Page 13 of Scotch: Unraveled

Rory pulls over. When he does, I do too.

I know the cop isn’t after me or he would’ve jumped the line to get to me.

There’re cars that should be whipping past us at thirty-five miles per hour that, I swear, have shifted into neutral to let the wind push the butt-end of their trucks forward in order to get a good looky-loo glimpse of Rory rolling down his window, and I hear him greet the officer. County Sheriff’s Deputy to be exact. “Hello, Deputy—” he appears to read the man’s name tag, then finishes, “Rodrick. What’s the problem?”

“I’m gonna need to see both hands now,” the deputy says back, as if he’s detained a hardened criminal. Not a man on his way home from dinner with his babies in the backseat.

What?

Rory moves like he’s reaching for his wallet from his jeans pocket and then picks up papers from the seat next to him. Then he closes his eyes and I’m pretty sure I see him sigh before he drops both hands out the window, pressing them against the metal of the truck. One still holding his license and registration and proof of insurance.

The deputy takes the papers and walks back to his cruiser. Less than a minute later, he’s back at Rory’s door with his gun drawn—what the hell? This escalated quickly. “Sir, I’m going to need you to get out of the vehicle. It’s been reported stolen.”

“Stolen?” Rory yells. “I just drove it off the lot not two hours ago.”

“Sir.” The deputy moves his gun up to Rory’s chest level. “Exit the vehicle.”

“No need to get upset. I’m getting out now,” Rory says, reaching his hand to open the door from the outside and without thinking, I hop out of my car. The deputy whips his gun between me and Rory.

“On the ground,” he yells at the sexy biker who’s already started to recapture my heart. “Ma’am, back in your car.”

“Back in yar car, Frankie,” Rory calls to me as he drops first to his knees, then lays flat on his stomach. His hands flat on the ground above his head. I don’t understand what’s happening. He didn’t do anything wrong. Then I realize that if he’s on the ground, Mollie and Macie are in the truck by themselves.

“The babies,” I protest.

“What babies?” the deputy asks.

“They’re in the backseat,” Rory answers. He’s so much calmer than I’d be in this situation if I were alone.

The deputy peers into the back of the truck. “Whose babies are they?” he demands.

“Ours.” I find myself lying because Rory has no family here in the states. Whatever’s happening, those girls don’t need to be caught in the crossfire. With him in lockup, the next call would be CPS. I can’t let them end up with Child Protective Services. They’ve already been through enough with their mother abandoning them.

Rory twists his head to look at me, but I refuse to look him in the eyes, fearing what he might be thinking of me right now. As far as I know, the Lords are clean—well,cleanish. And I could certainly be his alibi since I was there when he picked the truck up.

“Why he got ’em instead of you?” The more the deputy speaks, the more weasel-like he sounds. The man seriously talks through his nose. Not to mention,hello? Can anyone saythe most sexist comment I’ve ever heard? Because women are always supposed to have the kids?

The one benefit to his comment is that it gives me the chance to think up a plausible excuse. “His weekend,” I answer.

“Get back in the car. Wait ’til I tell you it’s okay, then you can get your kids.”

“Yes, deputy.” I do exactly as he orders, climbing back in my car until the jackass has Rory handcuffed, pulling him up from the ground by the handcuffs behind his back, not even bothering to place his hand onto Rory’s bicep to help him stand. I don’t know enough about police procedure to know if any of this is legal, but it feels wrong, a bit over the top, cruel and unusual.

Once he has Rory locked in the backseat, the deputy, with his gun still drawn, motions me out of my car. I walk slowly so as not to startle him until I reach the driver’s side door, which is still open, to unlock the back doors. Then, as fast as I can, I pull each girl’s carrier and hoist their diaper bag over my shoulder.

My entire body shakes, no matter how many slow breaths I try or swallows I take. No one has ever pointed a gun at me before, and he won’t put that ugly piece of steel away, using it instead of his hand to shoo me back to my car. And with baby carriers in my hands. As I walk the fifty steps back to my car, I try to angle the girls in front of my body the best I can in case he discharges that weapon, it’ll hit me and not them.

With Mollie and Macie hooked safely in my backseat, I do something that I never in my life thought I’d ever do and head for the Brimstone Lords compound.

Situated several miles outside of town, cut out of the side of an incredibly tall hill, it’s never been a secret, their location. Out of the way, sure. But never a secret.

A large chain-link fence with a two-car width chain-link gate on rollers keeps the unwanted from getting in. A young, hottish guy wearing a black leather vest halts me.

“I need to see Duke Ellis,” I tell the kid, who scoffs.

“What you need is to turn this wreck around and head back down the mountain.”

Number one, my car isn’t a wreck. It’s only two years old. Number two, we don’t have time for this highly entertaining—not—banter. “Please call him or Caitlin if she’s home. Tell them Frankie Cardone is here and it’s an emergency.”

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