“He’s gonna freak,” she muttered. “He doesn’t like his girls in jams.”
Mag knew the feeling.
“He’ll be more pissed you kept it from him. Call,” he urged.
She nodded, then, when she bent her head to open her little bag, he reluctantly let her belt loop go.
She stepped away to make her call, so Mag pulled out his own phone and texted Mo.
Word?
“It’s okay, Smithie,” he heard her say as he turned to the pantry to find some pasta. “I’m with Danny.” Pause then, “He’s a friend of Mo’s.” Pause and then a soft, “Yeah.”
That made Mag grin.
And his night continued its upswing, which was the only way it could go, when he got Mo’s reply.
Hawk’s making the calls.
Hawk would get him in to see her brother.
Then Mag would find out what the fuck was going on.
He’d take care of it and make Evan safe.
And then he could focus on other things concerning Evie.
Like her second job.
Her fucked-up family.
And getting her back to school.
Chapter Seven
Do Over
Mag
To say Mag was antsy and getting more pissed by the second was an understatement.
He, Mo and Hawk were standing in a room at the county jail, waiting to be shown to another room that had Evan’s brother in it.
And they’d been standing there for over half an hour.
Evie was home, with his buds Boone and Axl, the bottle of Fireball and zero knowledge this was what he was doing.
When he’d received word that Hawk had arranged the meet, he’d called Boone to ask him to come keep an eye on Evie while he was at the jail.
And, of course, Boone had brought Axl so they both could get a good look at her, assess her suitability for Mag, as well as take her back while Mag was away.
Regardless of the fact that Boone and Axl were Hawk’s boys, both were built, and it was unmistakable they could handle themselves, it took Evan visible effort to allow him to walk out the door to see to some vague “business.”
She was still freaked.
It was natural.
But it served to piss him off even more.
He did not like leaving her.
He did not like keeping his whereabouts from her.
He needed to get this done, find out what was happening, form a plan, go home to her and share where he’d been and what was going on.
And all that started with, at some point, clapping eyes on Evan’s brother.
“As much as I appreciate you sorted this meet for me, Hawk, I got a woman at home who started this fucked-up shit with me at her side and didn’t like me leavin’ her tonight when it got ugly,” he growled at Hawk, who cut his eyes to Mag. “If this is not gonna happen, I gotta get back to her.”
“Let Slim do his thing,” Hawk replied.
Mag opened his mouth right when the door opened, and Brock “Slim” Lucas stood in it.
Brock looked to Hawk, to Mag and back to Hawk before he proved he was adept at reading people when he said, “I better not regret this.”
“He’s my man, Slim,” was all Hawk said as reply.
Four words from Hawk served two purposes.
The first, Brock nodded, jerked his head to the hall to indicate they should follow him and moved out of the door.
And the second, Mag was reminded that his behavior reflected on Hawk, so he had to keep his shit tight.
Mag glanced at Mo, whose eyes were locked to Mag, his expression blank, but as usual with Mo, his bud found alternate ways to communicate.
And the stiff line of his humongous frame, the tension in his neck, veins popping there, shared how he felt about one of his woman’s friends being in a situation.
Mo wouldn’t be anywhere else, not with someone Lottie cared about finding trouble, not with Mag in the mix, and Mag was glad he was there for those purposes.
But more, even as tall and built as Mag was—six four and clearly someone you’d think twice about messing with, Hawk a couple inches shorter, but having that same look—Mo was gargantuan, and one look at him would put the fear of God into anyone with half a brain.
The jury was out as to if Mick Gardiner had half a brain.
They’d soon see.
They walked down a hall, into a secure area and Brock led them into a small room with a table and four chairs. Three on one side. One on the other.
Chained to that table was a man who Mag knew would be relatively