Chapter Fourteen
SAINT STRODE INTO the clubhouse with his usual outward confidence—easy gait, loose shoulders—but anxiety churned beneath the surface.
Letting Copper down sucked. Worse, he’d done it knowing his president would eventually learn the truth about Jason’s treatment of Beth.
Knowing Copper would view it as a betrayal of trust.
And still he’d done it. Like he’d done other things with Beth that Copper would hate even more, but one sin at a time.
“Hey, brother,” Zach said, looking up from the bar. Maverick and Jigsaw were there, too, as was Rocket.
Saint slowed.
Well, fuck. Had the club’s entire executive board gathered to kick his ass?
Or strip his patch? Maybe they’d be merciful and only demote him from Baby Enforcer to plain old club member.
The thought twisted something sharp and dug in his chest. He’d worked hard for his position.
And he valued it, knowing one day he’d fully take the role over from Zach.
Knowing he fucked with their ability to trust him would hurt almost as much as exile. “What’s going on?” he asked as he came to a stop in the middle of the space.
Copper strode out of his office. He didn’t rush. Didn’t scowl. Just watched Saint with flat, unreadable eyes, his expression hidden beneath his auburn beard.
“Everyone, head out,” Copper said calmly. “I need five minutes with Saint.”
Here it comes.
Zach glanced between them, curiosity blatant in his raised eyebrow, but he kept his questions to himself. “Sure thing, Prez.”
The room emptied fast. The door shut behind them with a soft click that sounded louder than it ever had.
“I had a long talk with Beth this morning,” Copper said, folding his arms across his massive chest.
Saint kept his face neutral. Copper didn’t know Beth had come to him first. He didn’t know what she’d divulged. Nor did he know she sucked his brain out through his dick less than an hour ago.
Thank fuck.
They stood twenty feet apart. Far enough that Copper couldn’t reach him if he decided to throw a punch. Close enough that Saint felt every ounce of his president’s scrutiny.
“Okay…”
“If you’d gotten to her ten minutes later…”
“But I didn’t.”
Copper sighed, rubbing a hand over his beard. “Yeah.” He studied Saint for a long moment. “What did you do with Jason?”
Since Beth had told him the entire ugly truth about her abusive piece of shit ex, Saint had no reason to keep anything from his president. At least not regarding why he pulled Beth’s ass out of Texas.
“Beat him fucking bloody with my bare hands right there on the floor of Beth’s apartment.”
Copper nodded once.
“I would’ve killed him if it went on much longer, but…” He shrugged.
“Yeah. Beth told me.” His jaw tightened. “What did you do with him after?”
“Dumped him in a fucking field somewhere in bumfuck, Texas, after a heart-to-heart about what would happen to him if he came within a hundred miles of Beth.”
“Think he’ll be a problem in the future?”
Saint pursed his lips. “He’s a pussy. The kind of guy who thinks he’s tough because he roughs up women. He couldn’t take one fucking punch. My money is on him being too chicken shit to do anything.”
“Okay. I still want eyes on him. For a bit.”
“Done.”
Copper looked up at the ceiling like he was searching for patience. “I’m fucking torn about how to handle this shit, Saint. The club’s never had a problem with you before. I don’t fucking like it.”
“I know.”
“I hate being kept in the dark.”
Saint straightened, meeting Copper’s gaze head-on.
“I get it. And I’m not trying to give you a line of bullshit excuses.
When I agreed to keep quiet, I knew I was risking your fury.
I knew it wasn’t acceptable to you or the club, but Beth needed space.
She planned to tell you once she processed.
I made sure of that. Everything happened fast. She was reeling.
Keeping my mouth shut gave her the dignity to share painful information on her own terms.”
He didn’t look away. Didn’t hedge.
“I fucked up with you, Prez. I own that. But if I’m being totally honest, I’d do it the same way again. I think I made the best decision at the time, given what I had to work with.”
“You’re protective,” Copper said with a solemn expression. “It’s one of the reasons I knew my daughter would be safe with you.”
For fuck’s sake.
He nodded, fighting to keep his expression neutral while the taste of Beth still lingered on his tongue. An hour ago, he’d had his face buried between her thighs, making her scream his name, and now he stood here pretending to be the loyal soldier Copper believed him to be.
“I want to rip your head off…” Copper muttered, “… but I also understand. And I need to respect my daughter’s autonomy and right to privacy, or some shit. At least that’s what Shell said,” he muttered.
Saint pressed his lips together to keep from smirking. It seemed the wisest idea.
“Just don’t forget…” Copper added, “… your first obligation is to this club.”
“I won’t.” It wasn’t a lie. He hadn’t forgotten his club. He’d made a choice.
A few choices.
Keep Beth’s secret.
Let her suck him off.
Make her come on his tongue.
“So now you owe me. You’re going to make it up to me by heading to the laundromat and getting that number so we can find out who the fuckers are dicking around in our town.
“Now?” Saint blinked.
“Right fucking now.”
He cleared his throat. “You got it, Prez.” It looked like he had about five minutes to get in the headspace to fuck with some drug dealers. Not what he had planned for the day, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to argue with Copper.
“Good. Zach, Mav, and I will ride along but stay out of sight unless it goes tits up.”
“Okay.” Already, he’d begun the shift into enforcer mode, pushing everything out of his mind except his duty to his club family.
“Let’s roll.” Copper strode toward him, slapping his shoulder as he passed. His expression softened to the mildly murderous appearance he usually wore as opposed to the violent visage he’d had when Saint first walked in.
He followed his president outside to find Zach and Mav already on their bikes and primed to go.
“All right,” Zach said from astride his motorcycle. “We’ll be near if there’s trouble, Saint. Go in, get the number, and get out. Leave your cut off and fingers crossed that whoever is working doesn’t recognize you as one of us.”
He grunted. Fat chance of that happening.
Almost everyone in their small town knew the Handlers.
Half the town feared them as villains, while the others saw them as vigilante saviors.
Reality lay somewhere in between. They wanted to live their lives their way, and sometimes that didn’t always follow the letter of the law.
“Easy enough,” Saint said as he grabbed his helmet.
Mav snorted. “Let’s fucking hope.” Then he fired up his bike and gestured for Saint to head out. “After you,” he shouted.
Their crew of four took off, flying through the mountains into town. The ten-minute trip gave Saint the time to get in the zone.
When he made the left into the parking lot of the small shopping center housing the laundromat, an antique store, and a dental office, the rest of his brothers kept riding. They’d circle back and park in the far end of the lot, but wanted anyone watching out the window to think they rode on.
Saint parked his bike in front of the antique store sandwiched between the laundromat and dental office, removed his cut, and stowed it in his saddlebags before striding toward his mark.
A large sign on the door read No Loitering, and beneath it, an ever-popular No Shoes, No Shirt, No Service sign hung crooked in the front window.
The bell over the laundromat door jangled too cheerfully as Saint stepped inside.
Overfilled washers rattled with angry metal clangs like they were seconds from tearing themselves apart.
Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, harsh and unforgiving.
They blasted him with light brighter than the midday summer sun.
Two customers occupied the laundromat.
They clocked him instantly.
One, a twenty-something woman folded towels on top of a dryer, while an older gentleman sat on a bench near the front window, waiting for his cycle to finish. He went back to scrolling his phone after a quick, wary glance Saint’s way.
Saint crossed to the counter slowly and deliberately.
“Can I help you?” the attendant asked without looking up from a decade-old, crinkled muscle car magazine.
The guy had shaggy, light brown hair with a matching mustache and was thin enough to be blown over by a gentle breeze. His plain white T-shirt had orange dust speckled across it. An empty Cheetos bag rested next to his open magazine.
“I want to use machine thirteen.”
The guy froze mid-page turn. The room didn’t go quiet, but something shifted.
The attendant lifted his head in a slow pan up Saint’s body. His eyes widened as round as the porthole on his washers. Yeah, cut or no cut, this guy knew exactly who stood in front of him.
“Uh, sorry, man. No, thirteen,” he said too fast. “Boss is super, uh, super… whatever that word is. Don’t like the number thirteen.”
“Superstitious.”
“Yeah. That’s it. Twelve and fourteen are open.”
Saint placed his palms flat on the counter and leaned forward, looming over the attendant. “I want thirteen.”
The guy’s pointy Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. “Right. Uh…” He wiped orange fingers on his T-shirt as he reached beneath the counter.
Going for a gun?
Saint’s pulse jumped. He immediately reached for the piece on his belt, but before he had a chance to grab it, the guy’s hand returned, empty.
“Okay, here you go.” He grabbed a pencil and a scrap of paper, scrawled a ten-digit number, then shoved the paper across the counter like it was hot to the touch.