Caymen looked over.
“I know you don’t want to hear this, but you need help now.”
“I don’t—”
“Noa,” he cut me off, “if I hadn’t been inside your apartment… and my brother hadn’t been on the street, you’d be plugged with half a dozen bullets right now.”
He was right.
I didn’t want to hear it.
But he was also right about the stakes being different now.
It wouldn’t hurt to hear them out, maybe have some backup.
I glanced over at Caymen’s profile.
I wouldn’t mind havinghimas backup.
“Fine. But I’m not promising to work with you.”
“I respect that.”
“And I’m keeping my gun on me.”
He pressed the gun I’d tossed him down onto my lap.
“Got no problem with that either.”
“Point me to the clubhouse then.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Noa
I’d seen many a biker clubhouse in my day.
While bikers weren’t exactly the kind of organization that typically hired me, I always tried to know of any major players in a town I was working in, so my reconnaissance work typically meant I at least did a little drive-by to check out the headquarters.
Most clubhouses I’d seen were either in bars or in glorified garages.
These Golden Glades guys… they had a house. An actual house. With gardens overflowing with (of all things) hibiscus flowers in every shade from happy yellow to bruised red.
They had a fence and gate, but I pulled right into the driveway.
“What’s across the street?” I asked as we climbed out, my gun held in my hand because I was not being stupid about this. No matter how much this guy was scrambling my brain. And hormones.
“Yeah, that’s been a whole fucking thing. It’s a senior living community… and assisted living.”
“Why is it a thing? Do they call the cops about the music or something?”
“Worse. The wives send the husbands over to tell us to turn it down or they will call the cops. And the men see the food, booze, and half-naked women and decide to be our best friends.”
“No way. Really?”
“Yep. Can hardly go a day anymore without tripping over a walker or cane or reminding someone that they were going to have a heart attack if they eat the fried quesadillas.”
“The women never come over?”
