He surges to his feet, pacing and thinking. “Or this was all part of some fucking test by the club.”
“Now you’re just paranoid, sweetie. They wouldn’t do that to you.”
He stares at me.
I cock a brow. “Would they?”
“I don’t fucking know. Hell, I guess not. They’re all in Ohio on some fucking club business.” He paces some more. “I’ve got until the banks open on Monday to get that money back, that’s all I know.”
“Should we call the police?”
“Fuck no. The MC never, and I mean never calls the law.”
“But my necklace…”
“I’ve got a hell of a lot bigger problems right now than your necklace, babe. I’m sorry.”
“So are you going to call Crow or Mako? Would they talk?”
He runs his hands through his hair, and pauses. He digs in the inside pocket of his cut and pulls out a worn business card. “Birmingham. I know who to call. And if I can get a lead from Aspen, this might give us a chance.”
He pulls his phone out and calls her, putting it on speaker so I can hear.
“Hey, Aspen. It’s Saint. Yeah, sorry to bother you. Got a question. You got any new hires that have a connection to Birmingham?”
“Well, there’s Salome. She started a month ago. I know she said she has a brother in Alabama somewhere.”
“Did you say Salami? Like the shit you put on sandwiches?”
She chuckles. “No, not Salami, Salome. Pronounced SAHL-oh-may. Got it?”
“Yeah. Thanks. Hey, can you text me a picture of her?”
“Something up?”
“No, just had a friend said he knew our latest stripper from Birmingham. Trying to figure out who she is.”
She yawns. “She’s not up on the website yet, but I think North had them do some media shots with her. I’ll pull one and send it to you.”
“Did she work tonight? Was she still there when I came by?”
“Yes, she worked. I think I saw her go out the back door when you were standing in my office. Why?”
“Nothing. Thanks, darlin’. Sorry to disturb you.”
“I’ll send the picture now so I don’t forget, just give me a minute.”
He disconnects and paces while we wait. Five long minutes later, the text comes in. I peer over his shoulder at the image.
“Pretty girl.”
He starts to move to the door. “Stay here. I’ll call you when I get to Birmingham.”
“You’re not going without me.” I panic.
He turns back. “Yeah, I am, babe.”
“But, I’m your witness. You have to take me with you! And besides, they took my necklace, too. I’m in this, Saint, just as much as you.”
“Kami—”
“And what if they know where you live and come while you’re gone, thinking there’s more here?”
His jaw ticks, and he blows out a frustrated breath. “Okay, fine. Maybe you are safer with me. Come on, short cake.”
I nod, excitedly. “Give me one second.” I grab a change of clothes and an extra KOC T-shirt from Saint’s drawer, just in case, stuffing them into a big shoulder bag. On the way out the kitchen, I shove some drinks and snacks in too.
He steps in front of me, grabbing my arm. “This is not some cross-country adventure or some fun road trip, understand?”
“Understand.”
He stalks out the door.
I smile, grab a jacket and follow after him. “Are we taking the bike?”
“No, the truck. The less attention we attract the better. If I ride in, I’ve got to have my colors on, and Alabama is not our territory.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Kami—
Saint heads through Birmingham, following his navigation directions west from downtown. Exiting the interstate, he drives us into the poor neighborhoods that border an old steel plant. We drive down several side streets, finally coming to an old clapboard house that sits, looming large, on a big corner lot. Next to it is an empty lot with overgrown weeds. The two properties consume the entire short block. Across the street is a burned out house, and next to that, an abandoned one.
“Not the best neighborhood, huh?” I whisper.
“I’m sure their club likes it this way. Fewer people to mess with them.” Saint stares past me to the house, scanning it.
The front yard is overgrown, the sides overrun with tall bamboo and Kudzu vines. A waist-high chain-link fence surrounds the front yard with a rusty gate that looks like no one ever uses. The metal mailbox out on the street is painted black with Evil Dead MC stenciled in white across it.
“Look up there.” I tap on the glass. Up on the front porch in a chair by the door sits a skeleton holding a scythe like some leftover Halloween decoration, except for the Evil Dead support T-shirt it wears.
“Let’s go around to the back.”
“There’s a back?”
“I hope so.”
Saint finds an alley, and turns down it. A six-foot privacy fence surrounds the back of the clubhouse. On the other side of the alley is a junkyard. He stops the truck at a double wooden gate with the club name painted top-rocker style across it.
Dawn is just beginning to lighten the horizon when we arrive. Saint texted his contact before we left Uprising, so they’re supposed to be expecting us, but there’s no activity.
I look toward the gate. “Who are these guys, anyway?”
“Nobody you want to piss off. Trust me. Wait here.” He opens his door, and I quickly undo my seat belt. There’s no way in hell I’m waiting in the truck again.
“Babe, I just need a minute. Wait here.”
“No.”
“All right. You can come. But I saw you slide my old pocketknife in your boot. Hand it over.” He holds his hand out. Damn, I thought I’d been so sneaky when I took it from the glove box and stashed it while he was getting gas. He waggles his fingers. “Babe, the Evil Dead pat us down and find it, we’re goin’ no place good.”
I hand it over.
We exit the truck about the same time someone opens the gate. Saint has a firm grasp on my hand, keeping me behind him and blocking me with his body.
“You Saint?” the man asks.
“Yeah.”
“Follow me.” The guy turns, and I see the word prospect on the back of his cut. We cross a large yard and gravel parking area. A line of about half a dozen bikes sits off to the side. I wasn’t expecting there to be so many people here this early in the morning. I wonder if they had a party here last night.
A burn barrel smolders, pale gray smoke rising up into the morning light. A dewy mist hangs over the grass.
We’re led into the back door of the house and into a large central room with a bar and a pool table. We follow the man across the room and down a hall. He pauses and knocks on a door.
“Come in,” a voice yells out.
The prospect opens the door and steps back. I follow Saint inside what appears to be an office. A good-looking man sits behind a desk; another stands to the side with his arms folded, leaning against a credenza. Two more guys sit before the desk. All heads turns as we enter.