A Maserati stopped near my truck, flashy and black, and I froze when the tinted window slid down, revealing River’s handsome face. He raised his eyebrows at me, and his glasses reflected the lonely streetlight nearby.
“Officer, is there a reason you’re sitting out here?” He sounded relaxed, much more so than he’d been at the station.
Fear swelled in my gut and I tamped it down. “I was checking the opening hours.”
“Mm-hmm.” He didn’t believe me, if his tone said anything. He glanced toward the gate of the junkyard and sighed. “Listen, I don’t get involved in family drama, but if you want to come in and see if Bishop is there—”
“Bishop? Is that what he calls himself?” I leaned forward, hoping to catch a glimpse of him around River’s hood, which was stupid.
“Yes. Bishop sounds very British, doesn’t it?” River gave me a squinty look, one that said he was tired of this bullshite already and thinking snide thoughts in that witty brain of his.
“I don’t want to go in,” I said, my gaze flicking to the steering wheel where my knuckles had turned white. “I need to go.”
“Okay?”
I started the truck, flipped on the headlights, and listened to her shake and rumble to life. I nodded at him when I hit the button to put up my window. My truck wasn’t as new as his flashy car so it took longer to put the window up than River’s had to put down, but once it was closed I put my Ford in Drive and headed past him, careful not to turn too sharply and hit his shiny beauty.
I drove aimlessly, watching the residents of New Gothenburg on a Thursday night grabbing their food or laughing with friends. Everything looked very average, but it wasn’t normal. Nothing would be again.
Alex is dead.
Dead.
Not alive.
Drowned.
I stopped in our—my—driveway that belonged to the small three-bedroom home we owned. Prussian blue siding with white trimming, wide rectangular windows, a little porch out front with white railings surrounding it, and a big front yard with bright green grass—not that I could see it at this time of night. The home had been everything Alex and I had wanted, a place we could adopt a few kids in someday. The front porch light was on because I’d left it that way when I went to work this morning, but usually Alex flicked it on for me, waiting for my arrival home. Not anymore. I’d never see his face again.
I squeezed the steering wheel and slammed my forehead on it hard enough to hurt. I yelled, screamed, and shouted until my throat was raw. Numbness echoed through me. Still not grief. The feeling was more like anger at the world. Every time I found happiness, it was ripped from me like a bandage from a seeping wound.
And Hayden was here, in the same city, and I’d had no clue. But he was a biker. A drug dealer. A gun runner. And whatever else those bastard Kings dealt in.
I was a cop and he was a criminal.
What the bloody hell should I do now?
2
River Demchenko
“This Paxton situation is about as delightful as a moldy jockstrap,” I grumbled over the low bossa nova music circulating through my car. “Poor Paxton.” The worst part was, I actuallyfeltthat way. Not often did sympathy rear its ugly head in me, the world was just too shitty of a place, but when it did I felt compelled to act out my imbecilic “helpful man” routine and do stupid shit like show up at the police station, where I was definitely never fucking wanted, to defend acopof all people.
The last thing I’d expected on my agenda today was to find Paxton dangling on the hook of a lazy accidental-death investigation. It made no sense that the cops would treat Paxton that way, but then again, they weren’t noted for their love of foreigners, even ones with American citizenship and sexy accents. I’d bet my left nut a little good old-fashioned American xenophobia was driving the bullshit I’d witnessed at the station, not that I could do anything much to stop it.
The headlights cast spindly shadows over my Maserati from between the piles of metal I cruised past while the rutted drive rattled my teeth. I carefully picked my way along to the Kings’ clubhouse and cursed King every time I hit a pothole, but thankfully there weren’t many. Shivering, I wanted to turn on the heater because we were at the point of autumn where I’d dressed for summer this morning and it felt like winter tonight, but I was almost to the clubhouse. I stopped where I was, not caring if anyone was behind me, and stripped off my suit coat, leaving me in a white long-sleeved button-up that I very much doubted would escape my visit to King unblemished. I checked my hair in the mirror, slid my gold-rimmed glasses up my nose, and then drove carefully on. Somehow there was always filth on nearly everything at the clubhouse, even though I saw Hunter cleaning a lot of the time.
Bikers were dirty, end of story, and that’s probably why I liked them so much. I had to be spotless, and they got to roll around in grease and oil and road dirt. The idea of that much filth gunned my motor, even though I mostly avoided the biker life in practice.
Grunting in satisfaction, I pulled my Maserati easily into the first spot in the gravel-and-dirt lot beside King’s Harley at the end of the row. I would be able to leave without the threat of getting parked in. Excitement jumped in my stomach as I glanced down the long shiny row of motorcycles packed in the lot already—there were about fifteen bikes.
Tonight’s gathering looked like the type of party that meant I might be able to drink myself into a mindless hole—or maybe I could become one—and find a quick release somewhere, somehow. I didn’t care if my tension relief came in the form of riding around the city on a bike until I was too tired to do anything except fall asleep, or fucking until I couldn’t think.
Gritting my teeth, I watched Oz, one of the occasional riders who was around at the beginning of the club, leave through the front door, laughing. He was huge, taller than Reaper—which was saying something—and had a deep scar along the right side of his face, from a fight years ago, that traced the whole way from the side of his chin through his eyebrow. He kept his hair so short it was almost nonexistent, and I’d run my fingers over it once or twice in the past to feel the tickly bristles. He always said he was proud of that scar and never wanted to hide it, though I hadn’t yet heard the story of how he got it. As usual he had a skinny little goth twink latched onto him like a leech. It made me uncomfortable to be bitchy about Oz because it wasn’t as if I didn’t like him, but he always made me antsy because he got so… attached to the men he was with. He worshipped them.
Fucking hell.They got onto Oz’s bike. The guy in black eyeliner and fuck-me tight black jeans ran his hands over Oz’s broad shoulders, and Oz turned to share the type of kiss with his man that would have made anyone stop to stare. They ate each other’s lips like they might die if they didn’t, and when they were finished, Oz cupped the guy’s face between his hands and dropped another soft kiss on his cheek. They got lost in each other. The display was revolting and made me altogether too aware of the fact that the last man I’d been with had been a fucking liar, and even so, I still missed Buddy’s worthless cock—and the rest of his lying body too.
Drumming my fingers on the steering wheel, I tried to talk myself out of staring but didn’t look away. Oz stroked his hand down his latest boyfriend’s belly, and the guy trapped it there. I let out a long breath. King, the president of the Kings of Men MC, would have been a good bet for a night of fuck and forget. He would do all the things I liked, and a few I hated, but I would have left the clubhouse too tired to think and fucked out for a good week. But for some unholy, unfathomable goddamned reason, King was playing the good client, for now, anyway. He’d told me last time we got sloshed together he wasn’t interested because he wanted to make sure I stayed his lawyer, and I was still embarrassed about it, or rather, mortified by the way I’d begged him to fuck me anyway. There wasn’t anyone else at the clubhouse I wanted to do that with.
