Page 49 of Devil’s Snare

“Listen, you got a problem with motorcycle clubs or me; this isn’t the time to hash it out.”

“I ride a fucking bike, asshole. This is about my sister’s safety. Her well-being.” He stepped closer, going toe to toe with me, and there wasn’t a hint of fear in his eyes. “I need to know you actually care about her, and this isn’t about getting your dick wet.”

He had balls coming at me like this. I wanted to get pissed, but he just needed to know I cared about Gwen. Couldn’t fault him for that. “I love her, Ethan.”

“Right.”

He didn’t believe me. “I’m fucking serious.”

“I’m not seeing anything that proves that.”

“She’s mine. I want to make her my ol’ lady.”

His eyebrows shot up so high I thought they might fly off his forehead. “You’d do that?”

“I will. Even if she refuses, I’ll just persuade her. Any way that I can.”

“Gross. Don’t talk about fucking my sister.”

“You’re the one demanding answers. Don’t ask if you really don’t want to know.” I strode toward my bike and sat on the seat. “Where does Max Roberts live? In town?”

“No. About twenty minutes from here. Not sure he’s still at that address.”

“It’s a good place to start.”

The only other motorcycle on the lot was one the same model as my Harley, only red instead of black. This fucker walked right up to it, started it, and took off without another word.

Of course, I followed him. Not much choice. He didn’t tell me where Max lived.

When Ethan parked his bike, I assumed we had arrived at Max’s address. I rolled to a stop behind him and cut the engine.

“Well, which one is it?”

He didn’t answer. “Max last lived in his parents’ basement.”

For real? “You’re fucking kidding me. What did Gwen see in him?”

Ethan shot me a look. “She has a type.”

Bristling, I almost told him he could shove his opinions and assumptions right up his ass.

“I’m fucking with you, man. Chill.”

Right.

“So, Max doesn’t live with his parents?”

Just tell me the fucking address already.

“Why don’t you lose the cut? Stuff it in your saddlebags, or we’re going to draw attention.”

“I don’t take off my cut,” I growled.

“Fine. Turn it inside out then. Take some initiative. You want someone to pin whatever we’re about to do on your club?”

I fucking hated that he was right. Grumbling the entire time, I took off my cut, turned it around, and slid it on with the patches and logo on the inside. “Tell me the fucking house number.”

“It’s 1541. Listen, this could end up a bust, but the guy didn’t work. He couldn’t hold down a legit job. Tell me what you see when you look at that house.”