Red (Hell’s Jury MC #5)

19. Chapter 19

CHAPTER 19

Stella

Dad’s home when I get there, sitting at the kitchen table with a file in front of him. Mom’s sitting next to him.

They stop talking when they see me. “How’s Lachlan?” mom asks.

I pull a bottle of water from the fridge and slump into a chair across from them. “I guess as well as to be expected.”

“You’re in over your head, Stella,” dad says tersely. “You have no idea what you’re involving yourself with.”

I consider him with tired eyes as I take a sip of water. Maybe it’s because I’m too fatigued to argue with him, maybe it’s because I feel defeated. I don’t know, but I reply, “You’re right.”

I think I surprise them both because usually I accuse them of questioning my maturity. Then we bicker and ultimately I lose. But tonight, I decide to be mature, not insist that I am. Action over words.

“Then walk away,” dad says. Dad’s not a black and white thinker. He weighs the evidence and makes a careful decision. It’s made him well-respected in his field because of his high conviction rate. And he’s turned down promotions because he likes what he’s doing.

“Alternatively,” I reply. “You’re in a position to help him.”

“I wouldn’t abuse my integrity for someone you barely know.” He slides the file in front of him over to me. “Frankly, I wouldn’t do it for anyone.”

I ignore the hurt I feel at his words and at the same time don’t believe him. He’s 100% committed to our family and while he would never do anything illegal, he would certainly use all his contacts to get any one of us out of trouble.

I nod at the folder. “What’s this?”

“Lachlan Faust’s file. His background. I want you to read it.”

I finger the edge of it. “This is a breach of confidentiality.”

His lips flatten. “I get the irony, Stella. But you need to know what you’re getting yourself into.”

I stare at the file, pull at the flap. I want to open it. I want to know the details, but my conscience wins out. I push it back towards him. “I already know about the stuff in that file.”

“He went to juvie for possession of drugs; incarcerated because he stole a car.”

I have not lived 20 years in this house not to pick up a few facts about criminal law. “The owner was nowhere near the scene. The car was a piece of-shit Ford. No way should he have got 18 months for that.”

“Language, Stella,” mom says.

“Extenuating circumstances,” dad says.

“Which were? There was no violence in the crimes he committed. The DA and the judge made a decision based on his background, his tats, his size. They decided he was a danger to society, so they threw the book at him and the judge doled out the maximum sentence.” I forget my resolve not to breach Lachlan’s confidentially and pull the file to me, flip it open, scan the details. “He didn’t even get bail. His attorney was clearly shit at their job.”

“Language, Stella,” mom says with exasperation. “Lachlan is clearly influencing your behavior.”

I take a deep breath. “For once would you credit me for managing my own life. I don’t swear here, but that doesn’t mean I don’t swear at all. God, Selma has a potty mouth like a sailor.” It’s a lie, but mom and dad are more likely to overlook Selma’s shortcomings because, in their eyes, she’s so much older and wiser than I am.

“Selma does not swear,” mom says with a huff.

Dad brings us back to the main topic. “You do understand Lachlan runs with a bike gang. It’s not a club no matter what they call it, it’s a gang. Hell’s Jury are one-percenters meaning they believe they’re outside the law. They run drugs and guns, they have a brothel, they launder money and god knows what else. People have a way of disappearing when they piss them off.”

Mom tsks as she resolutely stares at me.

“The president is an absolute madman,” dad continues. “He has connections with cartels and mafia. They and another club are in constant warfare.” He throws up his hands. “One of their women almost got blown up in her own clinic. Lachlan’s mother was killed because she was outside a coffee shop talking to the president of the club.”

“I know,” I say as I peel the label off my water bottle. Of course I know. Everyone who lives in Sagebrush knows about Hell’s Jury. “But dad, isn’t that irrelevant right now? All I’m trying to do is help him get unsupervised visitation rights to his daughter; to keep custody of his sister.”

“Given his background and his questionable association with Hell’s Jury, I’d be wary of granting custody of anyone to him.”

I don’t usually talk back to my dad and neither does Selma, but tonight, I’m done being the good little girl. “Wow, Mr. DA. I thought you built cases based on fact not on supposition.”

His eyes flash at me as he stabs the file with his finger. “These are facts.”

“Nothing in there says he’s violent or that he’s a horrible human being. Nothing suggests he’s incapable of being responsible for his daughter or Sorcha. He served his time and yet, the system’s still judging him.”

Dad struggles for a response because my points are valid. Finally he says, “Has it occurred to you that he’s manipulating your feelings for him?”

We’ve come full circle. He’s suggesting I’m immature. “How do you know I have feelings for him? Maybe I’m just a decent human being who’s trying to help out in a time of crisis.”

The problem with me is that I have no poker face. My parents can read me like a diary.

Dad deadens his expression. “This is the way it’s going to happen, Stella. We will not harbor Lachlan’s sister. Tonight, yes, but tomorrow, your biker friend will have to figure something else out. My advice is for him to turn her over to family services and move on.”

I suck in a breath. “So what you’re saying is that a little five-year-old girl is better off being removed from the only family she has and getting lost in the foster system.”

“I’m saying let things take their natural course.” His voice breaks. “I don’t want what happened to Lachlan’s mom to happen to you.”

Mom squeezes his hand.

I almost start to cry because dad is not someone who likes to show vulnerability. I choose my words carefully. “I would feel the same if it happened to you, but sometimes we have to take risks, because sometimes the stakes are too high to let the law, the courts, family services get in the way.”

“Laws are there for a reason. It protects us against anarchy.”

“The law is an ass.” I’ve always wanted to use that phrase in a sentence. “I’m not saying it isn’t necessary, but it’s open to interpretation and corruption.” I flick at the file. “Like the unfairness of this sentence. It’s bullshit and both of us know it. How can you justify it?”

Mom narrows her eyes. Swearing is fun.

Dad rubs at his face. “I concede your point, Stella.” He touches the file too. “I’ll look into this, talk to my colleagues. See what happened.”

I start to speak but he raises his hand.

“That’s a different matter from what’s happening now.”

“If you won’t let Sorcha stay here, then I’ll take her someplace else. It’s not ideal because being here with two respectable adults will keep family services from swooping in. At least initially.”

“She’s not family,” mom argues. “They won’t hesitate to seize her.”

I stand. I’m tired to my bones. “If you want Sorcha out of here in the morning, we’ll leave.” My parents don’t miss the double meaning in my words.

“Honey,” mom says. “Please don’t be like that.”

“I’m not in kindergarten anymore, mom.”

I exit dramatically.

On the way upstairs I check my texts. Several from Lexie and Selma. They’re worried.

“I’ll talk to you at practice,” I text them both. “Too tired.” I set the alarm on my phone for 5 am, then walk into my bedroom.

Tears sting my eyes when I see Sorcha. She’s dwarfed by the size of my bed, her little body splayed out in the center. Her thumb’s tucked in her mouth, and she’s sleeping hard. My ovaries go into overdrive. I crawl in next to her, then snuggle up. She smells like a little girl. Bathed and clean with the unmistakable scent of innocence.

Before I fall asleep, I have an epiphany. I don’t want to coach basketball or be a teacher. I want to be a lawyer.

I’m awake before my alarm rings. It’s an internal clock thing, but this morning it’s also because I don’t want to wake Sorcha with the sound of Queen’s ‘We are the Champions’.

I disturb her anyway as I try to climb quietly out of the bed.

“Mommy?”

I crawl back in. “It’s Stella, honey.”

She’s quiet as she processes. “Mommy’s deaded.”

It’s not really a question but I answer anyway. “Yes,”

“Like Peanut,” she says on a soft breath.

“Yeah, like Peanut.” I run my hand gently over her forehead.

“Where’s the gramma?”

“She’s sleeping in her own bed.”

She flips to her back. “Why’s it so dark?”

“Because it’s really early in the morning.”

“Are you leaving?”

“Yes,” I whisper. “I have to go to work.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s what I do to make money.” It’s not, but I’m pretty sure a five-year-old won’t call me out.

“What work do you do?” she asks.

“I play basketball.”

A few second pass. “What’s basketball?”

“It’s a sport.” I try to think of a sport a five-year-old would know. “Sorta like baseball.”

She seems to accept my analogy. “Can I go with you?”

“No. You have to stay with the gramma.”

“But I wanna play baseball.”

“Basketball,” I correct for some unfathomable reason.

“Basketball,” she echoes. “I wanna play basketball.”

“We will. Later. You and me in the driveway.”

“Is Lachlan here?”

“No. He’s got work to do too. Maybe he’ll come over after.”

She opens her mouth to ask another question but before she can, I say, “I have to get ready. You should go back to sleep.”

“I gotta pee-pee.”

I help her out of bed and to the bathroom. She doesn’t seem to mind peeing in front of me, so while she’s doing that, I try to brush the tangles from my hair. No point in showering until after practice.

“I’m all done,” Sorcha says as she flushes the toilet.

I get her to wash up, then take her hand as we walk back to my bedroom. She balks at the door. “I don’t wanna sleep by myself. I’m scared.”

“There isn’t anything scary in this house,” I say, knowing full well those words never worked on me when I was a kid.

“Mommy lets me sleep with her when I’m scared.”

Coach will kill me if I’m late for practice. There is no way I can crawl in with Sorcha until she falls asleep. “Honey, I have to go to work.”

She turns her big eyes on me. “Can I sleep with the gramma?”

Oh dear. There’s a loaded question. “Of course you can,” I say as I cross my fingers.

I take her hand and we tiptoe into my parents’ room. They’re both sound asleep. Dad always sleeps nearest the door, so I have to walk around the bed to get to mom.

I don’t quite make it, when dad says, “Stella, what are you doing?”

“Who’s that?” Sorcha whispers as she crowds into me.

I sigh. Shit meet fan. “He’s the grampa.”

She’s quiet for a moment as she processes this news. “He sleeps with the gramma?”

“Yes.”

Dad turns on the table lamps and sits up, flipping his feet to the floor as he blinks.

“What’s going on?” mom mumbles as she turns to her back and squints.

“Sorcha wants to sleep with you. I have to leave for practice.”

“Of course,” mom says without hesitation.

“Sherri,” dad says in a warning voice.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Stuart,” mom hisses as she sits up in bed and holds her arms out to Sorcha. “She’s a little girl in a strange house.”

Sorcha releases my hand and scrambles into mom’s arms. “Hi Gramma.”

“Hi darling,” mom says as she settles Sorcha under the covers between herself and dad.

“Jesus Christ,” dad grumbles as he turns out the light.

“Language,” mom and I both say.

I grin as I head back to my bedroom to grab my gear.