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Sasha smiles as Trixie and I embrace. “Do you want to look at maid of honor dresses now?”
“Yes,” I reply.
Trixie shakes her head. “I don’t have the money for a dress from here,” she tells me sadly. “I can do JC Penny or Macy’s, but that’s about it.”
“Don’t worry about that,” I tell her. “You don’t have to pay for the dress. Fist gave me plenty of cash,” I tell her proudly. “And he told me I could spend however much I want on whatever I want.”
“Well, in that case, I look best in bright colors.”
We laugh and look over several dresses that Sasha suggests. They’re all lovely, but the one that catches our eye the most is a floor-length silk dress with a lace boat neck and cap sleeves in hibiscus pink. A bow adorns the waist, and there’s another bow at the back, on the keyhole neck.
Trixie tries it on, and it’s a perfect fit. She picks out some shoes, four-inch heels with ankle straps, and Sasha assures us they can be dyed to match the dress.
When Sasha rings us up and rattles off the total, I wince and swallow hard. While I know it could have been much worse, I still can’t believe I’m about to yank out this much cash. But I can’t lie, as I feel a frisson of excitement when it goes through with no problem.
With a giddy laugh, Trixie bumps my hip with hers when we’re back outside. “Damn it, girl, that was fun. Thank you for the dress.”
“Thank you for being my friend. Oh, look!” I cry, pointing to a window display. “Wedding night lingerie. “Want to help me pick it out?”
Trixie rubs her hands together. “Lead on.”
Soon we’re laughing as we look at all the selections. There’s everything you can think of: lace and leather, crotchless and edible, you name it. I fist my hand on my hips and cock my head.
“Straight slut or romantic?” I ponder out loud.
“Romantic slut,” she tells me with a grin. “The best of both worlds.” She points to a concoction of frothy black lace with a matching robe.
I finger the material and can instantly see myself wearing it on my wedding night. “Sold,” I announce.
We gather our bags and head to the nail salon for our pedicures, talking about what we’d like to eat for lunch. I’ve never had a better girl’s day than this one, and I hum happily as my toenails get painted a pretty shade of periwinkle.
17
Fist
Dad asked Glacier and me to come with him to talk to Red the night before, and we instantly agreed. We left just before eight, sliding silently into the truck and leaving the clubhouse. The silence continues as we drive north into more rural country. Soon, all that we can see are fields and the occasional stand of trees. Dad has the windows down, and the breeze swirls through the truck, bringing the damp scent of incoming rain.
Dad finally speaks up. “It’s just a few hundred feet up on the left.” Dad pulls his silver Dodge Ram onto a rutted field road in the middle of nowhere. We climb out of the truck but don’t even have time to say anything before Red comes toward us in his red Jeep Cherokee.
A sudden rainstorm sends warm showers of wet cascading down, but none of us move as we wait on Red to get out of his jeep. Finally, he emerges wearing his usual uniform: khaki pants, combat boots, and an olive green long sleeve t-shirt. His black ball cap with white letters that spell out SHERIFF is tugged down low over his black eyes, shading them and covering his short, dark hair.
His voice smooth as honey, he asks, “Boone, what the fuck is going on? Where’s my money?”
Dad replies in an even, controlled voice. “Tyler was skimming product and money from the club, and it took us a while to realize the problem. It’s been handled.”
Red’s black eyes flash fire, and his mouth turns grim. “Where is this Tyler fucker? Where do you have him stashed? I’d like to have a word with him.”
“We don’t have him stashed anywhere. He’s dead,” Dad replies flatly. “He stole from the Reapers Rejects. He doesn’t get to live.”
“Goddamn you, Boone!” Red yells. “You go too far! You don’t get to just kill the fucker! You don’t get to make that decision!”
Dad takes a couple of steps forward until he’s almost bumping chests with Red. “Yes, I do,” he says softly. “Especially when the fucker messes with my family.”
Red’s eyes track from Dad to me and back again. Dad continues speaking. “Tyler was the worst kind of shit person you can think of. Stealing from the club was bad enough, but the bastard dared to put his hands on my daughter-in-law.”
A muscle tics in Red’s jaw as he digests Dad’s words. Finally, he speaks. “I’m sorry for your daughter-in-law, Boone. Truly. A man shouldn’t use his hands on a woman that way. But that’s not my problem, and Tyler was mine. Tell me what intel you got. Maybe that will lead us somewhere.”
When Dad remains silent, Red loses his shit. He lets out a short scream of pure frustration as he jerks a Glock from the holster at his side and aims it at Dad, his thumb dangerously close to the trigger.
