3. Crow
CHAPTER 3
CROW
This feels different.
“What can I get ya?”
Conner, the prospect working the bar tonight, is young and eager to please. He had a shit childhood which means he has a lot of anger to work through. But he’s a good kid and will be an asset to the club… when he’s ready.
“Shot of Jack,” I reply. “Ya know what? Just give me the whole damn bottle and a shot glass.”
“You sure about that, Pres?” Conner asks.
I reach across the bar and grab ahold of his shirt to yank him toward me. “Don’t ever fucking question me,” I snarl. “Got it?”
“Got it.”
He stumbles backward when I shove him away and then he quickly whirls around to grab the bottle of Jack Daniels. Conner hands me the booze before wisely retreating to clean some imaginary mess.
I carry the bottle to the recliner I positioned in the corner of the room and flop down. Sitting here, I can see everything which is just how I like it.
“What crawled up your ass?”
Slowly, I lift my gaze and glare at Journey. “Nothing.”
“Bullshit,” he snaps. “The only time you take the whole bottle is when something’s eating at you. So, spit it out.”
I don’t say a word as I stare at him, silently berating him for daring to interrupt my alcohol-fueled pity party of one.
“Oh, I see,” he says calmly as he sits on the couch against the wall. “You’re freaking out because of those three Limitless Throttle brothers.”
When we returned to the warehouse for the forty-eight-hour deadline, Snap, Trick, and another of their patched members were gutted like animals in the middle of the building. And if they brought the cash, it was long gone.
“I’m not freaking out,” I snap.
“Fine,” he capitulates. “But you can’t ignore the problem their deaths create for us.”
“No shit.”
“We’ll figure it all out,” my VP says. “We always do.”
“And while we do that, do you really think the cops are gonna give a damn that we had nothing to do with it?”
“They can’t pin murders on us that we didn’t commit.”
“They can, and they will.”
“Crow, we’ve got an inside man for a reason,” he reminds me. “He’ll make sure we’re left out of the investigation.”
I grunt in response. Journey’s right, we do have a cop on our payroll. But sometimes, even all the money in the world can’t penetrate that thin blue line.
“Why don’t you go bang out your anger?” he suggests, nodding toward Molly, one of the Bangin’ Betties. “She’s always up for a little sexual punishment.”
“Not in the mood.”
“Since when?”
“Since my head isn’t in the game.”
Journey throws his head back and laughs. “Not touching that with a ten-foot pole.”
I throw the shot glass at him, and it bounces off his chest and falls to the floor where it shatters. “Shut the fuck up.”
He glances over his shoulder and shouts at a prospect. “Blain, come clean this shit up!”
“On it,” Blain calls back as he rushes toward the closet to get the broom.
Then Journey refocuses on me. “Pres, we’re gonna be fine.”
Again, I grunt in response, and he walks away instead of pushing the issue further. There’s nothing left to say. Journey is the best VP I could ask for, and his willingness to disagree with me is why. He’ll follow my orders, but he also calls me on my shit.
Deciding to take his advice, I rise from the chair and step around Blain as he reaches the broken glass and starts to sweep. I cross the floor, my sights set on Molly.
Maybe banging out my anger will do the trick.
“Hey, Crow,” Molly purrs when I stop in front of her. She reaches out and flattens her palm against my chest. “What can I do for ya?”
I take a swig from the bottle I’ve still got clutched in my hand before grabbing her wrist and dragging her toward the stairs.
Molly’s heels click on the steps, the sound sharp and annoying. It’s on the tip of my tongue to demand she take them off, but I keep the words to myself.
“You seem to be in a bit of a hurry,” Molly comments, her voice breathy.
“If I wanted to talk, I’d talk,” I snap, hoping she gets the hint to shut the fuck up.
When I reach my room, I stride inside, kicking the door closed behind us. I turn her around so she’s facing the barrier and push her against it. After setting the open bottle of Jack Daniels on my dresser, I hike her skimpy leather skirt up to her waist and tune out her begging for my cock.
Five minutes later, Molly’s crying and scrambling to get out of my room. I yank my zipper up but leave the button of my jeans undone, then grab the booze before making my way to the bed. I’ve never not been able to get it up for her, or any woman for that matter.
All the Limitless Throttle bullshit really has me in my head. It’s not like we haven’t dealt with stuff like this before. Hell, we eliminated the Bangin’ Bashers MC, and our law enforcement contact handled the fallout for us, but…
This feels different.
For the next hour, I drown my worries in alcohol. My head swims, and my vision blurs, but I don’t pass out like I hope. Instead, my concerns refuse to sink without a fight.
Will the police come for us?
What evidence will be found at the crime scene?
Will every last clue point in our direction?
How will I protect the club?
Who the fuck killed those bikers?
My cell pings, pulling me out of my thoughts, and I take it out of my cut pocket and stare at the screen.
Oinker: Search warrant signed for clubhouse… coming in an hour
The alcohol-induced haze I’ve been in immediately disappears. I quickly get to my feet and bolt out of my room. While I’m running down the steps, I fire off a quick text.
Me: Thanks 4 the warning
Oinker: Have my $$ ready
I groan. Not only do I have to get this place ready to be torn apart, but I also have to worry about handing over a bribe in the middle of a sea of cops.
Asshole.
“Rise and shine!” I shout as I make my way through the clubhouse, banging on doors. “Code blue!”
Within minutes, everyone is gathered in the main room.
“Judge signed a search warrant,” I begin. “And apparently, they think coming in the middle of the night is gonna work in their favor. Let’s get this place ready and prove them wrong.”
By the time the swarm of police and detectives arrive, there isn’t a shred of anything illegal to be found.