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“Maison.” My last name is a complaint on his lips.
“Even Maddox thinks there’s too many coincidences to—”
“Maddox?” he snaps, and I feel guilty for putting words into the man’s mouth, but he seemed on board when I spoke with him about it the other day. He had promised to help me get to the bottom of it anyway.
“You spoke with Maddox about an open murder investigation?”
“You put him with me for a ride-along while I was working the case,” I remind him.
“And I figured you’d drag your feet for the day and show him busy work, not give someone once in cuffs for a murder access to details of the crime. Goddamnit, Maison. How could you put me in such a position?”
I fight the sting of tears behind my eyes, refusing to do the girly thing and cry in front of my boss. What is his opinion of me that he’d think I’d waste a day I could be investigating a murder? He should know me better than that.
“How long will I be suspended?” I ask, wanting to know the truth before walking out of here with hope.
“I don’t know, but after learning that, there’s a good chance it’ll be indefinitely. What you’ve done opens us up to so many liabilities.”
He walks away before I can argue further. When I go to hand over the file to Colton, he doesn’t say a word of encouragement before letting me walk out the front door of the police department.
The threat of real tears burns inside of me when I realize I’ll have to find another way home. I’m not going to risk the trouble by taking my issued cruiser home. Hell, with the way my day is going, the chief would probably send Dresden to arrest me for unauthorized use of a motor vehicle.
Chapter 22
Ugly
The ride back to the clubhouse didn’t help clear my head. If anything, it’s even more muddled than it was before.
Complicated isn’t my fucking style. It’s why I don’t pick women up who even hint like they’re looking to date or want something serious. I don’t mess around with single moms. I don’t date college girls with daddy issues. I like dirty fun with straightforward needs.
Whatever the hell is going on with Lennox is beyond fucking complicated. The easiest thing I could do is to just cut ties, but there’s a voice in my head that’s telling me this is more than a coincidence. I can’t let go of the idea that someone is out there trying to set me up. I’ve made no shortage of enemies in my line of work. There isn’t a man or woman on the Cerberus team who can’t say the same. We piss people off. We not only take the means sadistic fucks use for business, the women, men, and children they traffic, we also regularly force their meeting with their maker. Vengeance against any one of us wouldn’t be surprising. It’s why Kincaid and the other officers of the club are so protective of their property. Hell, I’m surprised they haven’t erected a fifteen-foot fence around the many acres owned by the club.
Bishop peeled off somewhere before I turned down the main road toward the clubhouse but when I hear a vehicle, it isn’t him.
I cringe at the sight of the small pickup as it pulls into the parking lot. It’s not unusual for the man to be here. He and Boomer seem to be going as strong as ever these days. I imagine it won’t be long before one of them packs their bags and makes their nighttime routine a little more permanent.
I give Drake a small smile as he pulls in, but then look away. It’s clear he’s been crying, and I want to give the man a little privacy. The driver’s side door opens, but rather than the crunch of gravel under his boots heading to the clubhouse, they’re heading in my direction.
I see the shift, the sadness transforming into anger, and I barely have time to stand from my bike before Drake’s fist is swinging at my face. I have time to stop him, to block the shot, but I don’t. I feel like I deserve a lot more than what he’s capable of dishing out. The fist brings a little heat to it, but I’m a big damn guy, probably fifty percent heavier than Drake is, and he doesn’t even manage to make me take a step back.
I hold my hands up near my ears as Drake pulls his fist back once again, but he doesn’t swing a second time. He speaks, and it’s ten times worse than if he took a bat to my face.
“You were supposed to protect her,” he seethes, spittle flying from his mouth as tears begin to flow down his cheeks.
I could argue that I saw her home, that she was as safe last night as she was every night this week. I could tell him that neither of us could’ve predicted this would happen, but I don’t. It wouldn’t help, and honestly, I doubt he’d believe it any more than I do.
