Page 62 of Trip

Something was bothering me.

Something Ansel said.

Getting to my feet, I walked over to my former best friend and asked, “You said you went to go see Russ Deacon, my dad’s old mechanic, over in Clay County.”

Ansel looked up at me and nodded. “That’s right.”

I crossed my arms, leaning slightly toward him. “And what did old Russ say?”

Ansel hesitated, his fingers tightening around the edges of his phone. “Not much.” He glanced away, the flicker in his eyes betraying the casual delivery of his words.

“Not much?” I pressed. “You made a special trip all the way out to Clay County and all you came back with was ‘not much’?” My voice was low, but the edge of suspicion was unmistakable as I heard several chairs scrape against the wood floor.

Whiskey had drifted closer. The quiet shuffle of his boots against the floor snapped Ansel’s attention back to me. “Look, Trip,” Ansel began, pushing his phone into his pocket, “I’m not hiding anything. Russ didn’t want to talk at first, okay?”

“That doesn’t sound like the old Russ I knew,” Whiskey interjected. “That old man could talk the hind legs off a mule if you gave him the chance.”

Ansel shot him a glare, but then sighed. “Fine. He wasn’t happy to see me, okay? Pulled a fucking shotgun on me and told me to fuck off. So I did.”

Whiskey chuckled. “Now that sounds like old Russ.”

“What the hell is going on?” King sneered, walking out of his office.

Grinning at the squirming asshole before me, I clearly said for all to hear, “Told you I didn’t trust this motherfucker, King. Next time, maybe you’ll listen to me.”

“Look, Trip,” Ansel quickly piped up. “It’s not what you think.”

“Why don’t you tell me what I’m thinking?”

Ansel gulped as he looked around the room at all my brothers standing, waiting for him to answer.

Ansel’s breathing grew uneven. His hand instinctively drifted toward his pocket before he thought better of it. The tension in the room was palpable, the weight of suspicion suffocating. King crossed his arms, filling the room with his commanding presence.

“You’ve got about ten seconds to explain yourself,” I said, my tone sharp enough to cut through steel. “Make them count.”

Ansel cleared his throat. His gaze bounced from face to face, searching for an ally he wouldn’t find. When the fucker stayed quiet, I placed my hands on the table, leaned forward, and got right in the fucker’s face. “You have a problem, Ansel. A big one. Would you like to know what that problem is?”

“What?” The fucker paled as sweat beaded on his forehead.

“Russ Deacon died three years ago of a heart attack. I was at his funeral.”

Whiskey growled, “So was I, motherfucker.”

Ansel’s face turned ghostly white, and his mouth opened and closed like a gaping fish out of water. “I-I can explain,” he stammered, his voice trembling as the weight of his lies began to crush him.

Moving fast, I grabbed the lying piece of shit by his suit, shoved him against the wall, and roared, “Where the fuck are C.C. and Cameron?”

Ansel’s eyes darted wildly, his desperation palpable as his trembling hands raised in a futile attempt to placate me. “I swear, I don’t know! Please, you have to believe me!” he gasped, choking on his own words.

King stepped forward, his boots thudding ominously against the floor. His shadow loomed over Ansel like a dark omen, his voice low but menacing. “Wrong answer, Ansel. Try again.”

The room seemed to shrink as my brothers closed the distance. A circle of reckoning tightened around the liar. Whiskey’s growl deepened, and his fists clenched at his sides like the promise of a storm waiting to break.

Ansel’s panic reached a fever pitch. “Wait! Wait! It wasn’t my idea. He said no one else would get hurt!” he blurted as his gaze locked onto mine like a lifeline. “I swear! I didn’t mean for it to go this far. I needed the money.”

I tightened my grip on his suit, the fabric bunching in my fists as I yanked him closer, our faces mere inches apart. “Who?” I hissed through gritted teeth, my voice low and lethal.

Ansel whimpered, sweat trailing down his temple as his eyes darted between me and the others, searching for mercy that wouldn’t come. “Mitch!”

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