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She laughed. “Ape Hangers are the giant handlebars people put on their motorcycles.”
“Ahh,” I said, swallowing my embarrassment. I should have known that. We had investigated a biker gang or two for money laundering while I was with the state police. “That makes sense.”
“It’s also a bar not far from here.”
Bingo. I made a mental note to check it out. See who hung out there and whether there was any drug activity. Though I’d learned long ago not to generalize, bikers and opioids were a pretty common combination.
Wiping down the bench, I dipped my chin, gathering my courage. “What about that guy?” I asked, darting a look at the large man who’d spoken to her when she first arrived. “The Viking dude.”
She dragged her attention over to where he was running on a treadmill, his muscles gleaming. I swore her pupils dilated right then and there. Not that I blamed her; the guy was walking testosterone.
“He’s a Hebert.” She scowled, as if the words tasted bitter in her mouth. “Their timber company is our biggest rival, and every one of them is the human equivalent of horrible period cramps.”
I let out a giggle, only to slap my hand over my mouth abruptly when I saw the fury in her eyes.
“There’s a lot of bad blood between our families. Going way back. Thankfully, I don’t have to deal with them often. Henri does, though. We share the roads up north with them. They’re experts at not pulling their own weight while simultaneously taking credit for everything.” She was seething while angrily spraying disinfectant over a weight bench.
I watched her every move, studying her body language, the things she wasn’t saying, trying to peel back the layers of her anger.
She rounded on me quickly, narrowing her eyes. “They should be at the top of your list. I don’t trust those slimy fuckers. Your first task should be to dig through their lives like a raccoon in a trash can.”
“I will,” I said, schooling my features to keep from laughing at her poetic metaphor.
* * *
Physically exhausted but mentally energized, I headed back to Paz’s house. The visit to the gym had given me a handful of threads to pull on, and I was itching to get to my laptop and start digging.
What sort of shit were the Heberts into if the bad blood went back generations? And could I get close enough to figure it out?
Paz was in the kitchen when I toed off my sneakers and headed to the sink to refill my empty water bottle.
He had files spread out on the countertop, and he was wearing only a white undershirt and sweatpants. Yowza.
I took a moment, just a quick one, to admire the way the sleeves of the shirt stretched over his arms and shoulders. He could attempt to hide behind the European car and fancy watches, but those shoulders gave him away. He had strong, capable country boy written all over him, despite his best efforts to pretend otherwise.
But why was he working so hard to hide it? The town, the business, the rural lifestyle. What was it that had made him resent it all so much?
And then he opened his mouth, reminding me that those delicious shoulders came with an obnoxious personality. “You’re back,” he said, voice dripping with condescension. He didn’t even look up from his paperwork.
I threw my bag onto the counter, making him startle in his seat. “Whatcha working on? Calculating the balance of your 401(k)?”
He finally looked up and gave me a withering glare. Too bad it took a lot more to push me away.
If there was any justice in this world, Pascal Gagnon would be short and bald, and he’d probably have a massive goiter. Instead, he was tall, dark, and handsome. The most confusing and tantalizing combination of polished suit daddy and rugged lumbersnack rolled into one.
He was a suit, in personality and spirit, but that body—the broad shoulders, the barrel chest, thick thighs—was 100 percent axe-wielding lumberjack.
And I was a connoisseur of the lumbersnack. This was Maine. Even in a city as big as Portland, there were plenty of pretenders. Yuppies in flannel and guys who didn’t remove their wool beanies in July.
But this man? He was the real thing.
How did I know this? Because Imayhave done some light internet research and stumbled upon a YouTube video of Paz and his brothers at a timbersports competition. It was impossible not to be mesmerized by the way he wielded a chainsaw while wearing a tank top.
Did I rewatch it a few dozen times?
Yes. But I was an investigator. It was my job to look carefully and study all the details.
Like the veins in his forearms, the tight bubble butt practically bursting the seams of his jeans, the set of his jaw, and the determined look in his eyes when he wielded a massive blade.
