shepherded Lace into the office entered a strange sort of purgatory. An odd energy engulfs the room — a contradictory one reeking of both guilt and accusation.
Each member holds a piece to the puzzle of what happened last night — of why things suddenly shifted. Except for me. And it is very clear based on how everyone is behaving that none of them are willing to toss their piece onto the table.
So here we are, an enormous and obscure puzzle with too many jagged holes to make out the big picture. Somehow, Lace is all the coveted edge pieces acting as the framework.
I slide out the nearest saddle stool, plop down onto its torn leather seat, and adjust my gaiter over my head to hold my hair back for the upcoming ride. The charity booth opens soon, but our road captain appears to be too high to lead the formation. Vincent too high, what a concept. His eyes are so damn red you can hardly tell they were ever blue.
Brodi is just as bad but on the opposite end of the spectrum. He paces, biting his nails to the skin, stopping only occasionally to lift a finger in thought and mutter something.
Their assignment really did a number on them. I recognized the name our employer called out immediately. Harry Kensington. An instant rage shot through me at the thought of that man beating on my girl. Father or not. But coming to the understanding that the hit was supposed to be someone else was even worse. My heart fucking breaks for Lace. Not only for her, but for Brodi and Vee, too; one of them killed an innocent man last night — one of our biggest fears in this gig.
Then seeing Kal take her sister and Lace scramble out behind him then having to be the bad guy and hold her back. Fuck. Why Reece was in the dressing room of the saloon to begin with is just another damn missing puzzle piece.
Getting angrier and angrier about the entire, murky situation, my scrutiny moves toward the man in charge of giving us the assignments.
Baylor completely dissociated himself and is now sitting at the far end of the bar with his stool spun around so that his back is against the counter and the assignment folder is in his lap. His eyes flick slowly around the room, his mind undoubtedly replaying everything from when we picked up the folder to when he handed Brodi and Vee their assignment.
Zane is the only one in here who appears completely unfazed by the melting pot of shit being stirred. Damn, what I would give to get even a taste of that innocent ignorance. The name Harry Kensington means nothing to him. Lace means nothing to him. Not yet at least. Likely not ever. When she finds out, all of Hell for Leather will be just as dead to her as her father is.
I am struggling to decide what is worse — how my gut wrenches knowing my family is hurting, or how hard and fast my heart pounds knowing one of them is to blame. The anger, the disappointment, the precursory loss.
Unable to sit in this goddamn stifling mock courtroom any longer, I shoot out of the stool and barrel into the bathroom. My fist immediately comes into contact with the wooden frame of a stall.
Shaking the zinging throb out, I spin around and lean back against the beam, and my eyes crash into my reflection in the mirror.
My entire face is framed in black, the gaiter doing a damn good job keeping my long hair contained and hidden. The small yellowing bruise Coty left on my cheek peeks out from under the material.
For once, I wish he was here. I might like fucking with Coty, but him being reprimanded and not permitted to interact with Lace is real damn concerning.
Coty may be tormented and possessed, even on his good days, but he always knows where she is and what she is doing when it matters. In his own, psychotic way, he protects her — mostly from herself. She does the same for him.
Did it escape my notice that Lace is chasing a high just like Vee? Not a chance. Who will keep as sharp of an eye on her as Coty does, and who will be her primary protector now? Someone has to, and I am more than happy for that someone to be me, but being the general fuck-up that I tend to be around her might make me not the ideal candidate.
The bathroom door flies open, and Kal barges in, chest heaving and eyes way more wild than what is usual for him. Seeing me sets him straight, though. He takes a slow breath, nostrils flaring from the effort of keeping it controlled, and approaches the sink. Dried blood paints one hand and fresh blood coats the other as he grips the countertop.
Here in Hell for Leather the idiom about having blood on one’s hands is usually pretty damn literal. Since his hands were clean when we first walked into Tit for Tat today, and the rest of us are perfectly fine, I can only assume the person on the other end of that rage was either Coty, Kio, or Lace.
Kal flicks up the faucet, sucks in a breath, and clenches his fist under the running water.
“Need me to have Brodi get the trauma kit?” I ask.
He nods.
Feeling ballsy and impatient, I follow with the real question for which I want an answer: “Who should he bring the kit to first? You… or Lace?”
His head slings upright and gaze flashes at me through the mirror. “Lace will be fine.”
Being well-practiced in when to fight and when to flight, I quirk an eyebrow, push away from the stall beam, and take my leave.
On the bright side, this will be good for Brodi — give him something outward to focus on for a few minutes. My hand pressing down on his shoulder, I stop his pacing. “Prez needs a checkup.”
His brown, saucer eyes bound up to my face, but the fog lingering in them tells me he didn’t absorb the information, so I repeat and elaborate: “Prez cut up his hand and needs medical assistance.”
Brodi nods, stalks out the front door, and rushes right back in, trauma kit in hand. Kal emerges from the bathroom, and the two of them meet at the center of the room. Kal sits at one of the tables. Brodi sits beside him and gets straight to work.
