“Freddy’s gone and I tried to clean up a lot of blood at our house. I’m not even sure if he’s in San Diego.” She brushed her wind-blown hair from her face. “I’m freaked out.”
“Where have you been since all this shit’s gone down?”
“Here.”
A look of surprise washed over Diesel’s face. “And you’re just telling me now about Freddy? What the fuck, woman?” he said, brows drawing together.
“I’ve been trying to find you. I don’t have your number and no one in this damn town would tell me where your clubhouse is. I’ve been dragging my butt all over town, going into places I’d never step foot in just to try and find you. Every time I’d see a motorcycle, I’d scope it out. I’ve probably got a reputation around here as being a real nut. After seeing the bikes in the diner’s lot, I came in to check it out. I’m happy to connect with you finally. So don’t act like I haven’t been trying to find you and don’t care about Freddy.” Her voice choked.
“Okay, take it easy. I was just asking a fuckin’ question, that’s all.”
“It’s the way you were asking it.”
His gaze skimmed over Myla, and a softness eased the lines on his forehead. “Where are you staying?”
“At the Redwood Lodge. It’s not too far from here.”
“I know it. Let’s head over there so we can have some privacy. I want to know everything that’s been going on with my brother. I’ll follow you.”
The drive to the hotel wasn’t long. Myla kept glancing in the rearview mirror at Diesel. She couldn’t believe she’d found him and they’d finally met after all this time. He looked much different than she’d imagined he would. Somehow she’d pictured him resembling a boxer who’d taken too many hits in the ring. When they had corresponded while he was in prison, Myla always had the impression that he’d look like someone who’d been dealt a lot of crap in his life. She pictured deep lines etching his face, some scars for sure, and a scruffy beard. Boy, was she ever wrong. The guy had dark wavy brown hair that reached his collar and seriously blue eyes. Almost devastatingly blue—full-on field of cornflower, cloudless spring sky, perfect blue. Diesel was damn good-looking.
The subtle tap of Diesel’s motorcycle against the back bumper of the BMW startled her. She glanced up, saw the green light, and stepped on the accelerator pedal. I can’t believe I zoned out like that. What the hell’s wrong with me? Freddy’s in big shit, and I’m thinking about his brother’s blue eyes? How lame is that?
A few minutes later, she pulled into the hotel’s parking lot. Diesel parked next to her. They crossed the lot and rode the elevator in silence. It was awkward, and there was a thread of tension coming from him. It was understandable that he was upset about his brother. Myla had many months of anxiety at Freddy’s changed behavior and three weeks of not hearing from him under her belt. For Diesel, this was the first time he’d heard about his brother’s disappearance and what he’d done.
“Do you want something to drink? There’s some stuff in the minibar,” she said, tossing her tote on the bed.
“Is there any whiskey?”
Crouching low, she perused the small bottles lining the shelves. “Let’s see … There’s Jack Daniels and Johnnie Walker. Which do you prefer?”
“Jack.”
“Do you want it with Coke, water, tonic, or seltzer?”
“Straight. No whiskey-drinking dude ruins a good shot with that shit.”
“Good to know. I’ll remember that the next time I meet a ‘whiskey-drinking dude.’” She poured the alcohol into a short glass and handed it to him with another bottle of Jack. She popped open a can of Diet Coke and took a long gulp.
“Did anyone follow you here?”
Myla jumped at his deep voice filling in the room’s silence.
“No. I watched my mirrors the whole time, and I keep watching them.”
“Did Freddy tell anyone where I live?”
“I don’t know. I’m sure he talked about you.” She brought the can to her mouth, peeked at him over the top, and added, “He idolizes you.” Then she took a sip.
“I know. He always did. I can’t say why the fuck he does, though.”
“He just does. He thinks you’re the coolest, badass guy ever. He always brags that he’s got a brother who’s a one-percenter and rides a Harley.” She laughed. “He wanted to buy a motorcycle last year. We went to the dealership, and he could barely stay on the seat. You know, he’s tall and lanky. The one he had his eye on was so big and powerful that it looked like it controlled him rather than the other way around. After that, he never brought up wanting to own a Harley-Davidson.” The memory tugged at her heart.
“Sounds like Freddy. He’s wanted to be a biker ever since I got my bike. Kid couldn’t ride one back then, either. I tried to help him, but he just didn’t have the confidence.” He paused, then drained the glass. “He always lacked that.”
It was true. Freddy never thought he was good enough or smart enough. When they first started dating, he’d always say how surprised he was that she liked him. Freddy was like a child in many ways. He needed Myla to boost him up, and after three years of doing so, it had become a chore. Freddy only felt on top of the world when he bought expensive things, gloating over his ability to have anything he wanted and how far he’d come since his growing-up years on the Colorado Eastern Plains.
“Freddy was selling opioids, wasn’t he?”
Diesel’s question pulled her out of past memories. “Selling drugs? No. He was a pharmaceutical rep and made real good money. Freddy did business with a lot of doctors. His territory was most of metro Denver, Weld County, and parts of Mesa County. He was tired of traveling so much and decided to go into business with Dr. Stauber. They opened a pain management clinic, which did so well that Freddy opened a couple more. Dr. Stauber had quite a few athletes as his patients.”
“Like I said, he’s selling opioids. Probably fentanyl and oxycodone. That’s just like him to do something that stupid. ‘Pain clinic’ is the buzzword for crooked docs and greedy punks. Shit. You didn’t know? Where’d you think all that dough was coming from?”
“The pain clinics. I worked as a receptionist at a pain management facility for a while. This was before I met Freddy. The doctors, nurses, and therapists did good work and helped a lot of patients who suffered from chronic pain.”
“And they were probably owned by the docs, not some drug rep. How many therapists are at Freddy’s clinics? And docs? I bet only one doc per clinic and no real therapists. Probably just the ‘medication’ dispensers who put some phony initials on their business cards. It’s so fuckin’ transparent. I knew he was into shit like this. I warned him to take it easy. I told him I’d come to Denver and help him find a solid business, but he said he knew what he was doing. He never copped to selling, but I knew he was. Then he went and bought all this expensive shit, including that mansion you guys live in. Again, how could you think all that money was coming in from a legit business?”
Diesel’s words were like punches to her gut. As naïve as it sounded to her now, Myla had no idea Freddy was selling that garbage to people. “I wondered if something illegal was going on—like he was involved in insurance fraud or something—but I didn’t think he was selling drugs. I never saw any narcotics at home or in our cars. I can’t believe it.”