Page 2 of O'Mega's Revenge
“We don’t know that for certain,” Missile pointed out.
I whistled to get them to stop. “Enough. Is there any scuttle on that missing girl?”
We’d been working a kidnapping case. A young girl, fourteen. Trouble at home, a history of acting out, and just enough questions about the circumstances to make the police think it was a runaway situation, not a kidnapping. But her father was persistent. Our chapter president, Trot, kept good communication with the local law enforcement society, so she got the referral.
So far, nothing stood out, and we’d been unable to find her. None of the local pimps had her. I’d checked with Wolf, and he hadn’t heard any rumors about his or any of his rival’s clubs getting a minor. Which meant either she’d been relocated outside our region, or she was possibly dead.
“Trot reached out to Jersey and the mother chapter to get them on it.”
We weren’t the only chapter. There were Devil’s Handmaidens all over the place. That helped in cases like this. But the longer she was missing, the more likely the outcome wouldn’t be pretty.
“Any new jobs?” I needed to keep active. My day job was interesting, but sporadic. Repossessing cars with defaulted loans was mostly a lot of driving from place to place and waiting for the right opportunity. It was my string of days off, and I needed Wolf.
Getting turned down hurt, but I thought it was “biker business,” which happened. But then Sprout’s wife, a sweet girl named Danielle, texted me to find out what I was wearing to the retirement party the club was throwing tonight.
I hadn’t replied.
Instead, I threw a hissy fit in front of my girls.
“None. So we have plenty of time to go fuck with Wolf.”
“You’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking,” Quick beseeched Missile. Her mouth hung open because Missile was rubbing her hands together like a cartoon villain.
“We need sequins, and tequila, and…”
“Who is getting fucked up?” Trot joined us from the back. Following her was our matron, Margaret Wheade, a seventy-plus widow who never quite left 1974 behind. She still wore her hair in long braids and only dressed in organic materials. She sold us the farm we called home, and then moved into a converted bus that hadn’t moved in over three decades. It sat near a line of brand-new greenhouses where we grew legal pot. It was an easy leap as soon as Maryland legalized growing it. Margaret’s late husband had a decent crop established, and a huge clientele who were happy to finally pay taxes rather than worry about being busted.
Wolf’s MC and Wheade Farm went way back, illegally.
“Sequins?” Quick asked.
“Maybe even those fancy fake diamonds.” Missile had stopped cackling long enough to pull up her phone. “Definitely need the spike heels tonight and bling. Lots of fucking bling.”
Trot groaned. She looked to me for answers.
“Wolf’s MC is throwing a retirement party for their VP.”
“And he forgot to invite us,” Missile added.
“Whoa, we can’t just crash a Destroyer party. There’s rules about that shit, you know? Do you want to start a war?”
Trust Trot to be the voice of reason.
“You don’t have to come.” Missile pointed her phone at me. “You have a skirt like this, don’t you?”
Said skirt was a micro-length hot pink bodycon number that I wore once, with tights. It went back into my closet, probably under my last pair of tactical boots that had worn out.
“Lemme see.” Trot stole the phone from Missile’s hand and scrolled through the photos, landing on a look she approved.
“I’m not forty.”
“Careful, now,” Quick warned. Trot was getting close to the big four-oh, so Missile was on dangerous ground.
“If you’re wearing something that shows your coochie, we’re going to need bail money.”
“Hell yeah! The only way to party.” Missile held up her hand for high fives all around. I guessed it was now up to me to be the voice of reason since Trot had succumbed to Missile’s insanity.
“We weren’t invited.” I wasn’t even invited. That grumbling I kept to myself. No one needed to know how much this cut me.
