Page 29 of Whiskey Chase
“If I let you go, are you going to break anything else?”
“Just Wade Zirkel’s face.”
Good enough for me. I released her. “Who’s Wade Zirkel?”
She crossed her arms in front of her, temper snapping off of her like downed wires. “A big mistake I made a few weeks ago. He has some of my stuff and thinks he can hold it hostage until I ‘come to my senses’.”
I knew two things for sure. I hated Wade Zirkel, and I hoped I never, ever made Scarlett Bodine this mad.
“I’m takin’ my lunch,” Scarlett announced and stormed down the deck stairs.
It was two o’clock on a Monday, and she’d already eaten her sandwich with her toes in the water.
I looked at Jonah over my shoulder. “What would Bootleg do?”
* * *
Apparently,Bootleg would text Scarlett’s brothers. At the diner, with a tentative family truce in place, everyone had traded numbers. Today, Jonah called his first family meeting. Bowie was at school but demanded that he be conferenced in.
“Now what did she do?” Gibson demanded, slamming the door of his Dodge Charger in my driveway. Jameson climbed out the passenger side.
“Wade Zirkel,” I said, filling them in on the situation.
“I hate that fucking guy,” Jameson muttered.
“Guess he didn’t learn his lesson last time,” Gibson said. “Get the trash bags.”
“Awh, hell,” Bowie said from the screen of Jonah’s phone. “I’ll meet you guys there. But I can’t get blood on me. I’ve got a parent conference tonight.”
Gibson eyed me up and pointed. “Bring a change of clothes for Bow,” he said.
“What exactly are we doing?” I asked.
“Bootleg justice,” Jameson and Gibson said together.
The ride to Wade Zirkel’s apartment was relatively quiet. Jonah and I sat in the back, the roll of trash bags and a clean shirt and pants between us. I still wasn’t sure if the bags were for Scarlett’s possessions or Wade Zirkel’s body.
It occurred to me that this was probably something I shouldn’t be doing while laying low. But I didn’t like that some asshole thought he could treat Scarlett like this. And Ireallydidn’t like the idea of him being anything to her.
Gibson pulled up to the curb in front of a duplex and revved the engine twice. A warning. I saw the blinds twitch on the first floor.
Bowie’s SUV pulled up behind us, and he got out in khakis and a button-down. He took his tie off and threw it through his open window.
“I can’t believe she gave this asshole the time of day again,” Jameson muttered.
“This is the last time,” Gibson promised. “Get the trash bags.”
I grabbed them out of the backseat and was relieved when I noted none of them were carrying weapons. “So what’s the plan?” I asked casually.
“We’re going to scare the shit out of this douchebag and get our sister’s stuff back,” Gibson said.
I nodded thoughtfully. “Uh-huh. Sure. And how are we going to do that?”
“Just follow our lead,” Bowie sighed, rolling up his sleeves.
Jonah and I exchanged a look, each of us wondering exactly what was going down and how much legal trouble we’d be in.
We climbed up onto the skinny concrete porch, and Gibson ignored the bell in favor of a heavy fist to the door.
