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“It wasn’t enough money, and one day, Mandi showed up at Stevie’s house bloodied and bruised. She said it was a warning that worse would happen if she didn’t get the money.”
“Jesus.” I feel like I’m in a bad dream.
“It scared Stevie bad, and she agreed to meet with the reporter who supposedly was going to pay ten thousand dollars for a story. Apparently, her mom had tried to get her to meet with this guy awhile back, but she refused. Now she was terrified they’d kill her mom and didn’t see any other way out. She went there to listen to what he had to say, and she admittedly didn’t know what she was going to do. But ultimately, she wasn’t willing to betray you, even to save her own mother, so she left.”
“So, Stevie had told her mom everything, and her mom told the reporter?” I ask, dumbfounded.
“No. Stevie wouldn’t share that stuff with her mom,” Coen drawls in a tone that says I’m an idiot. “But she put it in some diary, and her mom stole it. Stevie didn’t realize it was even gone until after you showed her the article.”
“Fuck,” I mutter, taking two steps back and sitting down hard on the bench. What a web Stevie was caught in, and knowing all of this now… I just… I can’t be mad.
In fact, I feel quite sick.
She was scared and desperate, but ultimately, she chose me over her mother.
“Fuck,” I curse louder.
Stevie only wanted five minutes of my time, and this is the story she was going to tell me. It would have made all the difference in the world.
Instead, I gave her up without a second thought.
Just like her mother did all those years ago.
Coen’s hand comes down on my shoulder. “One more thing you need to know. Her mom made it all up, or at least, that’s what it looks like. Stevie went to confront her and was told by a neighbor she went to St. Lucia, presumably with the money she was paid for that journal.”
My head snaps back to look at him. “Are you serious?”
“That’s what Harlow said,” says Stone, finally able to join in the discussion now that someone else spilled the secret. “Sorry… Stevie made Harlow promise not to say anything to you, and well… my loyalty is with Harlow, dude.”
“Forgiven,” I say, especially since he managed to get the information to me, anyway, in a slick workaround. “I’m going to strangle Stevie’s mom.”
“Apparently, John has first dibs,” Stone says.
“And the diary?” I ask, because I know how important that damn thing is to her. It’s what made her Christmas gift to me so special, because of how much she cherishes the words inside.
Coen shrugs. “No clue where it is, but she doesn’t have it.”
My blood boils, and the anger I had for Stevie is now directed at her mother, but there’s still plenty for myself. I didn’t give her the benefit of the doubt, and I should have.
Now I’ve got my work cut out for me because I know Stevie well enough to know she’s not going to let me back in. I’ve hurt her on the same level that her mother once did.
Abandonment is abandonment.
The only saving grace is that she once gave her mom a second shot, so I’m hoping she’ll give me the same.
It starts as soon as I get a shower.
?
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous. I wipe my hands on my jeans as I open the front door to Jerry’s. It’s close to midnight, the witching hour for bikers. The place isn’t packed, but every stool at the bar is taken, every table filled, and every pool table has an active game going.
I have no clue if Stevie’s here. She wasn’t at her house, or at least she didn’t answer and the lights were all out. She could be avoiding me, though.
Probably avoiding me.
I walk in and scan for her left and right. One bartender pours a draft beer, but no Stevie.
A hand closes on my shoulder, and I turn. A beefy biker I’ve met before holds his other hand out. “Great game tonight, Hendrix.”
I shake it and smile—in relief as I have no clue if Stevie told anyone how we ended—and pump the handshake. “Thanks, man. Is Stevie working?”
He lifts up slightly out of his stool and looks around. “Yeah… she’s here somewhere. Your first beer’s on me.”
“Thanks,” I say, although I have no clue if I’ll be staying long enough to drink it.
By the time I make it to the far end of the bar, I’ve found her, coming out of the storage room with a bar towel over her shoulder.
She freezes when she sees me, her expression going slack.
“Hey,” I say as I move toward her, my voice gentle because I know she’s wounded. “I was hoping we could talk.”
