So I told her everything.
The water samples. The industrial solvents and heavy metals that didn’t belong anywhere near the aquifer. Dr. Harlan snatching the cooler and telling me to keep it out of the database. The tire tracks I’d found that didn’t match any official vehicles. The way he’d said people get shot over shit like this. The Oakley Company. The clean-cut dentist from the martini bar—the one with his arm around Mason’s ex—being tied straight to the family that owned half the land up there. The raise that now felt like hush money. The whistleblower-level nightmare I’d walked into thinking it was just a fresh start.
When I finished, my voice was raw. The yard was quiet except for the distant bass leaking from the house and the chirp of some night insect in the scrub.
Regan sat there for a long second, wheels turning so hard I could almost hear them. Then she let out a slow breath and grinned—sharp, dangerous, the kind of grin that made me wonder if I’d just made the biggest mistake of my life or the best one.
“I’m glad you told me this,” she said. “I’m glad you came to me with this. We will figure it out. I’m definitely running for mayor now. ‘Cause as mayor? Maybe I can fix this shit. Stop the corruption at the source. Use the MC boys to go after the Oakleys where it hurts. No one—no one—is poisoning my baby’s drinking water. Mine. My family’s. This is fuckin’ bullshit.”
My stomach dropped. “But don’t do anything crazy, Regan. Please. I can’t have you do anything crazy or we could all get killed. I could get killed. I didn’t sign up for this. I wanted a new life, but I didn’t want to walk into a frickin’ true-crime episode.”
She bumped my shoulder with hers, the grin never fading. “Too late, babe. You’re already in it. But you’re not in it alone anymore. Now come back inside before those drunks decide to send the stripper out here to cheer you up. We’ve got a weddingto survive first… and then we’re burning some rich assholes to the ground.”
I stared at her, heart hammering, the desert night suddenly feeling a whole lot smaller.
And for the first time since I’d slammed that laptop shut, I didn’t feel quite so alone in the mess. Terrified? Yeah. But not alone.
CHAPTER 12
MASON
The wedding was finally over,and thank fuck for that. Tank looked like a man who’d just won the lottery and the Super Bowl on the same day—grinning ear to ear under all that ink and leather while his bride clung to his arm like she’d been born there. I was happy for him. Really. The brother had earned his slice of forever after all the shit we’d waded through together. Regan had gone full fairy-tale again, but this time she’d played it smart. Fooled the country-club suits by posing as some out-of-towner from Tucson, all sweet smiles and fake Southern drawl when she signed the contract. Security was tight as a virgin’s thighs—prospects at every gate, brothers posted like shadows, eyes on the perimeter. When the rest of us rolled up in a thunder of chrome and cut colors, the country-club manager damn near popped a vein in his forehead. But the papers were signed, the deposit cleared, and there wasn’t a goddamn thing he could do when his fancy ballroom turned into a Royal Bastards wedding. The whole place went epileptic—old money wives clutching pearls, golfers in pastel polos staring like we’d just pissed on their golf carts. I loved every second of it.
Now the reception was winding down, lights low, music slow, and I was three bourbons deep at the bar, nursing the fourth likeit owed me money. Still no sign of Sienna. Or her so-called date. I’d scanned the room a hundred times, telling myself I wasn’t looking, telling myself the knot in my chest was just the whiskey. She’d said she was bringing someone. I’d growled that she’d still save me a dance. But the night had dragged on and the chair next to the one I’d been eyeing stayed empty.
Until it didn’t.
I caught the movement near the edge of the dance floor—Sienna in some slinky green dress that hugged every curve like it was painted on, laughing soft at something the big silver-haired bastard beside her said. Rick. Royal Scorpions. Late fifties, built like a papa bear who’d spent thirty years bench-pressing engines and bad decisions. His old lady had died of cancer five, six years back. Next to him sat Eddie—same club, early sixties, another silver fox with shoulders that could block out the sun. His wife went in a car wreck back in the nineties. Both of them richer than sin. They’d helped start the first Scorpions chapter, back when their old men were running powder and pills across the border in the ‘70s, ‘80s, ‘90s—before everything went digital and the game got bloodier. Old-school money. The kind that didn’t need to flash.
And there was Sienna, basically in Rick’s lap, his big arm slung casual around her waist while she leaned into him like she belonged there. Her mystery “date”—some woman I didn’t know, pretty in that polished way—had her fingers laced tight with Eddie’s, head on his shoulder, fake tears shimmering every time the music hit a sad note. Holding hands like teenagers. A few sniffles thrown in for effect.
My stomach turned to lead.
I never figured her for a gold digger. Never figured her friend was either. But with every single brother in this room—single, patched, ready—and she picks the two richest old-timers from asister club? The ones who could buy half the desert and still have change for a new bike? What the fuck.
“Fuck this,” I growled under my breath. I slammed the rest of my bourbon, set the glass down hard enough the bartender flinched, and turned my back on the scene.
The women had been circling me all night anyway—club girls, a couple of civilian chicks who liked the leather and the danger. I picked the first one who caught my eye: tall, dark hair, dress cut low enough to make promises. I flashed her the grin that usually worked, pulled her onto the dance floor, and let the slow song wrap around us. She pressed in close, perfume sweet and cheap, hands sliding up my chest like she’d been waiting for an invitation.
I felt Sienna’s eyes on me before I even looked. When I finally did, our gazes locked across the room. She was still tucked against Rick, but her face had changed—frown pulling at her mouth, that scientist look like she was judging every inch of me and finding it wanting.
Good.
I yanked the brunette tighter against me, one hand dropping low on her back, the other sliding into her hair. I dipped my head and nuzzled into her neck, lips brushing skin that wasn’t Sienna’s, breathing in perfume that didn’t taste like lime and chocolate and fire. The woman giggled, arched into me, but I kept my eyes on Sienna the whole time.
Let her watch. Let her stew the way I’d been stewing since the sidewalk and the cat and the almost-fuck in her kitchen. She wanted to play games with silver-haired Scorpions who could write her a blank check? Fine. I’d play right back.
The knot in my chest pulled tighter, but I didn’t let it show. Just kept dancing, kept nuzzling, kept pretending the woman in my arms was the one I wanted.
Because fuck her for making me care.
The cake had been cut, the toasts done, and the dance floor was still packed, but the real party for the brothers had moved to the big white tent out back. Cigar time. The expensive scotch was already breathing on a side table—stuff that cost more per bottle than most prospects made in a month. I followed the rest of the guys inside, lighting up a fat Cuban and trying to act like I gave a shit about tradition.
Regan was out there with the girls under the string lights, laughing too loud, waving off the younger prospects like they were annoying flies. The whole group was clustered tight around Sienna and her mystery friend, the two of them glowing like they owned the night. Rick and Eddie were long gone—probably back at their table with fresh drinks—but the girls weren’t done with Sienna yet. Too much fun, apparently. Too busy to bother with the men and their cigars. I watched Regan shoo another prospect away with a grin and a middle finger, then turned back to the tent before I put my fist through something.
I blew a slow smoke ring toward the canvas ceiling, watched it drift and fade. Did it again. And again. Each ring tighter, each one angrier. The scotch burned going down, smooth and expensive, but it didn’t touch the knot twisting tighter in my gut.
River leaned against the bar beside me, cigar clamped between his teeth. “Yo, man. What’s up?”
