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“Mad Dog?”
“I’m thinking.”
“Of an alibi?”
“No. A way to explain it without losing a testicle.”
Willa snorts, her hands absently moving up and down my thighs. I’m not even sure she knows that’s what she's doing. Blowing out a breath I know I have to be honest.
“Diesel is Quarter Mile MC.”
“I’m pretty sure I told you that.”
I snort, “Yeah you did, babe.”
“So? What’s the problem?”
“Problem is this new club of his has moved into Roxburgh. The old Death Riders compound.”
“What the hell?”
“Yeah. But shit ain't right.”
Her hands leave my body and I mourn the loss of connection. I know we agreed on being friends but the woman has magic hands.
“How do you mean?” Her voice sounds tight. I know that she's seen and survived some shit in her life.
“They’ve moved in but they ain’t living there. No parties, front door and windows still boarded up. But the warehouse at the back is full of shit.”
“What kind of shit?”
“Stolen shit. Drugs. Drugs that don’t belong to them.”
The silence is deafening. “They’re moving things?”
“Looks like it.”
Her hands resume on my lower back, long strokes moving up to my shoulders, before starting at my lower back again. We sit in silence, Willa slowly loosening muscles that haven't been worked in a while. Her skirt swishes when she steps away, then she’s back, and warm oil drips onto my thighs.
“Diesel is a logistics type of guy. Moving shit is his specialty. It’s what got him put away,” She finally says.
“He’s a problem, Willa.”
“No shit, Mad Dog,” she barks out before sighing. “Look, he’s an asshole and I’ve moved on. Like way the hell on. I don’t want anything to do with him, but you gotta know he can be dangerous. Whatever he’s doing, whatever this new MC he’s part of is doing, it won't be good.”
I let her words percolate. Anyone can see Diesel is dangerous. He’s the type to stab you as soon as look at you. But the fact that he has the intelligence to work logistics makes him even more dangerous. That’s a man that has patience.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Depends what it is.”
“What did Diesel go to prison for, exactly?”
She takes a deep breath, then blows it out slowly. “Diesel was never a dealer. Didn’t do any of the sales part of the business, so to speak. He was purely the guy who moved shit. Picked it up in one place, dropped it off somewhere else. Then his luck ran out and he was charged with possession with intent to distribute.”
I frown. “If he was never a dealer, how the hell did they catch him on that charge?”
“There may have been a tip off.”
