Inside

Rick stopped chewing long enough to answer. “I’ve got a couple officers from Santa Rosa coming to transport him.”

She could tell that Virgil was paying attention to the conversation, but he wouldn’t look at her. He finished his breakfast, then stared out the window some more, brooding.

“Those officers know he’s not at the motel anymore?” she asked Rick.

“They do.” He washed down his last bite with a swallow of coffee. “I spoke to them while you were in the shower and explained that he was generating too much interest, so we moved him.”

Having Virgil picked up at the house would be so much safer than smuggling him out of the Redwood Inn. As awkward as last night had been, it was well worth the discomfort if only for this one reason. “So you won’t be coming to the prison yourself?”

“There’s no need. I want this to look very routine. So I’ll wait here until he’s been picked up. Then I’ll head back to Sacramento.” He set his fork on his plate and shoved it away. “Unless you’d be more comfortable if I stayed a day or two—to be sure he settles in okay.”

The way he glanced at her said he wanted her to act as if his presence would be welcome. But she knew it was highly unlikely that he’d really take the time, not unless there was a need greater than making her feel “comfortable.” He was showing off for Virgil’s benefit. He’d behaved in a proprietary fashion ever since he’d arrived, touching her now and then and showing more familiarity when he spoke to her. But she didn’t even want him around. At this point, she could barely stand the sight of him.

“No. I’m fine.” She added a smile so she wouldn’t be too obvious about wanting him to go. Maybe he and Mercedes would reconcile. She hoped so. She didn’t want the problem of Rick being single and available, which complicated everything. Only if he decided to put his marriage back together would he be able to forget her little faux pas with Virgil, because then he’d be focusing elsewhere, no longer looking to her as the next woman in his life.

Checking the clock, she got up. “I have to go or I’ll be late.”

“But you didn’t eat,” he said.

She couldn’t eat. She was too nervous, too aware of Virgil sitting at her kitchen table. “I’ve got some granola bars in my desk if…”

Virgil was finally looking at her. She could feel his gaze. But when their eyes met, the strangest bittersweet sensation swept over her. In another time, another place, she could’ve fallen in love with this man. She felt quite certain of that, even though it didn’t make a lot of sense. They hadn’t spent more than a few hours together. And they came from very different worlds. There was just…something about him.

Belatedly she realized that she’d stopped talking. She returned her attention to Rick. “If I get hungry,” she finished, but that brief interruption must’ve given her away because, in the same split second, Rick had clenched his jaw. “Just make sure everything goes smoothly on this end, okay?” she said to fill the sudden silence.

Rick smiled blandly. “Don’t worry about Virgil. He’s already killed…what, two men?” He turned to Virgil, who glared at him as if those blue irises were laser beams. Rick knew the answer to his own question. Peyton knew it, too; by Rick’s own admission, four men had jumped Virgil, but he didn’t add that. He wanted to emphasize Virgil’s background, to taunt him with it in front of her, not justify his actions. “He gets in trouble, he’ll just kill again.”

Peyton didn’t appreciate the reminder. But…maybe it was necessary. She was having trouble seeing the man she’d come to know as a murderer. Probably because she felt she’d never really lived until he’d come into her life.

“There won’t be any need for violence,” she said, and purposely dropped her purse as she picked it up off the counter.

The clatter of the contents that spilled drew Rick’s attention to the floor. He bent to gather everything up, and that gave her the opportunity she’d been hoping for. Quickly shoving one hand behind her back, she held out a note to Virgil—and felt him take it.

Cooley had arrived. At last.

John climbed out of his truck while waiting for the man in the old Corvette rolling down the narrow dirt road. He’d met the same guy here in the forest twice before, and he hoped this meeting would be as financially rewarding. He was overdrawn on his checking account, needed to cover the drafts he’d written before the bank manager called him.

The bass of Cooley’s stereo pounded against the windows as he slammed on his brakes and slid to a stop, nearly hitting John.

Scrambling to get out of the way, John cursed. Each time he dealt with this punk, John swore it would be the last, but with spousal support and child support and his new truck, which he’d bought when his marriage fell apart, he couldn’t get ahead.

Heavy metal blasted into the small clearing as Cooley, a kid of maybe eighteen, left the motor running and got out. The little prick knew better than to come charging in here with his stereo turned up so loud. John had asked him a number of times to be more discreet, but Cooley wanted to come off as too much of a badass to care whether or not he attracted attention. His cockiness was reflected even in the car he drove. That old Corvette wasn’t worth more than a few thousand dollars, not these days, but he raced around in it as proudly as though it were fresh off the lot.

“What’s up, man?” Tall and skinny, with long greasy hair, Cooley wore an MMA T-shirt with tight rocker jeans and Vans on his feet. He looked more like a skater dude than a gangbanger. He had the usual tats, of course, but tats were so common these days they no longer signified anything. Too many wannabes inked up. Cooley strove for a tough image, talked like he’d spent a few years in prison, but John knew the truth. He was just a foot soldier, recruited by Weston Jager, his older brother.

“What the hell took you so long?” John growled, relieved when the car door slammed, muting the discordant music.

Cooley shot him a dark look. “That’s the first thing you say to me? What’s your problem, dude?”

What did he think? John risked a lot coming out here. If he was caught doing business with the Hells Fury he’d go to prison himself. “Nothing. Just give me what you owe me so I can be on my way.”

Cooley dangled a thick envelope in front of him, but when John tried to take it, he yanked it out of reach. “My brother’s got another job for you. If you’re man enough to handle it.”

“I was man enough to handle the last one, wasn’t I?” They’d wanted Bentley Riggs and he’d delivered him. He’d even kicked the bastard when the presence of other C.O.s forced him to break off the attack before Weston was finished.

Cooley made a tsking sound. “I heard you got yourself in trouble with that one.”

“See the risks I take?”

“That shouldn’t have been a risk. You didn’t sell it right. Westy said you came in late.”

Because he’d almost chickened out. “All’s well that ends well,” he said to cover his embarrassment. “That’s a happy ending?” Cooley cracked a smile.

“He was sent to the infirmary with a broken skull, wasn’t he?”

“I’m talking about what’s happening to you, man.”

John didn’t want to go into it. It was too upsetting. But curiosity compelled him to find out what the Hells Fury had to say about him. They thought they were so tough, but he was the one who’d done the bulk of the damage that day. “How do you know what’s happening to me?”

“Word has it you’re gonna be suspended.”

News traveled fast in prison, especially bad news.

“And that’s just for jumping in at the end,” Cooley added. “If they knew it was because of you Westy got to that faggot in the first place, they’d fire your ass.”

“They’re not going to fire me. I’ll get through this.”

“Too bad you have to worry about it. That’s what’s wrong with the system. We’re only trying to take out the trash, you know? Cleanse the world. Creeps like Bentley Riggs don’t deserve to live.”

John heard that all day, every day. If the Hells Fury weren’t pressuring him to smuggle cell phones, cigarettes or crank into the prison, or to provide privileges they didn’t deserve, they were asking him to serve up chomos—or child molesters—so they could exact retribution on behalf of the innocent victims who’d been harmed. Which was pretty damn ironic considering all the innocent victims they’d harmed. But John didn’t