Chapter Five
Denis
Denis shoved the file across his desk, papers spilling in a riot of chaos, and leaned back in his chair, the springs creaking under him.
It was way too early on a Monday morning, and the scant staff already in the office hummed around him, same as always.
The pro bono case in front of him was a skeleton, bones picked clean.
This was just a kid caught with a dime bag and a non-existent rap sheet that didn’t match the scared-shitless face Denis had seen in lockup.
Thin folder, thinner story. Something stank, and it wasn’t just the precinct’s shitty plumbing.
He tapped a pen against his teeth, then grabbed his phone, punching in a number from memory.
“Ricky,” he said when the line picked up, voice clipped.
“Got a job. Kid named Marcus Warner, nineteen, picked up on possession. His grandmother wanted to hire me, but they’re tight on money so it’s pro bono.
But the file’s light, too light. Follow and watch, yeah? Dig me something I can use.”
“On it, boss,” came the reply, rough as gravel, and the call dropped.
Ricky Parrado was a bloodhound, a PI who’d sniffed out more dirt for Denis than half the cops in Baton Rouge combined.
If there was a thread to pull, he’d find it.
Denis tossed the phone down and flipped to the next file.
It was a domestic, and messy, the kind that made his skin crawl while his bank balance sighed with happiness, but his focus splintered yet another time, dragged back to Saturday night like a moth to a flame.
Cherry. That name, that voice, so low and ragged, like it’d been scraped over asphalt, and it lived rent-free in his skull.
The biker vibe should have screamed trouble.
Hell, all that ink that told a story Denis hadn’t cracked yet, the multitude of scars that hinted at a life spent swinging at enemies, those storm-gray eyes flashing vulnerable one second, hard as steel the next.
And that body. Jesus fuck, the way Cherry had moved against him, all power and need, grinding into him until they could burn the world down together.
Denis shifted in his seat, pants tightening at the memory, and forced his eyes back to the file. Focus, asshole.
But Cherry wouldn’t leave. Denis saw him in the margins of every page.
The illusion of those thick forearms flexing as he gripped Denis’ neck, the hitch in his breath when they’d kissed, the way he’d said “not running” like it was a vow.
Denis had fucked plenty of guys, blown off steam in dark corners or between sweaty sheets, but none had stuck in his head like this.
Cherry was a puzzle, a contradiction, a roughneck biker with a soft underbelly, green but not fragile, hiding something big behind that steely glare.
He scribbled a note for one of his junior associates on the domestic case, then tossed the pen, leaning back to stare at the ceiling.
The biker angle gnawed at him. The motorcycle club, IMC no question, but Baton Rouge had its share of other players.
He’d defended a few over the years, patched-up outlaws with more loyalty than sense.
Cherry fit the mold but also didn’t. He was too steady, too real.
Denis wanted to peel him open, layer by layer, and see what made him tick.
His phone buzzed, Ricky, probably, and he snatched it up, grateful for the distraction. “Yeah?”
“Preliminary on Warner,” Ricky said, voice crackling. “Kid’s a runner. Just small-time, but connected. Got eyes on him now. Give me a week.”
“Good. Keep me posted.” Denis hung up, but his mind was already drifting again, back to Cherry sprawled on his couch, chest heaving, that slow smirk promising more.
He groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face.
“Get your shit together, Chapin.” But the truth settled heavily that Cherry wasn’t just in his head, he was under his skin, and Denis wasn’t sure he wanted him out.