“Don’t ‘kid’ me,” the cop snapped, finger jabbing too close to Cherry’s chest. “You bikers think you own the road? Step back, or I’ll—”
“Or you’ll what?” Cherry cut in, voice dropping low, the enforcer’s edge bleeding through. He didn’t move, didn’t flinch, just stared the rookie down, gray eyes hard as flint. The air thickened, one of the other cops turned, hands twitching. Busk stepped up, a wall of leather and calm, but it was too late. The rookie’s pride was stung, and he grabbed Cherry’s arm, yanking like he could muscle him anywhere.
“Hands off,” Cherry growled, shaking him loose, but the kid was already shouting for backup, and next thing he knew, he was face-first against a cruiser, wrists pinned.
“Arresting you for interfering,” the rookie spat, breathless with his own bullshit.
“For what?” Cherry roared as the door slammed shut, locking him in the backseat. He twisted, glaring through the glass as Busk argued with the cop, pointing at his bike. “Impound,” he caught through the muffled yelling, and his stomach dropped. “Get someone to ride it home,” he shouted, but the rookie cut him off with a sneer, “Evidence, asshole,” and Busk threw up his hands, done.
Cherry slumped back, watching the ambulance pull out, ferrying Diesel to the nearest bone doctor. Busk held a phone to his ear, then shouted, “Lawyer’s tied up with Mother chapter bullshit so sit tight, Prez is on it. Ruger says we’ll get you out, you know we’ll get you out, brother.”
Cherry nodded, forcing his breathing to slow. “At least I’m not cuffed,” he muttered, bitter, as the engine growled to life and the cruiser rolled towards the station.
?Chapter Seven
Denis
Denis’ office was a war zone of discarded coffee cups, careless coffee rings bleeding into each other across papers littering his desk like a topographic map of exhaustion. He tapped his laptop, refreshing his inbox for the tenth time in as many minutes. Still no word from Ricky. The Marcus Warner case was a ghost. Still way too thin, too quiet, and the clock was ticking. He sighed, dragging a hand through his hair, and opened his chat with Carole.
Need an extension on Warner,he typed, cursor hovering over send. Before he could hit it, the screen pulsed that godawful lime green, Carole’s pick because she swore it kept her sharp, and her preemptive reply popped up:Already filed for an extension for Warner, boss.
Denis barked a laugh, shaking his head. “Of course you did.” Another pulse, and:PI meeting set for tomorrow, 10 a.m. Don’t be late.He grinned, leaning back in his chair. Carole Morris was a force of nature, fifty-something, sharp as a tack, and the only reason his life didn’t collapse under the weight of case files and burned coffee. Call her a secretary, and she’d gladly gut you with a smile. His aunt, she was also the only person in his family he was close to.
He was still chuckling when his gaze drifted, mind rolling unbidden to the memory of Cherry sprawled on his couch, ink gleaming under the light, that rough laugh rumbling through Denis’ bones. The man was a goddamn magnet, pulling Denis’ focus no matter how deep he buried himself in work. He’d replayed that night a hundred times. Going from their time on the dancefloor, the kiss, to the way Cherry’s voice cracked with want. That slow, wanton grind.Jesus God.Green, he’d said, but there was nothing fragile about him. Just layers Denis itched to peel back.
His phone buzzed, snapping him out of it. He grabbed it, hoping for Ricky, but it was just a spam text. “Fuck,” he muttered, tossing it down. He needed that report. It would give him something to sink his teeth into, something to keep Cherry from hijacking every spare thought. Because right now, the biker was winning, and Denis wasn’t sure he minded.
