“Too many secrets could come to light. Could you act as that for them for now?”
“I’m a plastic surgeon, not a psychologist.”
I nod, not really knowing what else to say to this man, so I change the subject. “Ahh, Lyric is making coffee. Would you like a cup?”
“Lyric?” He shakes his head again and moves closer to me. “Idon’t know what it is about your MC that has my girls so devoted to you, but know this, Highway, if you hurt Gwen, you’ll have me to answer to.”
With a nod, I say, “There’ll be nothing for me to answer to you for. Lyric, like Lucy, fits in with us. She gets it.” I step back into the hallway. “I hope you will too.”
I keep walking to the kitchen, where Jet is talking to Lyric. Jet’s smile is bright enough to chase away shadows. She’s got the other women from the raid with her, and their chatter and smiles are letting me know they are not scared to be here.
Leaning against the doorway with my arms crossed, I watch the scene unfold. Jet catches my eye and winks, and I can’t help but crack a grin. Yeah, we’re doing something right here. And damn if it doesn’t feel like a victory, at least for this moment.
“Highway,” Jet calls, head tilted, inviting me in.
But I stay put like a sentinel at the gate.
“Everything good?” she asks.
“Good as gold,” I reply, and it’s true enough.
Lyric bounds toward me with a coffee cup in her hand. “For you.”
“Thanks, babe.” Her face lights up at my endearment. “I think your dad could use a cup.”
Mia smiles at me and shyly says, “I’ll get it for him.”
Jet rubs her arm, and all the women go back to the infirmary, leaving Lyric and me alone.
“Have you seen Creed?”
“Not yet. About to head in now.” I hold up the cup. “Thanks for this.”
“Come back when you’re done, and I’ll make you breakfast.”
This all feels like it’s meant to be, and I smile at her and head for the meeting room. When I open the door, Creed is sitting in his usual spot at the head of the table.
“Prez,” I say by way of a greeting.
“Did you sleep?” he asks.
“Yeah, like a log.”
“Good.” He stands as I take my seat at the table. “The Ivanovs are coming to us. Lev wanted a sit-down and a conversation that can’t be overheard by outside forces. I want all of you to stay sharp. No one is to leave the compound, and no one is to enter it today. Fingers will do sweeps looking for bugs, and I want you all to keep everyone happy. I know some of the women will want to leave, but you need to explain to them and their kids that, for today, they need to stay put.” His lips turn down at the corners. “At least until after the meet. I don’t need to tell you all how badly we need this to go in our favor.” He takes a deep breath. “So, let’s get to work keeping us and our loved ones safe.”
***
The sun hangs low, a dying ember in the sky as they roll in—black sedans with tinted windows.
“Time to play nice with the big bad wolves,” I mutter to myself, watching as Lev Ivanov steps out, flanked by six of his Russian shadows. They move with a predator’s grace, all sharp suits and sharper eyes.
Ivanov is different. He blends like he’s cut from the same cloth as this American wasteland we call home. No accent laces his words when he greets us with a nod, which is more calculation than courtesy.
“Highway,” he says, his voice as smooth as a polished gun barrel. “Shall we?”
We file into the clubhouse, a room heavy with the scent of spilled beer and old smoke. It’s our turf, our rules, but the Russians? They don’t seem to care much for boundaries.
“Let’s cut through the bullshit,” Ivanov starts, taking a seat at our table without waiting for an invitation. Creed is already there as we all sit, a council of warlords in our own right. “You’vedone well clearing the path. Now it’s time to push the Diablos out of Jacksonville.”
