Page 21 of Devil’s Snare

He might be jaded, but he wasn’t wrong. “I know. I won’t, Pres.”

“Get in the fucking chapel.”

I dipped my chin with respect and entered, dropping into my seat. My gaze caught Cyber’s at the other end of the table, and he shrugged. I didn’t care that G.D. knew about Gwen; I just didn’t want her name and address on the club’s radar before I had a chance to get to know her and figure out why I felt such a strong connection.

I wasn’t a secretive guy. Not when it came to G.D. or the club. But now I felt protective, wanting to shield Gwen, and it didn’t make sense.

Or did it? She just lost someone close to her. I checked the name on the temporary grave marker.

Becka Carmichael. Same last name as Gwen. When I did a basic internet search on my phone, I saw the article about her death. She was a Marine. Survived by her parents and two siblings.

I needed to ask Cyber to check into Becka’s murder. Maybe he could find out if she had any enemies. Something was off. Made me feel antsy.

G.D. sent me a look like he knew I was distracted, and I focused on the conversation in the room.

“The press is in good shape. Just gave it a tune-up.” Fanatic wasn’t just the secretary of the club. He also liked to tinker with machinery and had become crucial to the club with his ability to keep things running smoothly in our lumber mill.

It also happened to be the same location as our printing press. Counterfeiting was our main source of income. The lumber mill helped cover up the operation and supplied the paper we needed for production. Not to mention, it was how we supplied our legit business, custom wood furniture and coffins, with the lumber it needed. But we mostly sold the caskets.

“Everything on schedule?” G.D. asked, switching his attention to Nightmare.

Our club brother had a scar that started above his right eye, dragged across the lid, and extended below his eye. The injury had caused inflammation and discoloration. Nightmare hated it, so he wore a white contact lens that contrasted sharply with the dark, nearly black color of his other eye.

But that wasn’t all. The accident that disfigured him also left deep scarring on the right side of his temple and hairline. He wore his dark hair long to partially cover it, but had also inked that area with a spider crawling out of his skin and a partial web. The fangs dripped blood.

Nightmare always wore all black and painted his nails black, too. He preferred the dark, and we often noticed him sitting in his room with all the lights out. The guy liked the shadows and quiet corners. The parts of the nearby forest that didn’t allow much light to enter because they were so dense.

But right now? He was playing with his solid black tarantula as the arachnid crawled over his hand and up his arm to rest on his shoulder. It didn’t faze any of us anymore. He almost always had it with him unless he was riding. Since he lived here, we often found his pet loose in the bar.

Nightmare nodded to answer G.D. “Everything is set. Got the routes planned, and the orders are nearly ready to ship out with the coffins on Thursday.”

“Good.” G.D. picked up a shot glass and filled it with whiskey before he tossed it back. “We’ve got—”

He was interrupted when we heard someone shouting outside the chapel. The door swung open as one of the prospects pointed to the front of the clubhouse.

“Trouble, Pres. Several cop cars just pulled up.”

“Be cool,” G.D. ordered as we all left the chapel.

Everyone moved quickly to the bar and pool tables. Nobody said a word as one of the officers began banging on the door.

G.D. ticked his chin toward the prospect. “Answer it.”

The kid did as he was told and cracked the door open. “Yeah?”

“Is Graham Dawson around? I need to speak with him.”

Graham Dawson. G.D.’s real name. Nobody ever called him that. Hell, some of the newer members probably didn’t know that information.

G.D. looked agitated. His jaw clenched. He took a breath and then went still. Calm. Like the ruthless motherfucker I knew he could become in less than a heartbeat. “Let them in, prospect.”

The door opened and three men entered. Two cops. One guy in a suit.

I recognized Detective Castor. Mike was a bit of a Boy Scout. He stuck to the books. Made it challenging for us at times.

The other officer was his partner. A little older. Gruff. Never said much. I forgot his first name. Just knew him as Spratt.

It was the guy in the suit that stuck out. He wasn’t from here, which meant he could cause problems. We weren’t worried about gun running or drugs. Our club didn’t mess with either. We preferred to get our hands dirty with cash.