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“Put those in the oven,” I tell Trixie as I lift the receiver. “Hello?” I say into the telephone.
A man’s deep voice, smooth as silk, flows from the other end. “May I speak with Boone?”
“I’m sorry, Boone isn’t here at the moment. I’ll be happy to take a message.”
The man’s voice and tone never change, and he’s so polite butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. “Please let him know that I haven’t received my payment, and I think he should know about it.”
“Yes, of course,” I reply. “May I have your name?”
He laughs. “Boone will know who I am,” he says. The next thing I hear is the click of him disconnecting the call. I replace the receiver, a strange sensation skittering down my spine.
I turn back to Trixie and paste a smile on my face. “All right,” I say, deliberately shoving the conversation into a box to take out and examine later. “Let’s get everything for the spaghetti out, and I’ll show you how I make homemade spaghetti sauce.”
13
Fist
It’s late when we get back from Salt Lake City. We’re all tired from the ride and from the bullshit we handled with Tyler. I get off the bike and roll my shoulders to try and release some of the tension. I look up and see the scatter of stars in the dark sky. Tonight, they don’t give me a sense of peace like they usually do. I hear footsteps and turn toward the sound, a smile ghosting over my lips when Mindi comes into view.
Her hair’s pulled back in a ponytail, and she’s wearing a purple shirt that highlights her pale skin. Her legs are encased in dark gray pants, and her eyes are scanning the area.
“Oh, Fist, I’m so glad you all are back. Where’s your father?” she asks.
I tilt my head at her question. “He probably went straight to his own house,” I tell her.
She nods and starts to walk past me. I grab her arm to stop her. “Hey, what’s this? I just got back from a run, and you’re gonna go see my pops?”
She smiles a little. “I’m sorry. Someone called earlier and left a message with me for Boone. I wanted to tell him as soon as I could before I forgot. It seemed urgent,” she adds quietly. She rises to her tiptoes to brush a feather-light kiss across my lips, and my dick twitches. Before I can grab her and suggest we go to bed, she’s walking toward Dad’s door.
I hurry to catch up to her. “What was the message?” I ask. Mindi flicks her eyes at me, and I can see the worry in them as she bites her lower lip. It’s almost like she doesn’t know if she should tell me or not.
Finally, she stops and sighs. “It was a man, a man with a deep voice,” she tells me. “He said something about not getting his payment. There was something . . . eerie, something off about the whole thing,” she explains. “I just want to tell Boone. I think it’s important.”
I nod. “What else did he say?”
“Nothing. That was it. When I asked him for a name, he laughed and said Boone would know who he was.”
I nod again, worry shimmying into my belly. “Come on, I’ll go with you. Maybe we can catch him before he gets ready for bed.”
When we get there, Dad opens the door to my knock and, with brows raised, beckons us to come in. He has a short glass of whiskey in his hand and bare feet, his jeans already unsnapped and his shirt off. “What can I do for you?” he asks, a note of tiredness evident in his voice.
Mindi hesitates, then tells him about the message. When she’s through, Dad fastens his eyes on mine.
“Thank you, Mindi,” he says just as there’s another knock on the door. “Come in!” Dad yells, and the door opens and closes as Cracker comes inside.
Dad’s gaze flicks to my brother and then back to me. “Cracker, please walk Mindi back to the clubhouse and then come back.” His voice gentles when he turns to Mindi. “This isn’t personal, sweetheart. It’s club business.”
Mindi nods at once. “I know that. I understand. Please don’t worry about it.” She leans forward and places a soft kiss against his cheek before squeezing my hand and heading for the door.
Cracker walks out with her, and Dad pours two more glasses of whiskey while we wait on him to get back. He comes in and takes the glass Dad holds out.
“What’s up?” Cracker asks.
Dad fills him in and finishes with, “What do you think, boys? Is this a credible threat or an idle one?”
“I’ve never known Red to make an idle threat,” Cracker says wryly.
“That was my thought, too,” I say.
