Don’t get too involved is one of the first things they tell you when you join the force. Jeremy Poe has never had a problem with that one until now. He blames it on the magic and persuasion of the blue moon hanging overhead, or maybe it was just the magic of Saylor Grace herself. Either way, he’s satisfied that this is a gamble totally worth taking.
Speaking of gambles, Saylor’s made a huge one by driving her beat-up old car all the way across the country with nothing in her pocket except her raw talent. It was supposed to be a safe bet, it was supposed to be forever… sometimes, ‘forever,’ has a funny way of working out.
“You did what and you want me to do what now?” Yale stared at me hard like I’d lost my fucking mind, and I honestly couldn’t tell him I hadn’t. I mean, what I was doing for Saylor was nuts and could cost me everything. I mean, the rip I would get wouldn’t necessarily be a total career-ender, but the trust it could damage with some of the other guys in the rest of the department? That was something you could never get back. You make a big enough questionable decision like this one and you could wind up having every decision questioned.
“Yale, I know –”
“I don’t think you do know Poe!” He went to his office door and shut it and I stood there feeling three inches tall compared to the prosecutor’s five-foot-five even though I was well over six feet. I looked down at him as his gaze smoldered in my direction and a muscle in his jaw ticked.
“Hey, none of you were really like this with Youngblood,” I said with a nervous laugh and his eyes blazed.
“One, Youngblood knew Chrissy. Two, Chrissy was gainfully employed with a degree, and with a roof over her head. She wasn’t some unknown street musician making poor life decisions driving across the country to live with some sight unseen internet boyfriend!”
“Okay, so maybe she was having a solid blonde moment – I mean, she is a blonde but I’ve already agreed to let her stay for a couple more nights.” I was hedging on the timeline hard, but Yale was smokin’ hot and acting more like my dad than my equal and brother. The only reason I wasn’t telling him to go fuck himself right now was that I could see how worried he was and truthfully, I got that.
If my best friend Blaze had come at me with this shit, I probably would have blown a gasket of my own, but there was just something about Saylor Grace and it wasn’t something I could explain. It was something that had to be experienced, and I thought that it was too damn convenient that she was parked outside Yale’s office at lunch and I figured if I could get Yale on my side, the other brothers would follow.
Yale was, after all, one of the toughest nuts out of all of us to crack. That, and I knew, if he just met her – even for only a few minutes – Saylor Grace would have him on her side and she could use every ally she could get in this city on her new start.
“I’m just asking if you could drop this off to her at lunch. If I did it, I’m gonna be late for my shift.”
He breathed in slow, in through his nose and out and grated out, “Fine, but only because I want to have a look at this girl so I can judge for myself and you had better be at church tonight.”
“Whoa, hey,” I said handing over the key on its key chain. “This isn’t club business.”
“Really?” he asked, holding up the fob with the key with the club crest on it. “You’re part of this club, Poe, and being part of this club means we look out for you as much as you look out for the rest of us.” He took a seat on the edge of his desk and I suddenly felt like I’d been called into the principal’s office. I tried not to smirk at the mental image. Now was totally not the time.
“That means, when it looks like one of our members is about to go off the rails it’s our duty and responsibility to get him back on track.” He fixed me with a hard look.
“Look, Yale, I know it sounds completely batshit fucking crazy, but I swear. She’s a good girl. She radiates it.”
Text Copyright © 2020 A.J. Downey
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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