My mind was filled with images of the club, the work, the club whores, the Friday night fights, and all the other crazy shit that went on in this place. I thought about Blade umming and ahhing over Carina, then my mind drifted to Fender’s grumpy moping ass and how Diablo ran around threatening to chop cocks off, then went and slept in a room filled with jars of body parts lit up like a goddamned Christmas tree.
I turned back to Hendrix, and God help me, I did him the biggest solid I could, even though it involved lying through my fucking teeth.
“It’s okay, bro,” I assured him. “I’m sure our kids will turn out normal.”
I knew I’d done the right thing when I saw his shoulders relax and the look of slight panic fade from his face, even though in my head I heard Allie’s laughing voice whisper one word.
Liar.
—————
“So,”Colt began, his stare fixating on me across the table. “They’ve delivered the profile. You ready?”
I shifted in my seat and leaned over the huge round table with the Speed Demons’ patch burned into the center. “Go for it.”
My club brother picked up his iPad and began to tap. Within seconds, the walls of Church lit up with a graph of lines and squiggles, all centered around a picture of Saint and one word spelling out ‘stalker.’
“Jesus,” Diablo muttered. “That looks complicated as shit.”
“Not really,” Colt stated. He tapped on his device, and the graph turned into a list with headings and subheadings. “It’s just the way the team set it out. Remember, when they’re profiling, they need room to add thoughts and even gut feelings sometimes. You should be able to see it clearer this way.”
I scanned the list, trying to take it in as Colt started talking through the bullet points.
“He’s young, between twenty-eight and thirty-six, and he has a history of failed relationships. He’s social but finds interacting difficult, though he probably hides it well by overcompensating and being the friendliest guy in the room. To everyone, he seems like a great person, but the mask slips now and again, and he expresses bouts of anger or resentment. Stalkers are fueled by different things, but we think this guy has afew of the classic triggers. He desires his target and even thinks he’s in love. He also has a distorted sense of entitlement, which we think is a toxic personality trait, but it could also be because he’s got money and power. Basically, he thinks he’s a catch. If the woman he pursues doesn’t welcome his advances, he’ll eventually turn what he thinks is romance into threats. However, he always justifies it to himself by blaming the victim for their lack of encouragement.”
“So, he’s got an inflated sense of his own self-importance?” I asked.
Colt nodded. “Exactly. The profilers also believe Saint’s met her stalker. It could be somebody she knows, a fan she met in passing, or an exec-type whose hand she shook once at an industry party. The language in the notes conveys a sense of familiarity. This isn’t his first rodeo, either. He’s definitely done this before, which should make it easier to run through the list of men Saint comes into contact with. His behavior’s too obsessive for it not to be a compulsion.”
Something pinged in the back of my head. “How well could they know her?”
Colt shrugged. “It ranges. The profile can’t pinpoint it, but they’ve definitely met.”
“Does anyone you already checked out fit the profile?” I enquired.
He nodded. “I’ve got a few hits. The first one is Braden Hunt.”
“Where do I know that name from?” Hendrix asked.
My gut twisted. “He’s Dischordium’s manager.”
“He is,” Colt affirmed. “Braden’s also a hothead, entitled rich boy who’s had a complaint made against him from an ex-girlfriend who accused him of stalking her. I dug deeper, and the charges appear to be bullshit made-up ones. She was pissed he ended things with herand turned out to be vindictive as fuck. Still, we can’t rule it out.”
“I’ve met Braden a few times, and I can’t see it,” Hendrix interjected.
“I’m sure people said that about Ted Bundy, boss,” Colt responded. “I’m not saying he’s guilty; I’m saying a lot of his shit fits the profile, but then I’m sure a thousand men we know do, too.”
“Maybe we should bring Carbine into the fold,” Blade suggested. “Ask him to keep his eyes peeled.”
I jerked my grin in assent. “Agreed. Carbine may be in a rock band, but in his heart, he’s still a Demon and loyal with it.”
“I’ll talk to Cash after Church and get him to approach Carbine,” Hendrix offered. “I think it would go down better coming from his prez.”
We all murmured our agreement.
Colt’s stare met mine across the table. “Why did you ask about the perp’s closeness to Saint?”
I held his gaze. “It was just something that happened last week, and it resonated with me when you mentioned bouts of anger and resentment. Jonny lost his shit with Saint, and it came out of nowhere.”
