Chapter 17 Cash
CASH
Iwake up with Mercy pressed against me, her wild red hair spread across my chest like fire.
For a minute, I just lie there, breathing her in, hardly believing this is real.
After months of dancing around each other, she’s here.
Mine. Wearing my patch and sleeping right next to me in a bed we’ve barely left since I brought her into the guest apartment on Saturday night.
It’s now Monday morning. And to say it’s been a good weekend is an understatement.
“Stop staring,” she mumbles against my skin. “It’s creepy.”
“How do you know I’m staring? Maybe I was fast asleep and you just woke me up calling me creepy.”
“I can feel it.” She tilts her head up, green eyes still heavy with sleep. “Also, you breathe differently when you’re awake.”
“I don’t.”
“You do. You’re quieter.”
“Are you telling me I snore?”
She laughs. “No. You just breathe like a person sleeping.”
I run a hand down her bare back, feeling the way she shivers at my touch. “Sounds like someone else has been a creep, staring.”
“In my defense, you barely sleep,” she says, propping herself up on her elbows. “I had to check if I finally wore you out.”
“Good luck,” I smirk. “I don’t go down easy.”
In fact, I never sleep deeply with someone else around, not even her.
Old habits from the streets—never let your guard down, never trust that the person next to you won’t roll you the second you’re vulnerable.
But that’s not the point. The point is I can’t stop looking at her.
I’ve never met a woman with an appetite to match mine.
Yesterday I only left the apartment to bring back food, and the second I got back she dragged me into the shower before we even finished breakfast.
I smooth my palm over her hip, memorizing the soft fullness, the tiger stripes she still tries to hide when she rolls out of bed.
I’m aware of every damn inch of her—the little scar above her knee, the tattooed raven on her shoulder, the way her hair smells like sweat from sex and apples from her shampoo.
This woman makes me feel like everything from my skin to my shadow belongs entirely to her.
And the crazy part? There’s a weird comfort in it. In belonging to someone instead of just claiming them. I’ve spent my whole adult life keeping control, keeping distance, keeping people from getting close. But Mercy? She’s got all of me. Every fucked-up piece.
Mercy shifts, propping a leg across my thigh and burying her face in the crook of my neck. She’s warm and sleepy and still has that afterglow, the kind that radiates out of her and into the air, making the room feel small and safe and like we could stay here forever.
“What time is it?” she mumbles, her breath tickling at the base of my jaw.
“Eight-thirty.” I run my hands through her hair, massaging her scalp lightly. “We need to leave for Josie’s office by ten.”
The mention of the lawyer makes her tense. Today we start the legal battle to force Gabriel to sign the divorce papers. Today, shit gets real.
“Hey.” I cup her face. “We’ve got this. Josie’s the best there is. She always comes through for the club.”
“I know.” But she’s chewing her bottom lip, that nervous tell I’m learning to read. “It’s just... Gabriel doesn’t lose. Ever. At anything.”
“He’s never gone up against Stoneheart MC before.”
“That’s what worries me.” She sits up, holding the sheet to her chest like she needs a shield just to speak about him.
“He’s already in Summit’s pocket. And we know the sole purpose of that task force he’s on is to dig up dirt on the MC.
What happens if he actually finds some? Or worse—what if he creates it? ”
“Then we handle it.” I pull her back down. “Stop borrowing trouble, angel. We deal with what’s in front of us today.”
She studies my face. “You make it sound so simple.”
“It is simple. You’re mine. He doesn’t get to have any part of you anymore. End of story.”
Mercy just shakes her head. She knows I’m making the world simple when it’s never once been simple for either of us. Whatever. If telling this woman ‘you’re mine’ a thousand times keeps her from splintering, I’ll do it a thousand more.
Even if part of me knows I’m saying it as much for myself as for her.
Because the alternative—that Gabriel could actually take her from me, that the system could side with him because he’s got a badge and connections and I’ve got a criminal record—that’s the kind of loss I don’t know how to survive.
I lost everything enough times already. I can’t do it again. Won’t.
So yeah, I make it simple. Because simple is the only way I stay functional.
Outside, I can hear the clubhouse starting to wake.
Steel’s over-eager laugh through the courtyard window, Tank hollering for someone to bring him a wrench, the background thrum of people who will have my back without ever needing to say it.
Any other morning, I’d already be at the gym or the garage, burning off whatever tension the night brought.
Instead, I want to stay in this bed with Mercy, mapping every inch of her until my hands know nothing else.
Every instinct is in conflict—war with Gabriel, war with Summit, but also war with myself, with the urge to hoard her in here as long as I can before the world comes clawing at our door.
“We should start getting ready,” she says, making a move to get up from the bed.
“Whoa, whoa, angel.” I catch her upper arm. “It’s not gonna take an hour to get ready.”
“With the way you and I shower, it’ll probably take longer,” she says with a wicked little smirk.
I let go of her arm, watching as she slides out of bed and heads for the bathroom, hips swaying in a way that makes me want to drag her right back. She glances over her shoulder, catching me staring again, and crooks her finger at me.
“Coming?”
I’m out of bed before she finishes the word.
An hour later, we’re sated, dressed and ready. Mercy’s wearing jeans, a Devil’s Bar T-shirt and a denim jacket under her new cut, my patch visible to anyone who looks.
“You look good in my leather,” I tell her, unable to resist running my hands over the vest.
“You’re biased.”
“Extremely.” I kiss her, longer and deeper than I should when we need to leave. “Ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
Bones and Steel are waiting in the clubhouse lot, bikes already running. Bones is on his murdered-out chopper. Steel’s on his Sportster that looks rough but never quits.
“About time,” Bones says, but he’s eyeing Mercy in a way that reads approval, not suspicion. “Heard about the patch, darlin’. You look good as an old lady.”
She flushes, but she doesn’t fold. “Thanks.”
Bones shifts his attention to me. “Congratulations, kid.”
I just nod and help Mercy onto my bike, checking her helmet and making sure her jacket is zipped. “Stay close,” I tell Bones and Steel. “And keep your eyes open.”
The ride to Josie’s is tense. Mercy’s arms are tight around my waist, her body pressed close.
At every red light, I’m scanning mirrors—rooftops, parked cars, reflections in windows.
Looking for Gabriel’s cruiser or anyone I don’t recognize.
Bones sits behind us, Steel takes point.
No one cracks a joke, no one relaxes. Everyone knows what today means.
Josie’s office is in the good part of town, all glass and steel and money. The receptionist takes one look at our cuts and her smile pinches, but she leads us back without comment.
Josie Bright waits inside, immaculate in a navy suit. She’s early-forties but looks like she carved a deal with time itself. It tracks that Stone has a soft spot for her.
“Cash. Mercy.” Josie stands, offering her hand, grip firm and professional. “And you brought back up.”
“Bones. Steel.” I nod to my brothers, who settle into chairs flanking the door. “Hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.” Josie’s smile is casual. She’s used to dealing with the MC. “I appreciate men who understand the value of overt displays of support.” She gestures for us to sit. “Coffee? Water?”
“We’re good,” I say, though Mercy accepts water with shaking hands.
“All right.” Josie settles behind her desk, pulling out a thick folder. “Let’s talk about Gabriel Rogers and what we’re dealing with.”
Mercy’s pulse is jumping under my palm when I lace our fingers together.
“First, the good news.” Josie flips open the folder. “I’ve reviewed your case. You filed the papers thirteen months ago, which means we’re well past the mandatory waiting period. The failure to sign is clearly malicious. Which means we have grounds to petition the court for a default judgment.”
Mercy’s grip on my hand tightens. “That’s great. Right?”
“It is. But,” Josie continues, “Gabriel is a police officer with family connections in the Ailington justice system. His father was a captain, his mother worked in the DA’s office.
He’s got relationships with judges, prosecutors, and court clerks.
If he decides to fight this, I expect he’ll use every connection he has. ”
“So what do we do?” I ask.
“We make jurisdiction work for us.” Josie looks at Mercy. “Where was your residency before Ailington?”
Mercy blinks. “Millbrook County. Why?”
Josie’s smile is sharp. “Perfect. Did you live there before the marriage?”
“Yes. And I kept a PO box in the city for a while after.”
“Even better.” Josie makes a note. “We’ll file there.”
I lift a brow. “That’s allowed?”
“Absolutely. He moved her to Ailington. She fled from there. Millbrook is neutral. He’s got no network there.
Neither does Summit. The judge shouldn’t have ties either way.
” Josie sits back, satisfied. “And he’ll have to travel for every hearing, taking time off work.
That’ll be an inconvenience for him. One I’m looking forward to causing. ”
“That’s brilliant,” Mercy breathes.
I watch Mercy’s shoulders relax slightly, and I squeeze her hand again. Josie’s already working miracles, and we haven’t even gotten to the hard part yet.
“There’s more,” Josie says, pulling out what looks like financial records. “I’ve been doing some digging into Gabriel’s background. During your marriage, Mercy, did he ever discuss his finances with you?”
Mercy shakes her head. “Never. He controlled everything—the bank accounts, the credit cards, even the grocery money. I had an allowance.”
Josie’s expression darkens, but she keeps her voice professional. “Did you ever notice any unusual income or financial amounts? Say gifts from family? Or unexpected investment windfalls?”
“I don’t know,” Mercy admits. “He never told me anything about money except when he was lecturing me about spending too much.”
“Which you weren’t,” Josie says, not a question. She taps the documents in front of her. “According to these records, Gabriel’s been making deposits that don’t match his police salary. Significant deposits—ten, fifteen thousand at a time—into accounts you weren’t listed on.”
My jaw clenches. “Where’d the money come from?”
“That’s what I intend to find out.” Josie slides another document across the desk. “I’ve got a forensic accountant looking into it. If Gabriel’s taking bribes or engaging in any financial impropriety, we can use that as leverage.”
Mercy’s gone pale. “You think he’s dirty?”
“I think he’s a control freak with expensive tastes and a cop’s salary,” Josie says bluntly. “The math doesn’t add up. Either his family’s been bankrolling him—which is possible given his family’s wealth—or he’s got his hand in something he shouldn’t.”
I lean back in my chair, processing this. “Summit.”
“That’s my working theory,” Josie confirms. “Gabriel’s transferred to Stoneheart right as Summit’s ramping up their pressure on the town. He’s assigned to a task force specifically targeting the MC. And he’s got unexplained income.” She spreads her hands. “Connect the dots.”
“So he’s not just a controlling asshole,” Mercy says quietly. “He’s a corrupt controlling asshole.”
“Potentially,” Josie says. “But we need to be careful how we use this information. If we go public with accusations of corruption without solid proof, Gabriel can sue for defamation. And given his connections, he might win.”
“So what’s the play?” I ask.
Josie steeples her fingers. “We refile the divorce in Millbrook County, citing irreconcilable differences. We don’t mention the financial irregularities—yet. But we keep digging. If Gabriel fights the divorce, we’ll have ammunition to make things very uncomfortable for him.”
“So we squeeze him,” I say flat. “Blackmail.”
Josie’s smile doesn’t waver. “I prefer the term ‘strategic negotiation.’ But yes. If he wants to play dirty, we’ll be ready to draw blood.”
Mercy’s breathing has gone shallow beside me. I can feel her spiraling, so I squeeze her hand harder. “What are the risks?”
“For Mercy? Minimal, as long as she’s under MC protection.” Josie’s gaze shifts to Mercy. “Gabriel will try to intimidate you. He’ll use his badge, his connections, probably threaten you with psychiatric holds, all the usual tactics of an abuser with institutional power.”
“He already tried that,” Mercy says, her voice steadier than I expected. “At Devil’s Bar. He threatened to have me committed.”
“Which is why we need to document everything.” Josie pulls out a recording device. “I want you to tell me everything, Mercy. Every interaction with Gabriel since you left. Every threat, every phone call, every time he showed up uninvited. We need to build a pattern of harassment and stalking.”
We spend the next hour going through everything, documenting Gabriel’s controlling behavior. Josie takes notes, occasionally asking clarifying questions.
“This is good,” she says finally. “More than enough to show bad faith on his part. I’ll file the petition this afternoon.”
“How long will it take?” Mercy asks.
“Normally the process takes months. But I know a judge in Millbrook who specializes in domestic cases involving law enforcement. Judge Martinez. She doesn’t take kindly to cops who abuse their power in personal matters, so she’ll do what she can to rush it through—give him less time to retaliate.”
She leans forward. “Let me be clear. The second he makes a move, we’ll file for restraining orders and criminal charges. We will pressure him hard—provided nobody escalates on our side.” She eyes me, and I hold up my hands innocently.
“He’ll be cool,” Mercy promises, squeezing my knee.
“What’s it going to cost?” I ask.
Josie waves the question away. “Stone’s already taken care of it. Said to remind you two that the club protects its own.”