Chapter Eight
Cherry
The cruiser carried memories of stale sweat and cheap vinyl, the backseat felt sticky under Cherry’s jeans as they rolled into the station. The cop up front was not the rookie. He was older and calm when he glanced back in the mirror. “You good back there?”
“What do you think?” Cherry shot back, then bit his tongue, forcing a shrug. “Sorry. Yeah, I’m okay. You know what I’m being held for?”
“Nope. I’m just your ride to the shop.” The cop’s tone was flat, uninterested, and Cherry let it drop, staring out at the blur of neon and concrete.
They booked him quickly, prints, mugshot, the whole dance, and shoved him into a holding cell with a bench and a dented steel toilet.
He paced for a while, boots echoing, then sank down, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.
The rookie’s bullshit charge wouldn’t stick.
And he knew Busk would call the club’s lawyer, some slick bastard out of Hammond, but it was his bike being impounded that gnawed at him.
That baby was his soul, blue paint chipped from a thousand miles of road grit, every dent a story.
Losing it to a tow lot over this? Fuck that.
He replayed the scene, remembering Diesel’s blood on the gravel, the rookie cop’s shaky bravado, Busk’s helpless shrug.
Arm busted but breathing, he told himself about Diesel.
Better than a slab. Still, the anger simmered, low and steady, mixing with the ache of already missing his ride.
And under it all, Denis flickered, those dark eyes, that grin.
Cherry snorted, shaking his head. Locked up, and he was still mooning like a damn teenager.