GATOR: Wolves MC (Riding With Wolves Book 2) (12 page)

September 15, 2015–Los Angeles, California

J.T. had just been through so much, losing her partner and all—and I wanted nothing more than to comfort her and hold her, especially considering all the complicated shit Crete was telling her. It was a lot to stomach, even for an experienced police detective like J.T.

When Crete speaks, he has a way of monopolizing everyone’s attention, so I could understand why J.T. sat back and listened to him talk on and on for a while. What he said was very important, and the way he said it was always captivating—though for the first time ever, it didn’t captivate me.

Mind you, I listened to Crete as he spoke, but my mind and eyes were more focused on J.T., and my body kept wanting to bridge the space between us.

“Gator,” Crete said, calling me to his attention. He’d just finished telling J.T. about how the stakes had just gotten higher, and now he was speaking to me directly.

“Yeah?” I asked, turning my face toward him.

“Our first step is to figure out who knows about your history with J.T.,” Crete went on. “When Hammer came here earlier, he told me about your reluctance to name names—but now, in light of recent events, I hope you’ll be more forthcoming. Who have you told about your past affiliation with J.T.?”

I set my wine glass down on the table next to J.T.’s and thought for a moment. I was never really one to share
much
about my personal life with many people, but
twelve
years is a lot of years—and a lot of conversations—to remember.

“I told you and Hammer,” I said, starting with the obvious. “Guess I told Tall Boy too—and Butcher… Might have told Tripper back in the day.”

Hammer stood up to get more wine.

“I don’t think it’d be any of
them
,” Crete said. “Who else did you tell? Anyone on the outside?”

“I don’t really talk much to people on the outside,” I replied. “I’m real hesitant to tell anyone anything anymore. Like that lawyer you sent—even after he flashed me the sign, I still wouldn’t talk.”

“What lawyer?” Crete asked, raising his eyebrow.

“The one who came to see me at the station earlier today,” I answered, lowering mine.

“I didn’t send a lawyer to the station,” Crete clarified.

I felt a knot in my stomach.

“Well, he flashed me the ‘W’,” I explained. “And when I asked him who sent him, he said, ‘You know who sent me,’—and I figured he meant you.”

Crete shook his head. “What else did he say to you? What did
you
say to him?” he asked.

“Luckily, I didn’t say much,” I answered. “Like I said, I wouldn’t talk, even after he flashed me the sign. Good thing I didn’t. He wanted to know what my story was, what I was gonna tell J.T., and I said I didn’t know what I was gonna tell her since she hadn’t asked her questions yet.”

“Good, good,” Crete replied, running his hand over his bald brow. “What name did he give you?”

I thought for a moment…
What the fuck was his name?

“Adams,” I said when I finally remembered. “Mike Adams.”

Crete nodded his head and reached into his pants pocket to pull out his high-tech phone. He tapped at the screen for a while, then looked up at me again.

“Mike Adams?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied.

He looked at his phone again. “Are you sure?” he asked.

“He told me ‘Mike Adams,’” I answered.

Crete looked at his phone and hummed a strange sound. “He likely told you the wrong name,” he said before standing up and walking over to me.

“Is this him?” Crete asked, holding his phone out in front of me. I saw a photograph of the same disheveled man who’d I seen several hours earlier, face-to-face.

“That’s him,” I responded, feeling the knot in my stomach get even tighter. “That’s definitely him.”

Crete walked over to the bookshelf and continued examining his phone.

“From what this says,” he explained, “
Adam Michaels
is a disbarred attorney with a rap sheet longer than your hair. He has been brought up on several charges, from professional misconduct and fraud to possession and beyond—and apparently, someone’s pulled him into
this
as well. He was very foolish to give a pseudonym so close to his real name. However, his little slip-up could be the ‘in’ we’re looking for.”

Crete walked back over to his chair and sat down. He typed a few more things on his phone, and then, I heard another phone beep.

“I just sent you his address, Hammer,” Crete said. “I want you to go there—
now
—and see what you can find out. He may or may not be there—and you have my blessing to do whatever you must to get the information we need.”

Hammer stood up from his chair, set his nearly empty wine glass down on the coffee table, and pulled out his cell phone. “Alrighty,” he said, nodding his head at each one of us in turn. “Guess I’ll see you all later then.”

Crete narrowed his gaze on J.T. and me.

“This Adam Michaels character is obviously involved,” he said. “But he’s clearly just a puppet—which means that this lead that we have is just a lead, and we should put no more faith in it than that. We still have to work diligently to come up with whatever else we can. Time
is
of the essence here.

“I need to you to call Tall Boy,” Crete continued, looking at me. “Tell him everything that happened today and tell him to come meet me here.”

Without a word, I went for my cell phone.

“Not here,” Crete added, motioning his head towards the other room.

“O.K.,” I said, as J.T. shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She stared back at me with widened eyes.

“I know I said I wasn’t gonna let you outta my sight for a minute,” I reminded her, leaning closer. “But if there’s anyone in this world I can trust to watch over you in my absence, it’s the two men you just met in this room.”

J.T. smiled back at me, and her wide eyes contracted a bit. I stood up and paused for a moment. I felt the urge to do something chivalrous or romantic—like lean over and kiss her on the forehead before leaving the room. However, I was uncertain how she—or I—would respond. So I stopped myself before I did and walked out of the room to call Tall Boy, as I’d been told.

September 15, 2015–Los Angeles, California

“I really should call and check in with my chief,” I said as soon as Gator left the room.

“You will,” Crete replied, rising from his chair and walking towards me. “But we both know you can’t call him from
my
phone—or from this place.”

Crete sat down next to me on the couch, much closer than where Gator had been seated, and I felt a certain sense of comfort when he did. It was nothing like the comfort I felt next to Gator’s body on his bike—and nothing like the other comfort I yearned for from Gator—but it was a sense of comfort, and I was grateful for it nonetheless.

“As soon as Gator returns from the other room,” Crete continued, “the two of you will leave here, and you’ll be able to make your call… But before that happens, I’d like to have a few more words with you—if I could.”

I hadn’t done a good job detecting things earlier, but my senses were sharpened now. And I could tell—I could just
tell
—that there was no reason to fear or distrust Crete. He had a certain charisma that’s hard to explain, the sort of personality that sits well with everyone. I didn’t know what he did for a living beyond being a biker boss, if he even did anything at all, but I could have very well seen him being a counselor or a teacher, or perhaps a motivational speaker or crisis negotiator.

“Of course,” I said, relaxing my posture and turning towards Crete.

“The things I’ve shared with you tonight,” he began, “are not public knowledge. Nor are they police knowledge. And if at all possible, I’d like to keep it that way. It is very unfortunate that
you
—and your partner—were drawn into this battle. But neither my purposes nor yours will be served by telling others what I’ve told you.

“And please be aware—I told you what I told you to help you. And I trusted you with this information because I trust the man who brought you here—and you should, too. I know that many years have separated you, but Gator is of a rare breed. He still holds tightly to the bond that you once shared, and he’d put himself on the line for you—in an instant—if the situation ever called for it again.”

“I know,” I replied, bowing my head. “The information you’ve shared with me is very sensitive, and so is Gator—and I promise, I’ll handle both with due care.”

“That’s all I ask,” Crete said with a smile.

“Would you like another glass of wine before you go?” he added, looking at the coffee table.

“No thanks,” I answered. “I just needed a little nip to take the edge off and calm my nerves. Anything more and it will dull my senses.”

Crete looked at my wine glass curiously.

“Gator and I had a few beers together after we left the station,” I explained. “So this wine is on top of those beers.”

“Ah, I see,” Crete replied. “I wasn’t aware… But it appears you
have
had a very busy day and night.”

“You can say that again,” I answered, reconsidering what I’d said about having another glass of wine. “So much chaos, so little time. I’m still reeling from seeing Gator again after all these years, and so shocked by some of the things I found out.”

I wasn’t sure why I admitted that last part to Crete. There was just something about him that made me want to open up, tell him the truth, and hear what he had to say.

“I can honestly say,” Crete said, standing up and walking over to the bookshelf, “of all the people I’ve ever met, our Gator is, by far, one of the most interesting. And that’s saying a
lot
, since, as you can imagine, I have met a lot of interesting people. I can understand how there are
many
things he could say that would shock you.

“Can you believe it?” Crete asked, taking on a more dramatic tone. “The man jumped in front of an alligator to save a girl when he was only a teenager! He traveled across the country and started his life over for love, but found trouble instead! He served six months in jail for a crime someone else committed against his best friend! And now, he’s being set up for murder!

“Now, that’s a man with a story if ever I’ve known one,” Crete concluded. “And those are just the highlights… Though I’m sure it’s the finer points that concern you.”

I shook my head up and down in the affirmative. “I found out that everything I thought was true for the past decade or so
wasn’t
,” I replied. “I believed my father’s lies about Gator—and now, I feel very foolish and confused.”

“We all believe our fathers’ lies at some point,” Crete responded. He walked back over to the couch and sat down, very close, beside me. “The important thing is that we
stop
believing them when faced with the truth.”

Crete put his arm around the back of the couch and leaned toward me at a very compassionate angle. “I know that your father didn’t approve of you seeing Gator when you were younger—or rather, that he didn’t approve of Gator in general. When he came out to L.A., there were others who treated him the same way, you know. His former gang even had a degrading street name for him, which I promptly authorized him to change when he joined our ranks.

“And since Gator has joined our ranks, our ranks have become stronger—and so has
he
. It is not my place to share the details of other people’s pasts, but there are some chapters of Gator’s tale that he may never tell you, so I’ll vaguely summarize them for you.

“You see, our Gator was sick of being called names like ‘moron’ and ‘retard,’ and he had grown tired of having ‘respectable’ people—like your father—pass judgment on him and hold him back from pursuing certain accomplishments, or relationships, he wanted to achieve.

“Once he became a Wolf, Gator decided that he wanted to improve himself in certain ways. He wanted to better himself, so that no one would call him names, pass judgment, or hold him back. He wanted to become the kind of man of which a man like
your
father would approve.

“So for nearly three years, Gator studied under an expert teacher who was well-versed in proper English and very familiar with the standards of etiquette, speech, and grooming. He learned a lot from that teacher, and he intended to impress a very special lady with his skills one day.

“But as improved as Gator was, he never felt up to the grade. Eventually, his special lady got married and started a very successful career—and by that point, it was too late for him to intervene.”

I felt tears welling in my eyes, and I did nothing to hold them back.

“Gator’s expert teacher was my wife Katy,” Crete said, moving his hand from the back of the couch to my shoulder. “She helped him learn what he wanted to learn to be a ‘better’ man—and for that, he felt eternally grateful to her. Though his ability to feel such gratitude is indication enough that he really didn’t have that much to learn.”

The tears were flowing down my face freely now, and I felt Crete’s arm pulling me near. I folded my head onto his shoulder and continued to cry as he lulled and soothed me like a child.