“You got a thing for your lawyer?” came a gruff voice that held nothing but contempt.
The guard was a mean-eyed snake of a guy who was full of his own importance, though he barely reached the middle of my chest. I chose to ignore his comment, not deeming him worthy of my energy and stood still, waiting for them to lead me back to my cell.
“I’m talkin’ scumbag.”
I twisted my head a fraction till I could look him in the eye and then gave him a dismissive snort. The place had cameras everywhere, so there was no way I was going to start shit and jeopardize getting released on bail.
The other guard poked me in the ribs with his baton. “Get moving, big guy.” His voice held a hint of frustration as I caught him giving the other guard a sideways glare.
There were some guards that weren’t looking to start shit, whereas others wanted nothing more than an excuse to give a good ass kicking. This wasn’t my first rodeo, but some players here had a lot less to lose than me.
Standing to my full height, I stared forward and let myself be led back down endless halls. The chains chafed at my ankles and wrists but I said nothing. Men of all shapes, sizes, and ages filled the cells we passed. The stench of blood, piss, sweat, and shit permeated the air and left a sour taste in my mouth that had remained since I’d stepped foot inside the place.
Five minutes later, back in my cell, I released a breath and wished I hadn’t when I inhaled the stale scent of greasy food and it turned my stomach. There was no escape from it in the tiny concrete box that must have been close to the kitchen ventilation. At least I didn’t need to share a cell, so there was that.
The only time I came into contact with other inmates was in the yard where we exercised. I’d been in this facility twice before, but not for more than a few hours. I might run a motorcycle club, but on the whole we tried to be law abiding citizens. It wasn’t always possible when fools picked a fight and it was hard to step back and not show them they were idiots.
Our rep tended to keep people away from the clubhouse, situated near the northeast city limits, bordering the Leon River. My granddaddy had owned a large piece of land there and had built the original clubhouse so it was away from prying eyes. At that time it hadn’t been more than a big wooden shack, but fifteen years ago a storm had demolished it.
I’d inherited everything at twenty-one, some four years before it became a pile of sticks. As my granddaddy had died before Lizzie was born, and he’d hated Swifty, the man his daughter, my mom, had hooked up with, he’d left everything to me, even though I was but a baby at the time. When I inherited, the vote for me to head the club had been a forgone conclusion, as I owed everything.
Swifty had objected, having taken over leadership after granddaddy had died. He was a mean piece of shit, who loved to beat on me and my sister when we were kids. He’d not been able to kick us out, so he’d made it his mission to make life as difficult as possible. The moment he’d challenged me, I’d been more than ready to give him a little of what he’d given to me and Lizzie. That fight was how I’d gotten the name Killer, not that I’d killed him, though it was close.
Fights between club members were all about fists and smarts. Swifty decided to break the code and had fought dirty, using a hidden blade he’d worn in a wrist sheath. He’d managed to slice nice and deep at my thigh before I’d taken him down. By the time I was done with him, he had seven broken ribs, a broken jaw, cheek bone, and nose. I’d dislocated the fingers on one hand, his elbow, and shoulder. He’d been squealing like a pig by the time I’d finished.
He’d sealed his own fate that night for breaking the code, and the club had turned their back on him. None of the club members had challenged me again since.
I blew out a breath and perched on the tiny bunk. It creaked and groaned under my bulk as I shifted to get comfortable on the thin mattress they classed as a bed.
The clubhouse and the members were mine, my place, my people. Now that fucking skanky whore, Nola Fink, was messing with that. How the fuck had I ended up in this position? Had I let things slide over the last few years? Should I have stopped members from bringing in possible new prospects? Again, came the question: Was this a setup?
These questions meant shit all when the horse had already bolted, and I was sitting in jail unable to find out the answers. Nola had fucking troublemaker written all over her skanky ass, and that was why I’d kept my distance. But could she have concocted this shit on her own? She was a typical hang-around trying to fuck her way up the chain of command. Or so it seemed after Sid said she’d tried it with him.
In the past, girls like her would’ve gotten my message of disinterest pretty quickly. Not this bitch! She’d somehow managed to follow me back into my apartment off the club. What she didn’t know was that I’d had to bring River with me that night because Nutty had a date. A sliver of guilt was squashed quickly that I’d held back that information from Mr. Davenport. There was no way they were going to drag River into this mess. Will sassy ass think I’m withholding? Of course he will!
That didn’t mean I’d change my mind, not a fucking chance in hell!
Should I have told him I’m gay?
That was a much harder question to answer with the attraction still buzzing through me. It wasn’t common knowledge in the club that I was gay. Sid and several other brothers I trusted were aware. It wasn’t that I gave a flying fuck what anyone thought, it was more to protect River from the bullshit that came with everyone knowing.
Where does this leave me? The clanging of the cell door opening and closing down the hall answered for me and I scowled.
From outside the cell, sounds of cat calls and guys talking shit continued and I rubbed at my throbbing temples. Mr. Davenport better get his shit together and get me out, and fast, because I wasn’t sure how long it would take to break my control. The last thing I wanted to do was find out.
Chapter Four
Mason
Hunger gnawed at my stomach as I drove from the Bell County Jail to Lincoln’s tattoo shop in downtown Belton. Food would have to wait until I’d made this final stop and I could find somewhere to grab a bite to eat. I gave a mournful sigh at thoughts of the marinated chicken and fresh, crisp salad I’d planned for dinner.
To distract myself from when I’d last eaten, my fingers drummed against the steering wheel as I focused on the road and the list of calls I still had to make. I’d already rung my father to pull a few strings to get me in front of a judge first thing in the morning. My key priority was to get Lincoln out of jail.
As cool as he’d played it, he’d struck me as a man ready to snap. I’d heard the comment the guard had made as I’d walked away, but I’d not heard Lincoln’s response. Had I been right? Was Lincoln gay, or at least bi? When he mentioned he was living with Nutty, it had thrown me for a minute. The only background I had on Lincoln was all connected to the Dark Angels. And although there’d been some discussion about Nutty, I still wasn’t able to figure out what she meant to Lincoln.
What does it matter? He’s a client.
I shifted against the leather seat, my shirt sticking to my damp skin. The evening Texas sun caused the heat haze to rise and shimmer above the highway. I had the air conditioning on, but I also had the window of my 2011 BMW 1M open, it did little to cool the sweltering heat of summer that carried the hot wind blowing through the window.