Rest & Trust (18 page)

He didn’t lighten up at all. If anything, he got more tense, more emphatic. “Sadie, listen to me. We have a brother still in town. Muse—remember, you met him at the rally. Grey hair, got the phoenix inked on his neck? I’m going to call him and have him come over and pick you up. As soon as he can get there. I want you to stay with him and his family until I get back.”

Shock loosened her jaw, and it fell open, then snapped shut as she said, “What? Why? No—I have to work in the morning.”

“Sadie. Do what I say.” There were times when that tone really turned her on, and times when it pissed her off. Tonight, she felt only confused and afraid.

“Sherlock, I’m going to lose my job if I keep flaking out on it. I didn’t do anything wrong. They didn’t ask me anything about—”

“Sadie, goddammit!” he cut her off again. “Do what I say!”

He was worried. No, he was afraid, and that scared the bejeezus out of Sadie. There was nothing she could think to do but agree to do what he said. “Okay, okay. But I don’t understand.”

Her compliance calmed him measurably. He sighed and spoke in a much calmer, more intimate voice. “I know. Muse will explain. I’m gonna call him now.”

“Okay. I’m scared.”

“Muse will explain. Just a precaution, okay? I love you, little outlaw. Trust me.”

“I do. I love you, too.”

~oOo~

Within half an hour, there was a knock on her door. She checked the peephole and saw one of the bikers she’d met at the rally. She doubted that she’d have remembered his name as Muse if Sherlock hadn’t reminder her, but he was, at least, familiar.

While she was still peering through that tiny fisheye lens, he seemed to look right at her, as if he knew where she was and what she was doing, and said, “Sadie? It’s Muse, darlin’. Sherlock asked me to come get you.”

She rested back on her heels and unlocked her door. As she swung it open, he smiled and stepped in.

“Good to be careful. Smart. You ready to go?”

Her backpack was on the floor by the door, with her laptop, from which she could try to work, and she was dressed. She hadn’t had time to make her bed or anything, but she supposed she was ready. “Sherlock said you’d explain.”

“Not here. At our place. Sid and the kid are sleeping, but we can talk there. I make a pretty mean pot of coffee.”

“I don’t drink coffee.”

He cocked his eyebrow at her, like she’d just said something bizarre. She was used to it. On her fifteenth birthday, her father had made a production out of introducing her to her first cup of coffee. She’d thought it bitter and vile, and had never tried it again. She’d done the research and knew that more than eighty percent of adults drank coffee—which might suggest that in a group of ten people she would have one coffee-free companion. So far in her life, however, she had not met another like her.

But when she’d screwed up her face at the taste of the concoction her father had presented her with, he’d smiled and told her that her mother hadn’t drunk it, either. That was all the companionship she needed.

Muse saw her pack and mimed a question at her. She nodded, and he picked it up. As he reached for the doorknob, he asked, “Tea, then? Sid has about two dozen different kinds of tea.”

“Tea would be okay.” Sadie had a stray, but important, thought. “Oh—am I supposed to ride on your bike with you?”

He grinned. “My truck’s outside. Wouldn’t ride with another man’s woman unless there was no other choice.”

So many rules these outlaw bikers had in their elaborate code. Normally, Sadie would have found it amusing—rebels bound up in rules of their own making. In this moment, she was only relieved, and she followed Muse out of her apartment and closed the door.

There was a bulge at the small of Muse’s back. He had a gun in his waistband.

What the hell had she done to make everybody so worried?

~oOo~

Sadie hadn’t put much thought into what Muse’s house would be like, but she had not expected the sweet little Spanish-style cottage in Madrone, with a stubby little turret, leaded glass windows, and fancy glazed pots full of flowers on the front porch. Sherlock’s house had surprised her, too. Wild parties or not, bikers were turning out to be a lot more normal than she’d realized.

All the lights seemed to be on, and the effect was cozy and welcoming, but Muse muttered, “Fuck,” as he pulled onto the driveway and parked next to one of those SUV things that was supposed to look more like a car than a truck.

When Sadie stepped out onto the driveway, she understood Muse’s grumbling. The shrieks of a baby rang into the night air.

“Sorry about this,” Muse said as he led her to the front door. “Ez has colic. It’s been hard on Sid.”

He opened the door, and the sound exploded. Sadie followed Muse into an adorable little house, filled to the textured plaster ceiling with baby gear. In the middle of the small living room, a willowy woman, reed-thin but for a tummy pooch Sadie guessed was still a couple of baby pounds, paced, a big black dog following at her heels. She held the source of the noise in her arms, swaddled tightly in a green blanket, a blonde tuft of hair visible on one end.

As they came in, the woman looked up at Muse, her eyes pleading.

She had been crying, too.

When Muse set his gun down and went to her—her name was Sid, Sadie reminded herself—she began crying again. He kissed her forehead and took the baby from her. Immediately, he began a weird movement that he must have invented—part swing, part sway, part spin—and the baby quieted within a minute.

Sid stared at them, wiping her eyes. “That never works for me. Why doesn’t it work for me? He hates me.”

Sadie felt like she really, honestly should not have been standing around to witness this moment. They both seemed to have forgotten that she was.

Without changing the movement that had settled their child, Muse said, “Hon, no. You know that’s not true. Why don’t you go get some more sleep. I’m gonna be up anyway. I got him.” He nodded at Sadie with a very small, but kind, smile. “That’s Sadie, Sherlock’s girl. Sadie, this is Sid, my old lady. And this bundle of trouble is Ezra.”

Sid turned to her and offered a weak smile of her own. “Hi. Sorry about…” she flapped her hand at the room and the baby. “Sorry.”

“No!
I’m
sorry about barging into your house in the middle of the night. Really sorry.”

“It’s fine. Make yourself at home. I’m going…” She didn’t finish the sentence, just walked off toward a hallway and left the room. The dog paused, his head swinging between Muse and Sid, like he was trying to decide who needed him most, and then trotted off down the hallway.

Sadie watched her go, then turned back to Muse. “I feel terrible. I shouldn’t be here.”

“Yeah, you should.” Muse kept his voice low. “Sherlock told me you were interviewed by the Feds.”

“Yeah, but it wasn’t about you guys. I swear. It was something to do with my job. I don’t think they know I’m attached to the Horde in any way.”

“If they don’t, they will. But that’s not why you’re here.” He looked down at his son, who was now sleeping like a chubby, sweet, little angel. “Do me a favor.”

“Sure.”

He nodded at a green crib-like thing. “There’s a switch on the front. Turn it on for me.”

She went over, found the control, and turned it. The whole crib began to hum and vibrate. Not expecting that, Sadie jumped a little. “Whoa!”

Inside the crib was what looked like a little hammock. Muse came over and eased Ezra down into it. Nearly whispering, he explained, “He’s supposed to be too old for this thing, but if we can get him to go to sleep, sometimes this will keep him down for a while. That and swaddling is hard to give up when nothing else works.”

“How old is he?”

Muse backed up and pulled Sadie back, too. Then he led her toward a doorway, stopping to dim the living room lights.

He’d led her into a cheerful, funky kitchen, also overrun with baby things. “He’s four months. Sid has to go back to work next week. She’s fucked up about it, but I don’t think it’s such a bad thing. She’s a great mom and trying hard to do it right, but this summer has run her into the ground.” He laughed and shook his head. “And I don’t know why in fuck I’m telling you that.”

“That’s okay. He’s beautiful.”

He grinned—a real, full grin that showed him to be totally gorgeous, in an old-guy sort of way. “Yeah, he is. Have a seat. I promised you tea.”

“I don’t need tea. I’d rather understand what’s going on.”

“Well, I need coffee. You sure?”

She shrugged. “Okay.”

Muse nodded and filled a kettle and put it on the stove, then turned to the counter. While he was making his coffee, he said, “I can only tell you the broad strokes. Sherlock will have to fill in anything else. But it’s not good that you went to the FBI.”

“But it didn’t have anything to do with you. I keep saying that.”

“And I hear you. You didn’t do anything wrong. But it might not look like that to everybody.”

He started the coffee and brought a pretty wooden box from the counter to the table and set it in front of her. “Sid keeps her tea in there. Take your pick.” He sat down. “We had some trouble a while back. Some of our associates weren’t happy about it, and they might be paying attention to what we’re doing. You and Sherlock were together at the rally, so people we know know you’re something to him.” He smiled. “That was damn clear on Saturday, darlin’. You’re no piece of ass.”

Despite her confusion, worry, and general discomfort, Sadie smiled at that—it felt good, knowing that people could see how Sherlock felt about her, and vice versa.

She recognized something else—she didn’t feel fizzy. Not at all. She was in the moment. Yet another weird, Sherlock-related moment, but she was in it, all the way. She opened the box, and the delightful mingled aromas of exotic teas wafted into her nose. Oh, yum.

“Am I in danger?”

“It could be nothing at all. But if anybody had eyes on you and saw you walking into the Feds, that could be a complication, yeah. You’re not in danger, though, ‘cuz you’re here. Sherlock wasn’t gonna take any chances, and neither am I.”

The kettle began to whistle—just the quiet pre-whistle before it really got going—and Muse leapt up and got to the stove before it could get loud. Sadie picked out a packet of red chai.

Muse had just told her that somebody could want to hurt her because she was with Sherlock and they might have thought she’d told the Feds something. That was the summary of this talk. But Sadie still didn’t feel fizzy at all. It was the weirdest thing.

She felt safe.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Sherlock pulled a chair from a neighboring table and squeezed in with his brothers. They were at the Full Throttle, partaking of the all-you-can-eat breakfast buffet. Though it was early, by Sturgis standards, the place was crowded with men and women shoveling eggs and bacon into their maws.

Badger nodded at Sherlock. “News?”

Sherlock shook ketchup onto his scrambled eggs. “I don’t have the setup with me to dig deep, but K.T. and Zed look solid. They both kept a low profile these past years. No trouble of note, no associations that make my Spidey senses tingle. Rancid, I don’t know yet. He was inside on an arson rap most of the time—six years—and he was a pretty new patch when the Perro shit ran everything into the ground. When we get home, I can dig down a little more on him, see what he did inside, who he hung with. But I think K.T. and Zed are square.” Around a mouthful of breakfast, he turned to his own President and added, “You hear anything?”

Sherlock had told Hoosier first thing about Sadie’s trip to the FBI. After some swearing and griping about the Horde’s penchant for complicated women, he’d reached out to La Zorra. She had contacts all over the place in government, and it stood to reason that, especially after Jesse’s escapades the previous year, she’d be paying attention to the Horde and its circle. Hoosier’s thinking, with which Sherlock agreed, was that going straight to her and giving her the scoop was the smart call.

“I did. Talked to her before I left camp. She knew that Sadie had been there, but she also knew that it was unrelated to us. She appreciated my call—it…strengthened the trust between us. So your girl is safe, and we’re good. Dora made the point, though, and I agree, that just because it’s…unrelated now doesn’t mean it always will be. The wrong nose catches a whiff that your girl knows us, and she could end up getting questions she…doesn’t know the right answer to. Dora doesn’t like calling in favors and leaning on people. She says it makes her too…visible, and she’s right. So we need to keep a lid on this.”

“Sadie doesn’t know any answer at all. I don’t tell her anything, and I’m not going to.”

“She’s into tech, though, like you, right?” Connor asked. “And she’s a jealous little thing. Any chance she could go snooping where she shouldn’t be? You know, if you piss her off.” Connor smirked. “‘Cuz we all know that’s gonna happen.”

While his brothers laughed, Sherlock put up his middle finger and answered, “She’s not a hacker. Even if she wanted to snoop—and she won’t, she’ll do what I say—she doesn’t have the skill to crack our security.” He’d been talking to her about hacktivism, trying to show her some little things she could do that would make a more profound impact for her causes than standing on the courthouse steps. She wrote good code and understood what he was talking about, but she wasn’t nearly subtle enough. He’d been thinking of ways to teach her better stealth; now he wondered whether they would both be better off if they stuck to gaming together. He’d been stupid to bring it up; the last thing the Horde needed was the NSA on their ass, too.

Hoosier sighed and scanned the table, his eyes settling on Lakota. “Brother, if you’re gettin’…nesty, too, do me a favor and pick a waitress or somethin’, okay? Somebody simple. Maybe an orphan. A virgin, if you can find one.” The whole table laughed; SoCal men definitely seemed to have a penchant for women who dragged trouble or attention or both in with them. From Bart marrying a celebrity to Trick’s wife and her formerly troublesome, formerly breathing ex, their women were…interesting.

“Don’t worry, Prez.” Lakota grinned and shook his head, letting his long hair swing like some kind of mane. “I got a lotta years left on the prowl, and a lotta women left on the sampler plate of life. No intention of settling down.”

“Well, that’s a relief. Eat up, boys, Trick’s got to get to the bike show.”

~oOo~

This year marked the third time Trick had entered the Rat’s Hole Custom Bike Show. The last time, four years ago, he’d won the grand prize. Shortly thereafter, the Horde SoCal had returned to the outlaw life, and there hadn’t been much time for custom bike-building without a commission. In the intervening years, he’d said more than once that he was okay with it; he’d taken the big prize, made his statement. He didn’t need to do it again.

But after his ordeal the previous fall, he’d wanted it again, like he had something new to prove. Sherlock didn’t completely understand, but then again, he didn’t completely understand Trick. That was a guy who lived in his own head. Sherlock had once thought they’d be closer; Trick wasn’t much like their brothers, either. But they were different kinds of different. Trick appreciated the past; he was interested in history and culture, the way the world had been, and the way it was. Sherlock appreciated the future; he was interested in where they were headed.

Trick collected paper books; Sherlock collected the latest digital technology. They didn’t have that much in common, after all.

The bike that Trick had brought to Sturgis, though—Sherlock was all over that futuristic beauty. It barely looked like a motorcycle at all—not because it had been buried in glitz and bullshit, but because Trick had pared almost everything away and left only minimalist beauty. When he’d won four years ago, he’d entered a bike he’d called Da Vinci’s Devil: a huge black and copper thing that looked like some long-dead Italian’s image of the future.

This entry, he’d named HAL. Deep, dark, gleaming crimson, its wheels were hubless and spokeless, and its seat and steering were almost invisible without a rider on it. And it was completely roadworthy. Now
that
was a bike Sherlock could get excited about. Since it had been set up at the Chip on the first day of the show, HAL had been getting a shitload of attention from looky-loos, the press, even other competitors.

As Sherlock wandered around the exhibition, studying Trick’s competition, he couldn’t imagine anybody else winning. But like all shows, it was part popularity contest, and Trick’s main competition had won the past two years. Winning this year would give him a three-peat, and people liked that kind of thing. His bike was nice, and Sherlock figured it would have had the show hands-down, if HAL had stayed home.

There was a crew filming the show, and they’d cornered Trick for an interview. Even from behind him, Sherlock could see that he was massively uncomfortable. He kept shifting his weight on his feet, raking his hand through his long, unruly hair, crossing his arms over his chest and then dropping them again. Each time he looked like he was turning to step away, the interviewer shifted position, staying in his way. Trick was patient as a rule; it took a lot to get his back up. Out in public like this, with a camera on him? He’d let those dipshits trap him for as long as they wanted.

Connor came up at Sherlock’s side. “Looks like a man in need of backup,” Sherlock said.

“Agreed. The guy with the mic keeps hemming him in. What time is it?”

Sherlock checked his smart watch. “Almost four-thirty. They’re going to start announcing winners pretty soon.”

“Okay.” Connor slapped Sherlock’s back. “Time to scare some movie people, but by implication only. Deme!” he called, turning to the side.

Demon came over. “What’s up?”

“Trick needs an extraction.”

Looking in the direction Connor had indicated, Demon smiled. “Let’s do it, then.”

They walked three abreast to Trick and the film crew. Following Connor’s lead, they walked around and stood behind the cameraman and interviewer. Got right in their personal space and just stood there with their arms crossed until the cameraman peered over his shoulder.

“Problem, fellas?”

Connor ignored him and nodded at Trick, who was smiling. “Looks like we’re done here,” he said to the jackass with the mic.

~oOo~

“I can’t believe we’re gonna have to put another one of those fugly trophies up in the showroom,” Bart complained with a smirk and tossed back a shot.

“I could take it home, put it on the mantel,” Trick answered, still grinning and flush with his win.

Connor shook his head. “It’ll scare the crap out of Lucie. Maybe scare your old lady into squirting that new one out early. You don’t want that on your conscience. We could put it in the john, on the back of the shitter. Then when it scares the crap outta somebody, they’re in the right place.”

While most of both Horde charters continued to celebrate Trick’s show win and pile shit on his head, Sherlock felt a pull elsewhere. They’d been busy all day, and he’d only texted Sadie once. He missed her. So he leaned in and threw some cash on the bar. “Next round’s on me, brothers. I’m out.”

Connor sighed theatrically and draped his arm across Sherlock’s shoulders. “Ah, young love. You’re goin’ back to camp to jack off with your girl, huh?”

That was precisely what he was going to do, but he said, “Fuck you, Con,” and elbowed him in the ribs.

“You’re not buying into the game?” Dom, from Missouri, asked. Sherlock loved poker, and he was good at it, usually one of the last men in at any game, and tonight was a big one. But he wasn’t feeling it.

“Nah. I’ll pass, give somebody else a shot.” He gave Trick another hard pat on the back. “Congrats, brother. That is a badass ride.”

“Hold up,” Bart called. “I’ll ride with you.”

Lakota yelled and blocked their path. “Come on! We’ve only got one more night after this! We’re at fucking
Sturgis
! It’s barely past midnight!”

Sherlock shrugged. “Sorry, brother. More chicks for you.”

“Pussies,” Lakota mumbled and stepped out of their way.

~oOo~

What Sherlock had by way of accommodations was a small pup tent, a sleeping bag, and a memory-foam camp mat. The tent was ostensibly meant to accommodate two people, but those people would have had to be excellent friends.

The pasture terrain was level and not especially rocky, so he was comfortable enough. He wasn’t among the men groaning and stretching every morning, bitching about how they were getting too old to sleep on the ground.

The Missouri Horde had had a Prospect drive an old RV up, and Showdown and Hoosier slept in there. Sherlock thought it was probably the last Sturgis for Hoosier. Maybe for Showdown, too.

When Bart and Sherlock got back to camp, the fire was out, and it was quiet; the old men had turned in for the night. Bart pulled out his phone and headed to his own tent, offering Sherlock a wave and a grin. Sherlock went off and took a piss against a tree at some remove from the camp, then headed back to settle in.

Once he was comfortable, he called Sadie on his personal phone. She answered right away, her voice low.

“Hey.”

“Hey. There a problem? You sound a little off.”

“No, but Sid just put Ezra back to bed. I don’t want to piss her off with noise.”

“The kid sleeping in the living room again?”

“No, he’s in his room. But he doesn’t sleep much.”

“Everything still going okay there?”

“Yeah. Sid’s cool, and Ez is adorable when he’s not yelling. Muse is awesome. He makes me go to the clubhouse with him, though. That’s dull. But the wifi’s good there. I’m still able to work.”

Of
course
the wifi was good at the clubhouse. He’d installed it. “Good. We got the all-clear, so Muse’ll take you home tomorrow.”

“And you’ll be home when?”

“Trip’ll take us three days. Maybe four, depending on how Hooj does. It’s a long ride.”

“You having a good time?”

He liked the sultry sound of her voice while she tried to keep quiet. “I am. Trick’s bike won the custom show today. It’s a big deal.” He rifled through his little pile of dirty clothes and found a towel he’d been using for showers. Then he opened his jeans.