Chapter 6 Cinerator
Iwas cornered before I had a chance to enter the chapel for church. The other members slipped past us while I stood outside the door. G.D. blocked it, moving in front of me. He didn’t look happy.
Fuck.
“Hey, Pres.”
“Need you to tell me what’s up with you.” His voice was gruff. Demanding. Used to having his way, he didn’t give a shit if he stepped on toes. As the club president, he paid his dues. Started as a prospect just like the rest of us. The members’ respect proved he’d earned his place.
That meant I didn’t take any offense. “Met someone.”
His head tilted a little as he took me in, reading me like an open fucking book. “A woman.”
I shrugged. “Yeah.”
“Don’t play cute with me, fucker. She’s not just easy pussy. You don’t get obsessed. Never even heard you give a shit before now.”
He knew me well. I never got tangled up in a relationship. Fucked who I wanted. When I wanted. Never slept in a woman’s bed when it was over. I wasn’t an asshole. They knew it was only sex. I never strung anyone along.
“How do you know I give a shit?”
His eyes narrowed.
“Never said I was obsessed, Pres.”
“Don’t need to say it. I know you’re stalking this girl.”
The fuck? How did he know I was sneaking into her apartment and following her around?
Cyber. The asshole. He must have said something to G.D.
“Don’t get pissed. I walked in when Cyber sent you the info about Gwen.”
“G.D.” I scrubbed a hand down my face. “I don’t know what this is with me and her. It’s new.”
“But you feel it.”
“I do. She’s familiar to me.”
He didn’t expect me to say that. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t understand it, but I know her. Not so much physically as her scent, her essence. Fuck,” I growled with frustration. “It sounds fucking weird.”
“That’s because you are fucking weird, Cin.” Amusement crinkled the corners of his eyes. G.D. rarely laughed. Or even smiled. He went through some dark shit in the last year, and it still affected him.
Was he the leader our club needed? Not a single member doubted it. He always put the club above everything else. It cost him his ol’ lady. A relationship that began in high school. I knew it stung him to lose Beth. Didn’t help she cheated because she wanted out.
“Don’t do anything that’s gonna bring heat on the club. Not sayin’ that ’cause I don’t trust you. Women cloud our judgment. Remember that.”
He might be jaded, but he wasn’t wrong. “I know. I won’t, Pres.”
“Get in the fucking chapel.”
I dipped my chin with respect and entered, dropping into my seat.
My gaze caught Cyber’s at the other end of the table, and he shrugged.
I didn’t care that G.D. knew about Gwen; I just didn’t want her name and address on the club’s radar before I had a chance to get to know her and figure out why I felt such a strong connection.
I wasn’t a secretive guy. Not when it came to G.D. or the club. But now I felt protective, wanting to shield Gwen, and it didn’t make sense.
Or did it? She just lost someone close to her. I checked the name on the temporary grave marker.
Becka Carmichael. Same last name as Gwen. When I did a basic internet search on my phone, I saw the article about her death. She was a Marine. Survived by her parents and two siblings.
I needed to ask Cyber to check into Becka’s murder. Maybe he could find out if she had any enemies. Something was off. Made me feel antsy.
G.D. sent me a look like he knew I was distracted, and I focused on the conversation in the room.
“The press is in good shape. Just gave it a tune-up.” Fanatic wasn’t just the secretary of the club. He also liked to tinker with machinery and had become crucial to the club with his ability to keep things running smoothly in our lumber mill.
It also happened to be the same location as our printing press.
Counterfeiting was our main source of income.
The lumber mill helped cover up the operation and supplied the paper we needed for production.
Not to mention, it was how we supplied our legit business, custom wood furniture and coffins, with the lumber it needed. But we mostly sold the caskets.
“Everything on schedule?” G.D. asked, switching his attention to Nightmare.
Our club brother had a scar that started above his right eye, dragged across the lid, and extended below his eye. The injury had caused inflammation and discoloration. Nightmare hated it, so he wore a white contact lens that contrasted sharply with the dark, nearly black color of his other eye.
But that wasn’t all. The accident that disfigured him also left deep scarring on the right side of his temple and hairline. He wore his dark hair long to partially cover it, but had also inked that area with a spider crawling out of his skin and a partial web. The fangs dripped blood.
Nightmare always wore all black and painted his nails black, too.
He preferred the dark, and we often noticed him sitting in his room with all the lights out.
The guy liked the shadows and quiet corners.
The parts of the nearby forest that didn’t allow much light to enter because they were so dense.
But right now? He was playing with his solid black tarantula as the arachnid crawled over his hand and up his arm to rest on his shoulder. It didn’t faze any of us anymore. He almost always had it with him unless he was riding. Since he lived here, we often found his pet loose in the bar.
Nightmare nodded to answer G.D. “Everything is set. Got the routes planned, and the orders are nearly ready to ship out with the coffins on Thursday.”
“Good.” G.D. picked up a shot glass and filled it with whiskey before he tossed it back. “We’ve got—”
He was interrupted when we heard someone shouting outside the chapel. The door swung open as one of the prospects pointed to the front of the clubhouse.
“Trouble, Pres. Several cop cars just pulled up.”
“Be cool,” G.D. ordered as we all left the chapel.
Everyone moved quickly to the bar and pool tables. Nobody said a word as one of the officers began banging on the door.
G.D. ticked his chin toward the prospect. “Answer it.”
The kid did as he was told and cracked the door open. “Yeah?”
“Is Graham Dawson around? I need to speak with him.”
Graham Dawson. G.D.’s real name. Nobody ever called him that. Hell, some of the newer members probably didn’t know that information.
G.D. looked agitated. His jaw clenched. He took a breath and then went still. Calm. Like the ruthless motherfucker I knew he could become in less than a heartbeat. “Let them in, prospect.”
The door opened and three men entered. Two cops. One guy in a suit.
I recognized Detective Castor. Mike was a bit of a Boy Scout. He stuck to the books. Made it challenging for us at times.
The other officer was his partner. A little older. Gruff. Never said much. I forgot his first name. Just knew him as Spratt.
It was the guy in the suit that stuck out. He wasn’t from here, which meant he could cause problems. We weren’t worried about gun running or drugs. Our club didn’t mess with either. We preferred to get our hands dirty with cash.
As in the counterfeit kind.
“Graham,” Detective Castor greeted our president as he entered the bar. When he didn’t get an answer, he cleared his throat. “G.D.”
The thing about Mike Castor was that he grew up in the same neighborhood and schools as G.D. They were only a year apart. That meant they had history. The kind where they’d fought over a girl more than once. Played on the same football team. They were even friends at one point.
Now the law placed them on opposite sides.
“What is it, Mike?”
“Thought I’d introduce you to NCIS Special Agent Nate Barnes. He’s here for the murdered Marine. We’re handling the case together.”
Murdered Marine. Fuccckkkkkk. Becka Carmichael. Gwen’s sister.
“Hey,” the agent greeted the room before he turned to the president. “Been a long fucking day. I could use a drink. Mind if I sit?”
G.D. gestured to the table across from him. “Have at it.”
Nate Barnes loosened his tie and sat, pulling out his wallet. He slapped a twenty on the table like he was in a regular fucking bar. “I’ll take as many shots of whiskey as that’ll pay for.”
Mike Castor gaped at him. “It’s only one o’clock.”
Nate wasn’t fazed. “I’ve got my own time clock.”
Ghost mumbled something from behind G.D.’s back, keeping close watch on the NCIS agent. He didn’t like him in the clubhouse. Our VP took security seriously, and this was a breach. Even if G.D. let the men inside. Ghost’s lip curled as he stared at Nate Barnes.
The agent either ignored him, or it didn’t faze him.
G.D. gestured to the bar where one of the sweet butts brought over a bottle of whiskey and a few shot glasses. She set them down and walked back to the bar, swishing her ass with every step. The only one who glanced at her was the NCIS agent.
The cops never got tempted.
Nate Barnes must think we’re idiots. We saw his tattoos.
His casual words and attempt to relate to us.
The way he instantly tried to make us feel at ease with his presence.
He knew how to play the game. But so did we, especially the president of a motorcycle club with multiple chapters across the U.S.
Nate Barnes could drink the whiskey he paid for and sit across from G.D.
, but that didn’t mean he would ever be accepted among us.
He didn’t make a sound as he took the first shot.
When the agent received the second, he held it up to the room.
“To wind in your hair, knees in the breeze, and the freedom to do as you please.”
The room stayed mostly silent except for the occasional thwack of a billiard ball and the light rumble as it rolled across the surface of the pool table.
Smoke circled the air in a cloudy fog that hung near the ceiling, floating around the exposed wooden beams. The music had been turned down.
Tension in the room remained steady, along with the scowls on my brothers’ faces.