Page 9 of Property of Brute & Axl
Once she’s as comfortable as we’re able to make her, I slide behind the wheel while Brute sits next to her in the back. The prospects hop on our bikes and follow us out of the parking lot towards the highway. Maintaining distance but still close enough in case there’s trouble, and not allowing cars to get between us.
It doesn’t take long before Finleigh passes out from the lull of the highway, leaning into Brute, who has an arm wrapped across her shoulders to prevent her from falling over.
“Oly knows her. She was in the news when we were up here.”
Brute looks as surprised as I was.
“I’ll check in with Easy, see what he’s come across.” As he pulls out his phone, mine dings, and I groan, knowing precisely what it is. “Better check that,” my friend mutters with a glare in my direction. I don’t need to see his face to know that he’s pissed.
Dragging my phone out of my pocket, I open the app for Skinny’s Hit Eats, the program created for people looking to hire us for a hit. The club officers are the only ones with access to it; each of us has a specialty and an order to match.
Reading the request for a vegetarian pizza—my specialty—I groan when I notice I’ll be heading east for a day or two.
Due to my mechanical skills, making a hit look like an accident is a no-brainer. I don’t particularly care about the vehicle’s passengers, either, unless it’s kids. This order is placed for someone driving on a curving mountain road with blind spots and no guardrails, so draining the brake or steering fluid will be easy enough to make them appear careless in their car maintenance. The only thing I need to be concerned with is not rushing the job just to get back home.
Uncovering what happened to Finleigh and who is behind it will take time. Something we have because her family and friends didn’t seem willing to claim her from the hospital. To me, it appears as though what’s happened to her is being swept under the rug.
“She’s the daughter of Larry Collins,” Brute says after disconnecting his call. He’s angry.
Thinking about the name for a minute, it hits me, and I meet his stare in the rearview mirror. “Buddy to Patrick Abrams?” He gives a clipped nod, and I curse while squeezing the steering wheel until it creaks like it’s about to break.
Patrick Abrams is a dirty asshole. He’s caused more problems as the mayor's aide than he’s solved. Most recently, a shipment of contaminated breakfast food for school programs that offer free meals to kids. Everything was laced with drugs, and two kids were sent to the hospital, nearly dying.
“She’s engaged to one of Larry’s partners, Shawn Reynolds. His warehouse has seen more stolen art than legitimate.” Brute holds up her hand for me to see. “No tan lines or indents.” Which means it’s either very new or a fabrication.
“What do you want to do, man? Do we tell her? Call her family? Eventually, someone is going to discover we took her.” I’m ready for the fight if they come looking.
“We wait for Easy to get us everything. He’s still digging deeper into the family, dissecting her entire life. Attempting to find one trustworthy person she associates with.”
It’s rather sad. On the outside, she appears to have everything.
My mind wanders back to the scars on her thighs. The obvious souvenirs of her cutting. What she must have been going through in her personal life to have demons like that, and the more I remember about who her family is, the more I realize she doesn’t necessarily have it better just because she comes from money and upper-class roots.
The remainder of the trip to Gulfport is filled with her whines as she tries to escape her nightmares, and us cursing because her exhaustion is so heavy, so deeply rooted in her bones, that it’s nearly impossible to wake her up.
When I finally drive past the open gates of the compound, most of the driveway is empty. Meaning we have some time to get her settled in our apartment upstairs.
“Princess.” Brute gently shakes Finleigh awake. “We’re here.”
She jumps and yelps, eyes frantic as she looks around. The sheer terror on her face startles me as I throw the truck in park.
“Hey, you’re okay.” I’ve never heard Brute’s voice so gentle before.
She licks her lips, almost like she’s trying to moisten her mouth. “I…uhm…okay.” Her shoulders sag, and her casted hand adjusts the one in the sling as she attempts to shrug off whatever just occurred.
“Going to open the door now,” I tell her.
Wild eyes meet mine before she nods, her body tense and ready to bolt. Brute gets out on his side, while I open the door on mine, each of us blocking her escape path.
Brute offers her a hand, and she stares at it for so long, it’s questionable if she’ll ever take it until finally, she does and slides across the bench to him. He helps her down as I grab the small bag of belongings she accumulated while hospitalized.
Fin crowds in tight to his body as I lead the way into the converted warehouse. The main floor is mainly open, with a bar and a small kitchen on one wall for common use. Brute has an office next to our meeting room, both of which are soundproof and checked daily for bugs. There’s an additional office for other members’ club business, usually related to the finances. We also have two half bathrooms, each with a toilet, shower stall, and vanity for everyone’s use.
Upstairs are spare rooms for anyone to sleep off a long night, whether due to too much booze or a long ride. All the club officers also have comfortable apartments with bedrooms, living rooms, and full bathrooms. Not everyone lives in the warehouse, but most do. There are also a couple of member rooms, but only officers and patched members have permission to use those.
Beyond the warehouse are several outbuildings, including a garage almost as large as the warehouse. A storage unit the size of a cabin, used for alcohol, food, and furniture. We’ve got an underground safe for weapons and anything else illegal we need. And in recent years, we’ve begun building small cottages because Brute’s dad, Dick, suggested some members may want an ol’ lady, and she won’t want to live with bachelors.
We’d laughed at the time, but as I watch Finleigh process where we’ve spent so many years of our lives, I wonder if she’d want one.