“You said you ran into a mutual friend recently?” Blaise prods.
“Not a friend.” I reach inside my cut and pull out the Texas bottom rockers. Blaise’s eyes widen as I slap them on the table. “Deacon didn’t seem to agree that your club’s running this area now.”
“That motherfucker,” he growls and casts an irritated look at his SAA. “He should’ve gone in the ground the night he touched Kady.”
“Your Dad’s call,” Thorn answers.
“He go after your girl?” I ask. Fuck, now I’m even more pissed that shit went down when I had Shelby with me.
“Caused a lot of fuckin’ trouble,” Blaise answers which doesn’t exactly explain anything. Typical biker secrecy. “Thank you for this.” He swipes the patches off the table and stuffs them in his pocket.
“Not a problem. They seem to be in a habit of being disrespectful everywhere they go.”
“He’s still got family in this area, so I’m sure it won’t be the last we hear from him.” Blaise shrugs. “We’re ready for ’em.”
Christ, all the more reason to get out of Texas sooner than later. Offering support to Blaise’s club is one thing. Getting in the middle of a personal, bloody turf war is another.
“We’re heading to Tennessee next but if you need anything let me know,” I offer.
“Appreciate that.” He sips his coffee slowly. “How’s the porn business working out?”
“Not bad.” It’s not like I’m going to pull out a profit and loss sheet for him to study. “We do all right with it.”
Hammer chuckles. “How’s your girl feel about that?”
I slowly turn his way and settle my fuck-off glare on him. “Club business.”
Blaise elbows his buddy. “I think what he means is, do any of the ol’ ladies have an issue with it?”
“Like it would stop us?” Pants says.
Blaise nods. “Fair enough.”
The guys all have a laugh over that but I decide to answer the question as honestly as possible. “None of the ol’ ladies have questioned it that I know of. And they’re all aware.”
“Hell, Shelby hung out with Anya back home,” Pants adds. “She’s a cool chick. Didn’t bother her none.”
I narrow my eyes at Pants and he zips his flapping lips. Nothing he said was a lie, but for some reason, I don’t like my girl’s name coming out of his mouth in front of members of another club.
“That’s cool,” Blaise says.
We talk about a few more things that concern both clubs.
Then it’s time to get on the road again.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Shelby
The truck bumps and weaves down an old country lane running parallel to an unused railroad line. Rooster slows, stopping in front of an imposing barbed wire fence. An amusing collection of “no trespassing” signs decorating the fence should scare the pants off any late-night intruders.
No trespassing. We’re tired of hiding the bodies is probably my favorite of the few I can read from the truck.
We’re only stopped for a minute or two when the gate screeches and slides open.
I’m losing track of how many MC clubhouses I’ve visited in the last few months. Since our visit to the Royal Dolls Gentlemen’s Club included multiple violations of privacy last time we visited Tennessee, this time Rooster wanted to skip it. But he still needs to pay his respects to the Deadbranch charter.
He guides us into a space in the parking lot opposite a long line of Harleys.
“They gonna give you guff for rolling up on the clubhouse in a cage?” I tease.
“Probably.”
“Maybe one day you’ll install a pole for me in the RV,” I say to Rooster as I stare at the grinning skull and crown staring at us from the sign on the clubhouse door.
He quirks an eyebrow. “I’m going to need more context.”
“Last time we were here, I got pole dancing lessons.” I twirl my finger in front of me. “It’s a legitimate workout. I want to try it again but not where someone can take photos.”
“Gotcha. The RV might be a little cramped for that. But I’ll keep it in mind when we start looking for a place.”
My heart pitter-patters. We. Finding an apartment for us is part of his future plans. It sounds so couple-ish and secure.
“I guarantee they have a pole or ten in this clubhouse,” he says.
That snaps me out of my house-hunting fantasies. “No way. Next time I try it, I’ll be at a legitimate fitness place.”
He shakes with silent laughter.
“Besides, your head would explode if I hopped on a pole in front of all your club brothers.”
His body stills. “Absolutely true.” His voice holds not a hint of shame.
Jiggy taps his knuckles against Rooster’s window.
“We doing this?” he asks when Rooster slides the glass down.
“Chill.” Rooster stretches his arm out of the window and gives Jiggy’s cheek an affectionate slap. “We just got here.”
“You’re not worried, are you, songbird?” Jiggy lifts his chin at me.
“Not really.”
He glances at the clubhouse. “None of Rooster’s exes should be haunting this place.”
Rooster smacks Jiggy’s cheek a little less affectionately this time.
Laughing, I unbuckle my seat belt and reach for my purse. “I hadn’t even considered that, yet. So, thanks a bunch.”
“Any other sunshine you’d like to spread, Captain Crapweasel?” Rooster asks as he swings his door open.
Jiggy backs up a few steps. “Give me a minute.”
“Play nice,” I tease.
As we cross the wide, gravel parking lot, I study the building looming in front of us.
Deadbranch’s clubhouse fits my expectation of an MC hangout better than the other ones we’ve visited. A giant rectangular brick building sitting somewhat out of place in a large field. At some time in the building’s history it must have been a warehouse.
Two wide, metal doors painted a faded red slide open with a rusty clinking. Rooster nods to a prospect inside.
The abandoned building aesthetic must be to discourage interest in robbing the place. Inside is wide-open space with a concrete floor. Yup, definitely was a warehouse. The brothers have filled it with furniture, a bar—naturally—a pool table that thankfully isn’t in use, arcade games, and what looks like a movie theater concession stand. As Rooster predicted, way in the back I catch the gleam of several silver stripper poles on an elevated platform.
“This is big,” I say. “Different from the others you’ve taken me to.”
“I think it used to be a distillery.” He points up. “They converted upstairs into bedrooms but there’s only one dorm-style bathroom.”
Gross. I’m gettin’ the creepy-crawlies picturing it.
He leans down. “Already made a reservation at a hotel for us.”
Praise the Lord.
“Will Digger think we’re rude if we don’t stay here, though?” Biker etiquette gives me a headache sometimes.