“We need a plan for this?” Murphy stands and wipes his hands off with a rag. He points to the overcast sky with hints of sun peeking from behind fluffy gray clouds. “We were caged in all winter. It’s halfway decent weather today.”
“Good point.”
“You fix that leak?” I ask Murphy.
“Coolant cap was loose. Should be good to go now.”
Rock grunts but holds in his thoughts on the V-Rod. It’s not like Murphy doesn’t have other rides to choose from. “Why not take your flashy Road Glide?”
“Nah, I’m not sure Slater County deserves to see it yet.”
Rock sighs and aims his impatient president face at us. “Can we move along?”
Rooster and Jigsaw’s bikes rumble into the parking lot, putting an end to our fucking around. They stop at the far end of the garage. Rock’s boots crunch over the gravel as he pivots in their direction.
For fuck’s sake, Rock. Who’s causing delays now?
Murphy smirks at me as if he’s thinking the same thing. But we wander over to join the chat.
“Hey, brother.” Rooster pulls me in and slaps my back. “Supposed to meet Z. He here yet?”
Rock tilts his head toward the woods. “At my house with the Hope, Lilly, and the kids.” He lifts his chin at Jigsaw. “Z looking for you too?”
“Nah, I just tagged along.” He slaps Rooster’s shoulder. “Don’t like my boy riding alone.”
Rooster rolls his eyes.
“You mind if I borrow him?” Rock asks Rooster.
“Not at all.” Rooster slaps his hand on Jigsaw’s back and shoves him forward. “All yours, Prez.”
Jigsaw frowns at Rooster, then turns and nods at Rock. “What do you need?”
“Ride with us. We’re going out to the funeral home, and I’d like another body with us.” The corners of his mouth curl up at the pun.
He can’t be serious. “Uh, Rock?” I tap his shoulder.
He throws me a shut-the-fuck-up scowl.
“Yeah.” Jiggy throws a look at Rooster who shoots a shit-eating grin and jogs into the woods. “Sure.”
“Thanks.” Rock turns and walks toward his bike.
I hurry to catch up with him. Behind us, Jiggy’s bike starts up again.
“What the fuck, Rock? Why do you want to bring Jigsaw in on this? You heard what Z said. I don’t need him trying to collect trophies from the corpses.”
He stops and slowly turns my way. “Are you questioning me?”
Behind him, Murphy silently laughs and drags a finger across his throat.
“Yeah, I am.” I throw my arm toward the clubhouse. “You just said it. This is my deal.”
“And?” He raises an eyebrow.
“I don’t want him scaring the shit out of old man Cedarwood.”
Rock flicks his gaze in Jigsaw’s direction. “Rooster wouldn’t risk taking him out on Shelby’s tours if he couldn’t behave himself. I want someone else we trust to have some knowledge about this business venture.”
“Then ask Z to come.”
“Z’s busy.”
“What about Dex?”
“Also busy. Crystal Ball needs his attention.” He cocks his head. “Jiggy’s a brother. He’s an officer downstate, not some hangaround. What’s your problem?”
“I already told you.”
“I’m gettin’ offended, Prez.” Murphy steps up to Rock and hooks his thumbs in his pockets, rocking back on his heels like a smug jackass. “The three of us aren’t enough to scare Marcel’s ghoulish pal?”
“He’s not my pal.” I grit my teeth. Why am I so bothered? Since Z took over Downstate, he and Rock have been running the two charters almost as one. But part of me still feels the years-long divide between the two clubs. The desire to shut out Downstate and keep our business a closely held secret is second nature. “You’re right,” I apologize.
Rock blinks and cups his ear. “Come again? I’m not sure I heard you correctly.”
“You heard me,” I growl and stalk away.
Murphy and Rock share a word but they’re too far behind for me to make out what they’re saying. I ease onto my bike and fire it up without further argument. Through a quick set of hand signals, Rock motions for Murphy to ride by his side, and for Jigsaw and me to follow. Makes sense. President and vice president followed by the treasurer and road captain. Not sure why I’m bent about it.
Jiggy rolls up next to me and plants his feet on the ground. “You all right with me tagging along?” he shouts.
Not like I have a choice.
But Jiggy’s expression is devoid of his usual mischievous fuckery. He’s all business, which makes me feel like an asshole. “Yeah, brother. Thanks for coming.”
He nods and slips his visor down, covering his face.
It’s a long ride. Pine Hollow sits on the outer edge of Slater County. About forty-five minutes later, we pull into the parking lot behind the large, rambling Victorian house. Rock continues to the edge of the lot, lined in overgrown grass and trees. The house itself is painted what was probably a sunny shade of yellow at one point, with white trim. Large chunks of paint peel away from the siding like open wounds. Carpet that was once meant to mimic green grass covers the wide, wrap-around porch. Now it looks brittle and worn in certain spots. Four different chimneys poke out of the sloped roof.
“This is a nice area,” Rock says. “Quiet. Unassuming.”
“Until a bunch of bikers roared into the parking lot,” Murphy says.
“You wanted to ride,” Rock reminds him.
Jigsaw joins our group but hangs slightly back. His gaze lingers on the peeling paint and rickety-looking railing next to the stairs. “Place needs work.”
“Yup.” I’m already plotting how to wash some cash through the construction costs when we renovate the building.
Rock pulls out his phone, clicks to a map, and studies an aerial view of where we’re standing. “What is Pine Hollow? A village? Hamlet?”
“A hamlet. No local government.” I rub my hands together, savoring my favorite part of the location. “They rely on the Slater County Sheriff’s Department for law enforcement.”
“Who are barely competent as it is,” Rock says, without looking up from his phone. “Very nice.”
I respond with a quick nod, but pride beats in my chest. Club’s never done anything like this, and I want it to be a success.
Three cars are parked next to the house. A cheery lemon-yellow mint-condition 1950s-era Ford Thunderbird catches Murphy’s eye. “Don’t see a lot of those in such good condition.”
“Yellow isn’t your color,” I snark.
“It’s a sweet ride,” Jiggy says, stopping to study the classic car.
A garage separate from the house has four bays. None are open. “Hearse must be kept in there.”
A plaque screwed into the porch railing says Cedarwood Family Funeral Home and Cremation Company, spelled out in a fancy—but dated—script. It matches the larger sign at the front of the building.
“That’s a mouthful,” Murphy says.
“I don’t think they’ll be open to a name change.” I elbow him.