?Chapter Eight
Cherry
The cruiser carried memories of stale sweat and cheap vinyl, the backseat felt sticky under Cherry’s jeans as they rolled into the station. The cop up front was not the rookie. He was older and calm when he glanced back in the mirror. “You good back there?”
“What do you think?” Cherry shot back, then bit his tongue, forcing a shrug. “Sorry. Yeah, I’m okay. You know what I’m being held for?”
“Nope. I’m just your ride to the shop.” The cop’s tone was flat, uninterested, and Cherry let it drop, staring out at the blur of neon and concrete.
They booked him quickly, prints, mugshot, the whole dance, and shoved him into a holding cell with a bench and a dented steel toilet. He paced for a while, boots echoing, then sank down, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. The rookie’s bullshit charge wouldn’t stick. And he knew Busk would call the club’s lawyer, some slick bastard out of Hammond, but it was his bike being impounded that gnawed at him. That baby was his soul, blue paint chipped from a thousand miles of road grit, every dent a story. Losing it to a tow lot over this? Fuck that.
He replayed the scene, remembering Diesel’s blood on the gravel, the rookie cop’s shaky bravado, Busk’s helpless shrug.Arm busted but breathing, he told himself about Diesel.Better than a slab. Still, the anger simmered, low and steady, mixing with the ache of already missing his ride. And under it all, Denis flickered, those dark eyes, that grin. Cherry snorted, shaking his head. Locked up, and he was still mooning like a damn teenager.
?Chapter Nine
Denis
Denis slumped in his chair, eyes burning as he closed them, the day’s weight pressing down like a physical thing. Case files blurred together, but memories of Cherry stayed sharp. His tattooed arms, that low growl of a voice, the way he’d arched into Denis like he’d been starving for it.Perfect. So perfect. Every box ticked with a sharp and bold mark, because he was gorgeous, sharp, funny, and came with an edge to him that cut just right. Denis smiled into the dark, letting the images play.
The phone shrilled, shattering the quiet. He blinked at the wall clock reading 9:47 p.m., and grabbed the phone. Carole’s name flashed. They should have both been gone long ago. “Yes, ma’am?” he said, hitting speaker.
“Denis, Judge Cooper’s on line two. Wants you to reprise your old role as public defender.” Her voice was crisp and no-nonsense, even this late.
He frowned. “I’m not...never mind. Okay, I’ll take it.” Not his usual gig these days, not when the private practice he’d built up with sweat and blood paid way better, but Cooper was a friend from his public defender beginnings. He tapped the blinking line. “Judge Cooper, great to hear from you. What brings you slumming in my neighborhood?”
