He scribbled a note for one of his junior associates on the domestic case, then tossed the pen, leaning back to stare at the ceiling. The biker angle gnawed at him. The motorcycle club, IMC no question, but Baton Rouge had its share of other players. He’d defended a few over the years, patched-up outlaws with more loyalty than sense. Cherry fit the mold but also didn’t. He was too steady, too real. Denis wanted to peel him open, layer by layer, and see what made him tick.
His phone buzzed, Ricky, probably, and he snatched it up, grateful for the distraction. “Yeah?”
“Preliminary on Warner,” Ricky said, voice crackling. “Kid’s a runner. Just small-time, but connected. Got eyes on him now. Give me a week.”
“Good. Keep me posted.” Denis hung up, but his mind was already drifting again, back to Cherry sprawled on his couch, chest heaving, that slow smirk promising more. He groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Get your shit together, Chapin.” But the truth settled heavily that Cherry wasn’t just in his head, he was under his skin, and Denis wasn’t sure he wanted him out.
?Chapter Six
Cherry
The Baton Rouge clubhouse smelled as it always did, a biker’s mix of motor oil, stale beer, and the faint tang of weed. Cherry leaned against the bar, one boot hooked on the rail, slowly sipping from a lukewarm bottle as prospects hustled around through mid-afternoon streaks of sunlight, wiping down tables and hauling chairs into rows. A couple of patched members, Rook and T-Bone, lounged nearby, shooting the shit about a run over to Gulfport that’d gone sideways. Cherry half-listened, nodding when it mattered, his mind still tangled up in the ghost of Denis’ hands, the echo of that night.
“Prospects are green as hell,” Rook muttered, jerking his chin at a skinny kid fumbling a stack of folding chairs. “Gonna be a long fuckin’ night for the meeting if they don’t shape up.”
“Mother’ll whip ‘em straight,” T-Bone said, grinning around a toothpick. “Always does.”
Cherry snorted, setting his beer down. “Yeah, well, VP wants it perfect. Big dogs coming in, gotta show ‘em Baton Rouge ain’t slacking. Prez is pushin’ VP, and he’s pushin’ us. Gotta make the cut. Ruger and Busk are gonna be looking for anything out of line.” He pushed off the bar, rolling his shoulders. “C’mon, let’s get the back room sorted.” He tapped the side of his nose. “Never know when Mother is looking around. Anyone seen Pony today?” The men laughed as they followed him. Pony was IMC’s resident IT guru, based in Hammond.
They filed into the meeting space within the clubhouse, which was a low-ceilinged box with a long table scarred from years of fists and bottles. Cherry hauled a pair of chairs from the corner, Rook grabbed a broom, and T-Bone started pinning the IMC bylaws up on the wall, the paper yellowed but sacred. The rhythm was easy, familiar, more muscle memory from a hundred setups like this. Cherry let it steady him, the whisk of the broom and rustle of paper drowning out the noise in his head.
He was giving the table a final wipe when Rook’s phone buzzed, sharp and insistent. The man frowned, answered, and went still. “Fuck. Yeah, on it.” He hung up, eyes cutting to Cherry. “That was Busk. Diesel’s down. Highway 10, some cage clipped him. He’s alive, but it don’t sound real good.”
Cherry’s gut clenched, the rag dropping from his hand. “Let’s roll.” They picked up a few more members as they made their way through the clubhouse. Cherry sent a text to the officers’ group, watched long enough to see his president was informed, and then shoved the phone deep in his pocket. “Stay out of the back room,” he told the one probationary member. “Keep the prospects out of it, too.” They’d be leaving the clubhouse with scant protection, but he believed the men in the vests sporting any version of affiliation with IMC would defend to the death.
Ten minutes later, six bikes roared onto the scene, engines snarling as they pulled up to a mess of flashing lights and twisted metal. Diesel’s ride, a matte-black beauty, was a mangled heap on the shoulder, front wheel bent like a pretzel. The man himself was propped against a guardrail, one arm cradled awkward and bloody, face pale but he was cursing up a storm as a paramedic worked on him. Cherry swung off his bike, boots crunching gravel, and clocked the cops milling around. There were three of ‘em, tense, hands hovering near holsters.
“He good?” Cherry called to the VP, Busk, who was kneeling by Diesel.
“Arm’s fucked, but he’ll live,” Busk growled, standing. “Cage didn’t even stop. Motherfucker just peeled out.”
Cherry nodded, relief warring with the adrenaline pumping through him. He turned to check the bike from closer, but a shadow loomed up. It was some rookie cop, barely old enough to shave, chest puffed out like a goddamn peacock.
“Back off,” the kid barked, stepping into Cherry’s space, voice cracking with nerves. “This ain’t your scene.”
Cherry’s jaw tightened, but he kept his tone level, hands loose at his sides. “Brother’s down, kid. Just checking on him.”
