Cherry slumped in the backseat, boots braced wide on the floorboard, staring out at the Baton Rouge night as it smeared into shadows. His chest still hummed, a live wire buzzing under his ribs, but the farther he got from Denis’ apartment, the more it felt like a dream slipping through his fingers.Unreal. He was off kilter, even sitting in the car seat was a chore. Like he’d stepped out of his own skin for a night and now couldn’t find the way back in.
He gave the driver a gruff “thanks” as he tapped the tip button and hauled himself out. Cherry stood on the cracked asphalt of his driveway, the familiar bulk of his bike in the open garage gleaming under the sodium glow of a streetlamp. Home. His sanctuary was two stories of weathered brick and secrets, bought with cash from a decade of enforcing the IMC’s will. The door from the garage to the kitchen groaned as he shouldered it open, the dark swallowing him whole until he flicked the kitchen light. It buzzed to life, harsh and yellow, casting jagged shadows across the room.
Cherry shed his boots by the door, the thud of leather on tile familiar and grounding, and crossed to the fridge. Beer in hand, he didn’t bother with a glass, just tipped the can back, letting the cold bite chase the lingering taste of Denis from his tongue.Denis.Suit Guy. A man with that grin, those hands, and the way he’d pulled Cherry apart and pieced him back together in the span of a few hours. He set the beer down hard, metal clinking against the counter, and dragged a hand over his face, stubble rasping under his palm.
“What the fuck was that?” he muttered, the soft question swallowed by the empty house. Beer in hand he paced to the living room, dropping onto the couch which was a beast of cracked leather that sagged under his weight. His vest flowed through his mind, patches stark against the black, watching him as if it were a jury.Cherry. Enforcer. Semper Fi.The man he’d built, brick by brick, over decades of blood and loyalty to the two entities. And yet, last night, he’d been someone else. Someone raw, unguarded, chasing a hunger he’d buried so deep and for so long he’d nearly forgotten its shape.
He fished his phone from his pocket, thumb hovering over the screen. Denis’ number glowed there, punched in before he’d left. It was either a lifeline or a landmine, he couldn’t tell which.Call him. Just fucking call him.His pulse thumped, too loud again, and he scrolled the contact screen up and down, finger twitching closer to the “Call” button with each scroll. What would he even say?Hey, Suit Guy, I’m losing my damn mind over here. Wanna tell me it was real?Pathetic. He locked the screen, tossed the phone onto the cushion beside him, and leaned back, staring at the ceiling.
The certainty he’d felt when they’d been chest to chest, Denis’ breath hot against his neck, was fraying, threads pulling loose with every tick of the clock. Maybe it was a fluke. A one-off. Maybe he’d imagined the way Denis looked at him, like he saw past the ink, the gruffness, and the growl to something worth keeping. Cherry snorted, bitter, and lifted the beer again, draining it. He’d faced down worse than doubt. No matter fists, knives, even the weight of a brother’s betrayal. This shouldn’t shake him.
But it did. Throughout the next early morning hours there were eleven times he picked up the phone, thumb nearly brushing the call button, heart slamming against his ribs. Eleven times he stopped, tossing it back down, cursing himself for a coward. The twelfth time the siren called, he stood, shoved it into a pocket, grabbed his vest, yanked his boots back on, and stormed out to the garage instead. The bike roared to life under him, a snarl of power that drowned out the noise in his head. He peeled out into the night, wind tearing at him, chasing the road until the uncertainty blurred into the brightening horizon. But Denis stayed, a ghost riding shotgun, and Cherry couldn’t shake him loose.
His two oaths complimented each other. One to the US Constitution, and one to the club. Both were supported by the bones of those who had come before. Cherry blinked his stinging eyes and slowed the bike, shocked he’d been riding in excess of...well, of everything, lucky to be doing so without having a red and blue escort. Busk would have his ass if he’d pulled so much as a ticket while doing something so incredibly stupid.If he knew about Denis, he might grant me some slack.Cherry shook his head, rattling the helmet around on his skull. “He’d be right to give me a beatdown, if anything had happened.” He knew that deep inside the chapter VP’s heart was a sweet and sappy “love will find a way” theory. No matter how rough and gruff he acted.
The first time he’d met Busk was at a bike washing fundraiser years ago. Cherry had ridden past, eyeballing the women in skimpy outfits caressing each piece of chrome with a sudsy rag, thinking he could pay for a wash and dry. That would cut down on the bullshit tasks he needed to finish up before he could feel comfortable roaring out of town, letting the turns of the road dictate his journey.
Decided, he’d rolled around the corner and circled the block until he was back in front of the bike wash. Easing to a stop, Cherry lifted a requesting finger to a young lady approaching with a clipboard in hand. One wash, one dry. A tall wall of a man interrupted her, thick fingers plucking the clipboard and pen with a deftness that belied the sheer size of the man.
“Busk.” Hand extended to Cherry, the man had looked him up and down.
“Pleased. I’m Cherry.” Giving his military call sign in that moment had felt right. After all, he’d been Cherry for more years than he’d like to admit.
?Chapter Five
Denis
Denis shoved the file across his desk, papers spilling in a riot of chaos, and leaned back in his chair, the springs creaking under him. It was way too early on a Monday morning, and the scant staff already in the office hummed around him, same as always. The pro bono case in front of him was a skeleton, bones picked clean. This was just a kid caught with a dime bag and a non-existent rap sheet that didn’t match the scared-shitless face Denis had seen in lockup. Thin folder, thinner story. Something stank, and it wasn’t just the precinct’s shitty plumbing.
He tapped a pen against his teeth, then grabbed his phone, punching in a number from memory. “Ricky,” he said when the line picked up, voice clipped. “Got a job. Kid named Marcus Warner, nineteen, picked up on possession. His grandmother wanted to hire me, but they’re tight on money so it’s pro bono. But the file’s light, too light. Follow and watch, yeah? Dig me something I can use.”
“On it, boss,” came the reply, rough as gravel, and the call dropped. Ricky Parrado was a bloodhound, a PI who’d sniffed out more dirt for Denis than half the cops in Baton Rouge combined. If there was a thread to pull, he’d find it. Denis tossed the phone down and flipped to the next file. It was a domestic, and messy, the kind that made his skin crawl while his bank balance sighed with happiness, but his focus splintered yet another time, dragged back to Saturday night like a moth to a flame.
Cherry. That name, that voice, so low and ragged, like it’d been scraped over asphalt, and it lived rent-free in his skull. The biker vibe should have screamed trouble. Hell, all that ink that told a story Denis hadn’t cracked yet, the multitude of scars that hinted at a life spent swinging at enemies, those storm-gray eyes flashing vulnerable one second, hard as steel the next. And that body. Jesus fuck, the way Cherry had moved against him, all power and need, grinding into him until they could burn the world down together. Denis shifted in his seat, pants tightening at the memory, and forced his eyes back to the file.Focus, asshole.
But Cherry wouldn’t leave. Denis saw him in the margins of every page. The illusion of those thick forearms flexing as he gripped Denis’ neck, the hitch in his breath when they’d kissed, the way he’d said “not running” like it was a vow. Denis had fucked plenty of guys, blown off steam in dark corners or between sweaty sheets, but none had stuck in his head like this. Cherry was a puzzle, a contradiction, a roughneck biker with a soft underbelly, green but not fragile, hiding something big behind that steely glare.
