Page 19 of Reno

“So, you don’t care what happens to her?” she asked. “You just don’t want this cartel guy coming after us?”

“He won’t come after us. There’s a five million-dollar bounty on his head in the United States, so he’ll send his underlings after her. He won’t cross the border.”

“But you don’t care about her? That’s what I was asking. You’re not trying to protect her, are you? You’re trying to protect us, right?”

I crossed my arms. “Well. I mean. I don’t want anything happening to her if it is preventable. There’s no sense in letting anything happen to her if—”

“God damn it, Reno,” Baker said from behind me. “You’re fucking her, aren’t you?”

I turned around. “No. I’m not fucking her.”

He rubbed his beard for a moment and studied me. “You may not be fucking her, but you did fuck her, didn’t you?”

“I don’t see what that’s got to do with anything.”

“I think it complicates matters,” Tito chimed.

I spun around. “How? Explain to me how. We had sex. Tell me how that complicates anything.”

“One word,” he responded. “Vegas.”

Years prior, during a poker tournament in Vegas, I had a mental melt-down. It was early after my return from war, and the crowds, lights, and noises of the busy casino brought about memories I’d attempted to suppress.

My Post Traumatic Stress Disorder reared its ugly head, leaving me incapable of doing anything but staring at the walls. Scared, frustrated, and embarrassed, I relocated from the MGM Grand to a seedy motel on the outskirts of town without saying a word to the men in the MC.

Weeks later, I resurfaced, only to find out that Baker had filed a missing person report on me. Ashamed of my inability to handle the stresses of war, and unwilling to admit what really happened, I concocted a story about meeting a waitress and running away with her for a month-long sexual romp.

“I’m done hearing about that five-year-old mistake,” I snarled. “Find something else to talk about.”

Tito raised his index finger. “Okay. Here’s another angle. Her association to El Alacrán ties him to her. You’re tied to her through sex. We’re tied to you, which ties us to her, by association. Subsequently, being tied to her ties us to El Alacrán. That’s the complication. The Devil’s Disciples are in El Alacrán’s sights.”

“That’s so far-fetched, it’s confusing,” I said. “It makes my eye sockets hurt to think about it.”

“He’s got a good point,” Baker said. “You fucking that waitress isn’t doing us any good, that’s for sure.”

I shot Baker a glare. “I’m not fucking her. I fucked her. Once. I figured she owed it to me.”

“I think we need to stay as far away from her as possible.”

“We?” I chuckled. “You mean me.”

“I think there needs to be a separation. You know how you are.”

The MC was of the opinion that my disappearance in Vegas was a result of my addictive personality causing me to shack up with a waitress for nearly a month. I wasn’t willing to admit the truth. Doing so would require me to admit I had PTSD, which was something I wasn’t willing to do.

Nevertheless, I didn’t need anyone telling me what I could and couldn’t do or who I could and couldn’t see.

I gave Baker a shitty look. “Oh, so now you’re going to tell me who I can fuck, and who I can’t fuck, huh?”

“According to you, it’s over,” Goose said. “A hit it and quit it scenario, right?”

I looked at Goose. “Pretty much. Yeah.”

“What do you mean, pretty much?” Cash asked.

I felt like I was being attacked from all angles. “Pretty much,” I said, alternating glances at everyone as I spoke. “It means pretty fucking much.”

“So, you might fuck her again?” Cash asked.