Текст книги "Reaper's Fall "

Автор книги: Joanna Wylde

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“Jess seems to be recovering from the shock,” London said, her voice dry. We were out at Bam Bam and Dancer’s place—they were another of the club couples—because the Hayes girls hadn’t been able to book The Line on such short notice. My private theory was that it wouldn’t matter how much notice they’d had. One thing I’d learned from watching the Reapers the past year was that if Reese wasn’t on board, it didn’t happen.

Except this party was definitely happening.

Kit, Jessica, and Em had made the best of things, somehow throwing the entire thing together during the time it took Em to drive over from Portland. They’d tried to suck me into it, but no way I wanted to get involved. Reese and Loni had to love them—they were blood relations. Seeing as I was something of an add-on, I didn’t feel like risking it. (Not only that, as a person with a soul, I hated putting Loni on the spot like that.)

I’d spent the afternoon working on my paper instead, right up until the moment that Jessica tricked me into driving to the grocery store with her. She’d dragged me out to the party instead, which even I had to admit was turning out to be fun. Or at least, it’d been fun until the strippers showed up.

Now Jess was sprawled across a stripper’s lap with one arm around his neck, laughing like a crazy woman. A second guy was doing the same with one of the old ladies—Marie—while Kit took pictures with a glee bordering on the obscene. Then a third danced up to Jess, waggling a gold lamé banana hammock in her face.

(Okay, so maybe we weren’t bordering on the obscenity line so much as dancing over its grave.)

“London’s turn!” yelled Darcy, one of the old ladies about London’s age. Her man was part of the Silver Bastards, the same club that Puck was part of. I’d only met him a couple times, but based on that it was safe to say that the Silver Bastards were every bit as scary as the Reapers. Dancer and Kit grabbed London by the arms, dragging her over as Jess jumped off her guy to make room for Loni.

“Smile, London!” Kit shouted, taking a picture as they dumped her into his lap. Loni bounced right back up again, grabbing a throw pillow and launching it at Kit. Jessica leapt to her defense, pitching another pillow toward London, and then it was on.

Battle royale.

(It’s worth mentioning at this point that we’d had a lot of alcohol. Jell-O shots. Fireball shots. Some kind of pomegranate martini punch shit that Em mixed up and was serving in big bowl. It tasted like candy, but I’d stopped drinking after my second glass, when my cheeks started to go numb. Unfortunately that’d still been enough to make me seriously buzzed.)

A pillow smacked me in the head, knocking me down to the floor. I landed on top of Banana Hammock Man, putting a hand on his waxed, muscular chest to push myself up, confused as hell.

“Hey,” he said, giving me a sexy smile. “You wanna go hide together under the table?”

“Smile!” Jessica shouted out of nowhere. What the? I looked up to find her snapping pictures of me on top of him.

“Oh, you little bitch!” I shouted, scrambling off. He gave a startled shout of pain. Shit. I’d just used his banana hammock like a gold lamé springboard, poor man. “I’m so sorry.”

He moaned pitifully, rolling over to curl up on his side. Meanwhile, Jessica was skipping across the floor, waving her phone triumphantly.

“Jessica, you delete those fucking pictures right now!” I screamed.

She tore across the room and through a set of French doors that opened onto a deck. Then she was over the side, sprinting across the meadow that backed against the house.

“I’m going to kill you!” I shouted, ignoring the laughter from those watching us. She turned her head to taunt me, flipping the bird as she ran.

“Come and get—shit!” the words cut off as she suddenly disappeared. Not disappeared, as in tripping and falling. I mean disappeared. One minute she was there and the next she was gone.

“Jess!” I shouted again, anger turning to fear. She hadn’t been that far ahead of me. I kept my eyes open, stopping just short of where she’d been, approaching slowly. It seemed unlikely that she’d been teleported away by aliens, but you never know . . .

“Jessica?” I called, hesitant.

“Down here.”

Looking around, all I saw was grassy meadow. “I don’t see anything.”

“There’s a hole in the ground,” she said. “You’re right over me—I can see you. Look down.”

I looked down, and sure enough, there was a hole in the ground, maybe a foot wide . . . foot and a half, tops. I dropped to my hands and knees, peering down. It was dark, really dark. I could hardly see her, but she seemed to be down there a ways. Shit.

“What the hell is that? It looks like a cave.”

“Sure looks like it.”

“Do you see a way out?” I asked, looking back at the house anxiously. Our watchers had lost interest in us. I dug in my pocket for my phone, hoping I had service.

“Step back,” Jessica told me. Frowning, I followed her instructions, mouth dropping as her head and shoulders popped out above the ground.

“How did you do that?”

“I just stood up, silly,” she replied. “I would’ve sooner but I needed to text this.”

She gave me a wicked grin as she held up her cell phone, showing off the picture of me on top of Mr. Banana Hammock.

“If you tell me you sent that to Painter, I’m going to kick your head off like a dandelion,” I hissed, glaring at my best friend. Former best friend.

“Settle your panties,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Do I look like I’d send it to Painter? No, I sent it to Hunter, Em’s old man. I may have sent it to Reese, too. Hard to remember. I know I sent him the one of London.”

A very, very dark suspicion reared its head.

“Jessica . . .”

“Yes?” she said, fluttering her lashes at me innocently.

“Are you and Kit using the party to collect blackmail material on all the women in the club?” I asked, my voice carefully level. Jessica frowned, and I swear she looked almost hurt.

“Of course not,” she said, pushing herself up and out of the hole. “Blackmail means you want money or something, right? We’re just doing this for fun, Mel. I’m not trying to take your money. I’d never blackmail you or any of the other girls.”

She shook her head at me sadly, conveying profound disappointment in my lack of trust.

“I’m going to find Dancer. She should know about this cave thing—I got out just fine, but some little kid could get stuck down there for real.”

•   •   •

The pillow fight had ended by the time we got back, apparently transitioning into a water fight. Either that or Dancer was using a hose in an attempt to control the herd of drunken women currently dancing in her backyard.

“Jessica!” Kit yelled as we came back. “You’re here—good news! We’re already getting responses on our pictures!”

Fuck, how many people were they sending them to?

“Reese is going to strangle me,” London said, coming to stand next to me. Her white T-shirt had gone totally transparent, showing off a gorgeous black bra.

A spray of water hit me in the face, then splattered down across my chest.

“You’re welcome!” Dancer shouted, laughing. I shook my head like a dog, trying to get some of the water off. Bad idea, because I still wasn’t totally steady on my feet. What the fuck was in that punch? Dancer and London caught me, one on each arm.

“Thanks,” I managed to say, watching as Dancer aimed her hose again, spraying down another woman I didn’t recognize.

“Why are you hosing everyone down?”

“Damage control,” she said, her words slurring ever so slightly.

“Damage control?”

“Yeah, the girls have been texting pictures of us with the strippers to the men. I got a tip-off—Bam Bam, Horse, and Reese are coming to break it up. I guess once we started groping random naked guys they’d had enough of the bachelorette party.”

“So you’re spraying everyone with water because . . . ?”

“Because guys get off on girls in wet T-shirts,” she said, as if the answer were obvious. What? “There isn’t a man alive who doesn’t secretly pray that when women get together, we have pillow fights followed by wet T-shirt contests. Bam has a thing for mud wrestling, too, but I’m drawing the line here—gotta keep it classy. By the time the guys get here to claim their old ladies, we’ll be ready for them. I already paid off the strippers. If they’re smart, they’ve already left.”

Wow. Just . . . wow.

“That’s impressive,” I admitted. She nodded sagely, accepting my praise as her just due.

“Not my first rodeo, baby girl.”

Jess came up behind me, throwing her arms around me for a big hug.

“You’ll get this old-lady shit figured out, no worries,” she said, ruffling my wet hair.

Wait. I wasn’t an old lady.

I didn’t want to be old. Or a lady.

Pushing Jess off, I turned to Dancer, but she’d already gone off to spray someone else. London was missing, too. Marie was nearby, though.

“Hey,” I said, lurching toward her.

“Hey,” she said back, grinning like an idiot. Her eyes were big and sparkly and her cheeks were all flushed. At least I wasn’t the only drunk one here.

“Am I an old lady now?” I asked. She blinked.

“What?”

“Painter asked me to be his girlfriend, so does that make me an old lady?”

Marie’s eyes widened. “Painter seriously asked you that? Holy shit. Hey, Soph—Painter asked Mel to be his girlfriend!”

Ruger’s old lady, Sophie, turned toward us. Her long hair was plastered against her head and back. Totally soaked. She looked between me and Marie, obviously surprised.

“Really?” Sophie asked. “Wow, never saw that coming. Like, he used the word ‘boyfriend’? That’s hysterical.”

I frowned, because it wasn’t funny at all, let alone hysterical. No wonder Painter was always heading out of town on club business—I would, too, if I had to put up with this shit.

“He’s a really nice guy, you know,” I said, glaring at them. They looked at each other and burst out laughing. “Hey!”

They laughed harder. For the very first time in my life I gave serious thought to punching someone in the face. Totally would’ve done it, too, if the world hadn’t started spinning on me.

“Sorry,” Marie finally managed to say. “I can think of a thousand different descriptions for our guys, but ‘nice’ generally isn’t one of them. And no, you aren’t an old lady yet—being someone’s old lady is more than being their girlfriend. It means the whole club has accepted you as an official partner, and they support the relationship. Maybe you’ll be an old lady at some point, but that’s something Painter would talk to the club about first.”

Sophie nodded. “They have some sort of supersecret process for it. Ruger won’t tell me shit about it, but I think it mostly involves an announcement and then drinking beer together. But they can’t possibly tell us that, you know? Gotta keep the mystery . . .”

“Oh,” I said, swaying. Chair. I needed a chair or something. Standing was way too hard. I looked around, spotting an empty folding chair near the wall. I wandered toward it, slumping down as my phone buzzed.

PAINTER: What the fuck is going on? Hunter just texted me a picture of you climbing around on some naked guy.

Oh shit.

ME: It’s not what it looks like.

PAINTER: You got one hand on his chest and the other on his dick

ME: I swear, Kit and Jessica set me up. Em may be in on it too. Kit and Jess together are like some nasty demon bigger than its indiviudiual parts. They get together an things like this happn. I think we need one of those priests to come and cast the devls out

He didn’t respond right away. Finally my phone buzzed again.

PAINTER: Drunk?

ME: There was something in the punch . . .

PAINTER: Where are you?

ME: Dancers house. It’s the bachelorette party

PAINTER: Got it. FYI—don’t ever drink Dancer’s punch again. I’ll send someone to get you, okay?

ME: ok

“Babe!” Marie shouted, distracting me. She ran toward the front door, jumping up and wrapping her legs around a giant man who’d just stepped inside. Horse was a big guy—even taller than Painter—and Marie looked like a little monkey hanging off him.

Reese stepped in past them, taking in the scene.

Kit was sitting on the floor, giggling as she flipped through her phone. Em gave him a thumbs-up as she finished chugging a big cup of punch. Jess had disappeared completely. Reese stalked over to the entertainment center, turning off the music with a flick of his finger. Silence fell, and then Em gave a loud burp.

“Excuse me,” she said, wiping her mouth delicately with the bottom of her shirt.

“Fuckin’ girls,” Reese said, shaking his head. “You’re going to kill me.”

“Hey,” London said, coming up to wrap her arms around him. She kissed the side of his face, which seemed to soothe Reese. Kit stood slowly, then walked over to stand right in front of her father.

“This is what happens to people who get married secretly,” she said, poking a finger into his chest. “Don’t do it again.”

A smile quirked the edges of Reese’s mouth. Then he dropped his hand down to give Loni’s butt a squeeze. Ewwww . . . Kit and I exchanged a look, and I could tell she was thinking the exact same thing that I was. Old people shouldn’t be having sex.

“If I promise I won’t get married again without telling you, will you stop destroying people’s lives in search of revenge?”

Kit considered his words carefully.

“I’ll try,” she said, nodding. “I suppose you’re forgiven. This time.”

“Wow, I’m just so fuckin’ relieved to hear that,” he replied. “Now I won’t have to cry myself to sleep tonight.”

PAINTER

I needed to slow down.

Every time I thought about Mel and that fucking stripper, I found myself pushing the bike’s speed higher. Couldn’t quite decide what I should do first when I got home—strangle the Hayes girls or slit Mr. Banana Hammock’s throat.

The picture of them together was burned on my brain. Hunter’d sent it to fuck with me, of course. Bastard still hated me for what I’d done to Em. Fair enough, because I fucking hated him, too.

Almost as much as I hated the stripper.

But not quite.

Her hand had been on his dick.

Reese had messaged me a couple hours ago, letting me know he’d dropped Mel off at my place for the night. Good to know she was safe. I’d slept for a while in Bellingham, but I was still pretty fuckin’ exhausted and it was a damned long ride all the way back to Coeur d’Alene. I had to be careful, too—leaving the state without permission was a parole violation. That meant no speeding, no splitting lanes . . . I didn’t even stop at rest areas, just pulled into truck stops when I needed a break.

Last thing I needed was a parole violation putting me in the same state as a murder victim. Torres should be able to cover for me back home, but if a Washington cop pulled me over, there’d be a paper trail not even he could disappear. Never used to worry about shit like that, but knowing Mel was warm and waiting in my bed? Changed shit. Changed shit in a big way.

I’d just passed the Spokane airport—still a good thirty miles from the Idaho border—when it happened. I’d flown over the crest of the hill into the city and changed lanes to pass another car when I saw the lights behind me. For an instant I convinced myself they were after someone else, because, swear to fuck—I hadn’t done anything wrong. Nothing.

Then he was right behind me and it was all over.

I pulled over and waited for the cop . . .

Fuck.

•   •   •

“Good evening, sir. Do you know why I pulled you over?”

“No—I wasn’t speeding,” I said, trying to figure out how a woman who was five and a half feet at most had the balls to pull over a biker twice her size. Kind of pretty, too, although hard to make out much of her figure under what I assumed was a bulletproof vest.

“You didn’t signal when you were passing the white minivan,” she said.

No fucking way. I’d signaled . . . Was the bitch messing with me? Her face was serious, blank. I didn’t get that hostile vibe that I got from so many male cops, though. Probably a legit stop. Still, this was gonna complicate things if they ever made me as a suspect in the Hands situation.

But what were the odds of that? The only ones who knew were my Reaper brothers, and if the Nighthawks found out, the cops would be the least of my worries.

“I don’t doubt what you’re saying, but I’m pretty sure I used the signal,” I said, giving her a nice smile as I handed over my paperwork. “Maybe there’s a problem with the bike.”

She smiled back—nice. Took the bait. Might talk my way out of this one yet . . .

“It’s possible. Would you like me to look while you test the lights?”

“That’d be great,” I told her. “Thanks.”

“Sure,” she said, stepping back. I turned on the bike and flipped the signal.

“It’s on.”

“No good,” she replied, shaking her head. “It’s not working. I need to run your license and registration. Please stay seated on the bike with your hands on the handlebars while you wait.”

Fucking hell—must’ve blown a fuse. I watched the occasional car fly by while she ran the license, wondering if I’d get a ticket. Took a good ten minutes before she came back, her expression cooler this time.

“Mr. Brooks, it says you’re under supervision,” she said. “Is your parole officer aware that you’re out of state?”

“Yes,” I lied. If anyone called Torres, he’d confirm it. Of course, his payoff would have to go up—cost of doing business.

“I’m going to let you off with a warning. But I don’t want you riding farther tonight without lights.”

“Has to be a fuse,” I told her. “I’ve got some extras. If it’s all right with you, I can probably swap it out pretty fast.”

“Sounds good,” she said. “I’ll hold a light for you.”

Sure enough, the fuse had blown. Changing it out was easy enough, and ten minutes later I was on my way home again.

Back to Melanie.

MELANIE

The first light of dawn had filtered through the windows when I woke up. It took me a minute to figure out where I was—Painter’s bed. It smelled good. Like him. I smiled, rolling to the side as I stretched.

Reese had given me a ride last night, along with Kit, Em, Jess, and London. He’d been pissy as hell, although it was clear I wasn’t his target. Neither was Loni—he’d taken one look at her boobs in that wet shirt and all was forgiven. (Dancer was a genius.) He’d given me a ride to Painter’s place, unlocking it for me and making sure I was safe and settled before moving on to Jessica’s stop.

My clothes were soaked, so I’d changed into one of Painter’s shirts to sleep in. Because I’m a creeper, I’d grabbed a dirty one he’d had hanging on the back of the bathroom door. It smelled like him, which made me feel all warm and safe.

At least, that was my drunken logic last night.

Now I noticed that there were greasy, black streaks on my arms. They were all over the bed, too, and my stomach tightened into a knot.

Maybe the dirty shirt had been hanging up so it wouldn’t touch anything else . . . oopsie.

The bedroom door opened and I looked up to find Painter watching me. Crap, he had nasty bruises under both his eyes, and his nose looked a little off-kilter. Had he gotten in a fight?

“Are you okay?” I asked, forgetting about the greasy mess as I stood to walk over to him. He pulled me into his arms roughly and then his mouth covered mine, tongue plunging deep. It wasn’t a sweet, gentle kiss. Not at all—this was a branding, a reminder that even when we were apart I still belonged to him. Then his hands were on my ass and my legs were wrapping around his waist. He turned, shoving me into the wall as his hips ground into mine.

I’d never been so turned on so fast—clearly my body recognized him and wanted to make him welcome. Good thing, too, because he pulled his hips back just enough to loosen his fly, and then he was shoving deep inside, so hard and fast that it hovered between pleasure and pain. Then he bottomed out and I gasped, clutching at his shoulders for balance.

“Jesus, Mel,” he gasped, pulling his head back. “I like seein’ you in my place, wearing my shirt.”

I opened my mouth to apologize for the mess on the bed, but he swiveled his hips, grinding deep inside me and I forgot all about it. His hips swiveled again, pushing his pelvic bone hard against my clit, and I moaned. Oh God. How could a girl be expected to think under these circumstances?

After an eternity and no time at all, Painter started deepening his strokes, reaching new places inside me. Tension built, faster and harder than it ever had before. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I was aware of the birds singing outside, of the smell of coffee, and the fact that I was a greasy mess from his shirt and soon he would be, too.

None of that mattered, though.

All that mattered was the fact that I was close—so close—to shattering into a million pieces. I caught the back of his head, pulling his mouth down to mine for another kiss. His tongue plunged deep again and my entire body clenched tight, hovering right on the edge.

Then he pulled back before filling me again, followed by a hard grind that threw me right over the edge. I stiffened and shuddered as waves of explosive release crashed through me.

Painter ripped out of me and then I felt the hot spurt of his come hitting my thighs.

We stayed that way for a minute, trying to catch our breath. Then he turned and carried me over to the mattress, lowering me down and covering me with his body. My legs still wrapped around his waist as he looked down, touching my cheek softly with one finger. Then he raised it, showing off a streak of dirty black.

“Mel?”

“Yeah?”

“Any particular reason you’re covered in motor oil?”

I bit my lip, offering a soft smile.

“Bachelorette party,” I whispered softly. “They really grease up those strippers, you know? Any particular reason you’ve got big, nasty bruises all over your face?”

“Bachelorette party,” he whispered back. “I get real pissy when I see my girl’s hand on another guy’s dick. So pissy I walked into a wall.”

“You know I didn’t touch that guy on purpose, right?” I asked. “I mean, he was really nasty.”

“Glad to hear it,” Painter growled, then kissed me hard. I forgot all about the strippers.

•   •   •

An hour later, I’d come two more times, once from him going down on me and once when he fucked me from behind, fingering my clit.

Now we were cuddled up together, bodies naked and covered in black oil streaks that didn’t seem to bother him a bit, so I decided I wouldn’t let them bother me, either. I traced my finger through the marks on his chest, seeing that one side had been darkened by a bruise.

“How was your trip?” I asked. He frowned.

“I can’t talk about club business, Mel.”

I rolled my eyes. “Like I care about the details? I just wanted to know how you’re doing and whether things went well, despite these marks all over you. You know, because I care?”

His face softened.

“Sorry. I guess it went okay, but it still sucked because I wasn’t here with you. The bruises are from a stupid little fight, didn’t mean a thing, so don’t worry about it. I did get pulled over by a cop in Washington, though. Turn signal wasn’t working right.”

“That’s no good,” I said, wrinkling my nose. “Was it an expensive ticket?”

“Yes and no,” he said, leaning over to kiss my neck. “I got off with a warning—just a popped fuse and I was able to fix it right on the spot. But technically it’s a parole violation. I’ve got an understanding with my PO, but he’ll probably have to ding me just to cover his own ass. Maybe a few days in the county jail. No big deal.”

His tongue flicked out, tracing my collarbone, but I pushed him back—we needed to talk about this jail business.

“How can he just lock you up again?”

Painter sighed, then rolled off me to look at the ceiling. I turned on my side, watching him carefully.

“The judge ordered up to thirty days of discretionary jail time in case I get out of line,” he said, his voice careful. “My PO can use it whenever he wants. But they can’t send me back to prison without a parole board hearing. Jail’s just a smack on the wrist.”

I stared at him, stunned.

“You think going to jail is a wrist slap?”

“Compared to finishing out my term? It’s nothing. I still got two years of my prison sentence left, Mel.”

The words hit me like a blow.

“Two years?” I whispered. “They could send you back for two years?”

“Babe, I could get murdered by ninjas, too,” he said with a laugh. “Doesn’t mean it’s going to happen. The club has a lot of influence with the probation department here in town—my conditions are seriously loose. I’m not supposed to leave the state, but it’s up to the PO when or how I get punished for that. We’ve got him in our pockets. Trust me, it’ll be fine.”

I stared at him, wondering what was going on in that head of his, because none of this was making sense to me.

“So the only thing standing between you and prison is one guy? What if you piss him off? Is it really worth the risk to be traveling when you’ve got that hanging over your head?”

He winced, reaching up to rub his chin. There was one hell of a scruff developing there and for an instant I felt my attention wander. I wanted to touch it. Maybe rub my face against it . . . Suck it up, Mel. This isn’t playtime.

“This is all new to me,” he said, reaching up with one hand to cup my cheek. “I’ve never really worried about risking myself before.”

“You never worried about going to jail?”

“Prison. Jail is for sentences under a year, prison is for longer-term shit.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” I snapped. “If you don’t want to talk for real, then don’t talk. But don’t play word games with me.”

“Okay, you want the truth? I’ve been in and out of juvie, jail, and prison since I was twelve years old. It is what it is—you play the game, sometimes you go down. Until then, I’m not going to let my whole fuckin’ life be about sucking up to the parole board.”

I sat up, glaring at him. “Are you for real? You don’t care about sucking up to stay out of prison? Painter, you’re smart and you’re fun and you’re one hell of an artist, so why are you living like this if you don’t need to? Out of habit?”

He sat up, too, glaring right back at me.

“You have no right to an opinion. This is my life and I’m gonna do what I have to do, for my club. Just ’cause I love you doesn’t mean you have a vote. Me and my brothers vote. Old ladies listen and do what they’re told.”

We blinked at each other, his words falling between us like charged grenades. So many things in that sentence. I couldn’t decide whether I was pissed or . . .

“You love me?” I asked slowly, cocking my head.

“Yeah, I do,” he said, still glaring. “You’re all I think about and you’re in my bed—that’s not like me, Mel. I don’t do shit like this. I’m gonna talk to Picnic about you, bring it up with the club. I want you to be my old lady.”

I couldn’t think of what to say—he’d caught me utterly off guard—so I spat out the first thing that came to my mind.

“But I’m not old.”

Painter gave a reluctant smile, reaching over to cup my breast, tweaking my nipple in the process. I gasped as his hand slid lower between my legs.

“You’re not always a lady, either,” he whispered, moving in on me. “But you’re mine. That’s all that matters, okay? Let me worry about the rest.”

Then he was on top of me again and my brain shut off.

I never even noticed how he ducked the prison questions. That’s how good he was.

PAINTER

I pulled up to the Armory just before six that night. Pic had called everyone in for a meeting to discuss the Hallies Falls situation and get an update on Hands. Pulling out my cell, I dropped it onto the counter before heading into the chapel. All the brothers were there, even Duck. He’d been having trouble with his joints—Ruger’d told me quietly that they were concerned he might not be able to ride much longer.

He’d always be a brother regardless, but once a man stopped riding he usually didn’t last very long.

“Grab a seat,” Pic said, nodding toward a spot in the center they’d left open for me. Usually I tried to hang back, but seeing as Pic called the meeting to discuss what’d happened over the weekend, I expected to do a lot of talking. “So, Painter’s got a full report for us—let’s start with the Nighthawks and then move on to the other issue. All yours, brother. Welcome home.”

I gave him a chin lift, then launched into my story.

“Gage is making good progress,” I told them. “Marsh—that’s the president—has a sister he’s fucked in the head over. I don’t know what their relationship is all about, but it’s weird. Anyway, the sister—Talia—is fucking around with Gage, which got us an invite to a party there.”

“What’s this Talia like?” Horse asked.

“She’s a total bitch,” I told him. “But she’s hotter than hell. Gage doesn’t like her, but at least he can bang her without a bag over her head.”

Duck gave a knowing laugh. “He’s always gone for the wild ones.”

“Yeah, well I don’t think he’s going for this one, not more than he has to. On a more serious note, though, things aren’t good in that club. They’re split down the middle between Marsh’s people and the older brothers—the ones who came in before Marsh took over. I got the impression Marsh was scoping us out, like he had work for us.”

Horse and Ruger shared a look, and I saw surprised faces all around the table.

“Oh, it gets worse,” I continued. “Their prospects are a fuckin’ joke. They’re bringing them in fast. Met one kid who doesn’t even own a bike yet.”

“Goddamn it,” Duck grunted. “We can’t let it stand.”

Hard to argue with that.

“Yeah,” I agreed. “But we want to be careful about the timing—can’t let the whole network fall apart when we cut off the head.”

“Fair enough,” Pic said, leaning back in his chair. He crossed his arms, his face growing more serious. “So now that we’ve covered that, let’s talk about the real issue. Tell everyone about the snitch.”

“It was a guy called Hands,” I said. Bolt sat up abruptly as our eyes met across the table.

“Same Hands who set up Bolt?” Ruger asked, his voice cold.

“Yup,” I said, my voice grim. “At least according to Gage. That shit went down while I was gone. We spotted him at the party. I managed to knock him out in what looked like an accident, and then I helped one of the prospects haul him home. He never laid eyes on Gage, so no chance he tipped off Marsh.”

“You should’ve called me,” Bolt said, his voice cold.