I don’t understand why she allows this guy to hurt her when she’s got this much support from her family. He must be holding something over her head.
We end up having a nice lunch, and getting to know Evie and her family is fun. My parents would get along with them, too.
I know that my father and Cameron worked together in the past, but I’m not sure if they are friends. I learned that Cameron has retired from practicing law but remains a managing partner at the firm in Providence. He also consults when he’s needed. His wife, Beverly, who was a stay-at-home mom when Evie was younger, has now become a party planner and caterer, running her own business.
I remember that Georgiana asked for my business card before Evie arrived, so I give it to her before they all leave. She likely knows about the debt that is owed. Her husband must have told her, but I’m not sure if she has any clue what that means.
It’s hard on me to watch them go with Evie in the backseat of their car. She should be on my bike. I want her glorious body wrapped around mine. I want to take her home with me, but I can never have her. She is with someone else, and I won’t come between their relationship unless she asks for my help. As the car pulls away, Evie stares at me, too. She feels this connection we have.
I spend the long ride back to Jupiter thinking of all the reasons I shouldn’t be with Evie. She isn’t meant for me, isn’t from my world. She is from a world of mansion living and luxury cruises. I bet her grandmother owns her own plane or charters private ones. I also found out that Evie is studying to be a fashion designer. A career I doubt she can have in a small town such as Jupiter. The biggest thing going against a relationship with her is that I owe her family. The debt is based on club respect, and I can’t disavow that. As President, I know it’s a line that can’t or shouldn’t be crossed. She’s meant for more than me. But she is meant for more than just Justin, as well.
Chapter Four
Judge
I walk through the entrance of Blissful Passages Pet Crematorium and Grief Center, heading for the manager’s office, and there, standing in the doorway, is the man himself, shifting from foot to foot while working a hangnail on his thumb with his teeth. I cringe thinking of where his hands have been, and now, they’re in his freaking mouth.
Yuck.
Hooks sits at the desk, his cut layered over his long-sleeved dress shirt. It’s shocking to see him in a suit instead of his jeans and everyday biker attire. His hair is brushed back from his head, but I can tell he’s been combing his fingers through it. The same fingers that are now clacking over the computer keys. Hooks is our accountant and treasurer. He keeps all our businesses running smoothly, in the black, and legal.
“How bad is it?”
I ignore the manager’s gasp when he’s pushed up against the wall and detained. Hammer has him under control, so I’ll deal with the lying thief in a moment.
“I caught him fast enough, but it’s still a good couple hundred grand. Fucker thought if he used a cleaning service out of Providence, it would cover his tracks. This is bigger than just this fucker, though,” Hooks huffs out as he continues typing away, trying to find exact amounts.
“A couple hundred grand?”
Immediately, I turn and grab the manager by the throat, lifting him and squeezing his skinny neck. Hammer releases him as I use my strength to keep him aloft. I’ve been so focused on getting the factory up and running that it never occurred to me that someone would steal from me until the government inspection that we usually pass detected a flaw in the contamination certifications. They were fakes.
The manager claws at my hands, his face turning blue as he struggles. His legs kick, but I just hold him at arm’s length, my muscles flexing slightly. The fucking pissant started with the company just a couple of months ago. Right about the time I was down in Eastport. Our regular manager hired him before he went on paternity leave. Thank fuck he’ll be back soon. This was only supposed to be a temporary assignment, but I’d been talking to Mathews, who suggested keeping him around as backup so he wouldn’t have to work all the time. I’d almost agreed. Glad I didn’t.
“Is this because you were afraid your job was going away?” I ask as I drop him thoughtlessly. He coughs and hacks for a moment before pulling out his cell phone. Hammer kicks it from his hand, and it shatters against the wall.
“They’ll still come.” This guy’s whiny voice grates on my nerves. I’m about to stomp the fuck out of him, with his cheap suit, sleaze ball look, hair greased back, and counterfeit watch. But his words break through my fog of anger.
“Who, the police?” I can’t hold back the caustic laugh. Fucker is still new enough to town that he thinks the cops will save him. He has no idea who really runs this town.
“Yes.” He smiles triumphantly.
I squat in front of him as he braces his body against the wall. “You stole from me. You stole from the club.” I wave my hand to the men now standing in the lobby behind me. “I can have the sheriff take you in, and I’d still get to you. We own this town.” His eyes go wide, and he looks around for help or a weapon.
“I got the money back. It was sitting in an offshore account, but you’ll want Mal to do a more thorough search of his laptop,” Hooks says and moves to stand next to me.
Hooks was here when the OSHA inspector was on the premises. The inspector pointed out that the full disclosure of a chemical used to clean surfaces to avoid cross-contamination was false. Hooks called me as soon as he arrived at the office and found proof of embezzlement along with the false documentation. OSHA left, issuing a warning that they’ll be back in four weeks, and we need the situation fixed by then.
“Look, no harm, no foul. You have your money. Don’t hurt me,” the thief begs, pausing as he looks away. A good sign that he’s lying and hiding something.
“Find me Grave.” I bark out, knowing one of my men will get him.
Grave is the chaplain of our club and a veterinary technician, specializing in cremation. He’s been working for me for years, and I wanted him to step in as manager for the short time needed, but he insisted he couldn’t. He might be our chaplain, but he’s not the friendliest people-person in our crew.
Grave tromps up from the basement, drying off his hands. The big guy remains quiet, just shaking his head for a moment while taking in the scene in front of him. His gray hair is messed up, a clue that he’s pissed off. Usually, it’s perfectly done.
Slowly, he pushes his glasses up his face. “Fuck. I knew that pissant motherfucker was up to something.” His gravelly voice comes from years of smoking and fighting when he was younger and intimidates most men who don’t know him. What few people rarely learn is that he’s a big softy. He has a freaking cat and dog who are his “people,” he says.
“How bad is it?” I ask. Grave is meticulous about his workspace. It’s clean and organized, proof of his years working in a veterinary practice.
