Page 17 of Pocketful of Us

"He can't," I replied, awareness dawning on me as I studied my father's stone-like expression. "Because he didn’t know."

"Don’t be naïve, Sketch," Pres shot back impatiently. "Ofcoursehe knew –"

"Look at him, Pres!" I snapped, gesturing to the shock on my dad's face. "He didn’t fucking know!"

"He killed Chris," Dad whispered, more to himself than anyone else. "Cal killed my son."

"Okay, if you really didn’t know then I amterriblysorry for my inconsiderate drop of that particular bombshell," Presley groaned, slapping a hand over his eyes. "But yeah, he totally fucking did, dude. And he had Romi terrorized into covering it up."

It was at that exact moment that a loud knock erupted outside of the warehouse, drawing everyone's attention to the locked door.

"Oh, I'm so sorry. Are y'all expectingvisitors?" Presley flicked his outraged gaze to Gonzalez who was occupying himself with a line of coke. "Perhaps another shipment of nose-gangrene, or how about another criminal to join this joyous reunion?"

"Not tonight," Gonzalez grunted, looking displeased. "Bolillo, you can take it for me."

"Fair enough," Lucky drawled, sliding a Glock from the waistband of his jeans before moving for the door. "But it counts as one of your dozen."

"What fucking ever," the biker grumbled, waving a dismissive hand in the air as he cut another line of coke.

"It?" Eyes bulging in his head, Pres threw his hands up in despair. "I'm sorry, but did you just refer to a human being as anit?"

Balancing a cigarette between his lips and ignoring Presley entirely, Lucky cocked the hammer on his gun and pulled back the deadbolt.

Yanking the door open, he stepped aside just as the body of an oddly familiar teenage boy was tossed inside, followed by a furious looking giant, who was colored in ink. "When I say I'm done with the underground, I mean I'm done with the fucking underground," the man-beast roared, storming into the warehouse.

"Oh, sweet mother of all things merciful," Presley groaned, sounding pained. "Sporting a sewn-on wife beaterandgrey sweatpants? Are you trying to kill me here, Noah?"

Moving quicker than any man should be able to, Lucky slammed the door shut behind them and pounced on the new arrival.

Pressing the barrel of the Glock against his jugular, Lucky fisted his white blond hair with his other hand and slowly dragged him to his feet. "Who's your friend, Messina?"

"I found this piece of shit creeping around my property in the dark tonight," the man Pres had just called Noah snarled, looking genuinely terrifying. "Right outside the house my wife and kids are sleeping in." Turning to Gonzalez, he hissed, "Is this your doing, G? Another fucking game? Because I thought we were done with this shit years ago. I told you I wasdone! What the fuck do you want from me, asshole? My resignation inblood?"

"Blond white boy has nothing to do with me," Gonzalez replied, holding his hands up. "Check the bitch for tags."

"Who sent you?" Lucky asked, tone far too gentle for someone pressing a gun to another human's throat. "Hmm? How'd you get in here, kid?" Turning to Noah, he said, "Knife."

"Do I look like your bitch boy?" Noah shot back, looking livid.

Lucky grinned. "Please and thank you."

Muttering a string of curse words under his breath, Noah relented and stalked over to his friend. "God fucking dammit, Luck," he grumbled, pulling a blade from Lucky's other boot. "If my wife gets wind of this, I wasn’t here, I know nothing whatsoever about any missing teenager, and you're a piece of shit for dragging me back into this crap a-fucking-gain."

"Shouldn’t you be saying if the cops get wind of this?" Presley queried, holding up a finger.

"You clearly don’t know my wife." Fisting the guy's shirt in his hand, Noah sliced his shirt open in one swift move. "Clean," he announced, studying his bare chest before moving to check both of the guy's arms. "Nothing. No tags. No tatts. No marks."

"Interesting," Gonzalez mused, stroking his beard almost thoughtfully.

"Looks like you've walked yourself into the lion's den, kid," Lucky mused, pressing the barrel of his gun deeper into his throat. "And we haven't eaten in days."

"You don’t scare me," the guy countered in a heavily accented voice, as he jutted his chin out defiantly. "I came here for a purpose."

"Was the purpose getting your brains blown out of your pretty yellow head?" Gonzalez quipped. "Because no one walks into my club without an invitation."

"I'm not looking for an invitation," the boy replied coldly. "I'm looking for a person."

"And who exactly might you be looking for?"

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