Page 78 of Goose

“Cash was driving an SUV?”

He nodded. “Kind of. As best he could, anyway.”

“Were you behind him?”

“No, I was in the SUV with him.”

It surprised me that Goose was riding in a car. He hated cars. “Was Cash drunk?”

“No, just stupid.”

“Why’d he almost hit a tree?”

“Because he can’t fucking drive,” he said, his tone elevated. “And, it was dark.”

“Were the headlights off?”

He chuckled. “No. They were on. He’s just. Fuck, I don’t know. Ghost was our driver, and with him gone, there’s nobody left to drive. Not like Ghost did, anyway.”

I had no idea what a bunch of bikers were doing in an SUV, but whatever it was it looked like it was dirty work. My guess was they were burying a body in the dark.

It was almost ten am. If it took him six hours to get home, they were a hell of a long distance from San Diego doing whatever it was they were doing.

“You said you went right to the diner, and then came up here, right?” I asked.

He nodded. “Yep.”

“And Cash was driving in the dark? At almost sunrise?”

“Yep.”

“Where the hell were you?” I asked with a laugh. “Mexico City?”

“About as bad,” he responded dryly. “Fucking Bakersfield.”

My heart stopped. “Did you say Bakersfield?”

“Yeah, why? You ever been there?”

Two weeks earlier, I would have done what I always did. Skirted the truth. Through a series of carefully-worded manipulative responses, I would have left Goose thinking one thing while knowing his interpretation of what I’d said wasn’t the truth at all.

Now?

I wasn’t willing to manipulate him. Complete honesty was the only way things could work between us. I either had to trust him or walk away. I wasn’t about to walk away.

“Yeah, I’ve been there,” I said.

I left it at that, and then I felt guilty. I started to elaborate, but he interrupted my thoughts before I could speak.

“What took you to Bakersfield?” he asked. “Hell, you’ve only been here for what? Three months? That place is a shit-hole.”

“I went there for work,” I said.

He chuckled. “Went there to pick a pocket?”

“No.” I swallowed regret. “It was a bigger job than that.”

“Well.” His gaze fell to the toes of his boots. He rubbed his head with the palms of his hand. “Our night in Bakersfield wasn’t very fruitful.” He looked up. “How was your trip there? Fruitful?”