Chapter Three
Since moving the corporate office of the medical lab to Hortensia, Johnnie rarely went in on Sundays. His proximity to home made it easier to go in earlier and stay later without the worry of a two-hour drive each way facing him.
Working on weekends and staying beyond six didn’t happen much anymore. After twenty-five years, the lab ran like a well-oiled machine.
The décor here was just as opulent as his office in Long Beach had been.
Kendall and Megan went all out once he chose the new location.
He’d had to foot the bill, but it didn’t matter.
He loved the lavish Italian furniture, crystal chandelier, ornate mirror, and gleaming hardwood.
Just as he made a point to use his earnings as CEO to purchase his and Kendall’s Navigators, his luxurious surroundings reminded him that he’d chosen to be more biker than businessman .
He’d had choices .
The doorbell buzzed. Nothing as elaborate as the Westminster bells like Kendall used for the doorbell at their house.
The screen on Johnnie’s desktop flared to life. Stretch set it up to where he got alerts on all his electronic devices whenever either bell rang.
Recently, he’d mentioned the setup at the dinner table. Mattie promised she had an easier way. Keeping to his new attitude as a girl dad, as Mattie’s dad, he agreed to give her a shot at making his life easier.
Whatever she did awakened his computer the moment his visitor pressed the buzzer. She’d discovered his weaknesses, too. Specifically, his lack of a camera inside his private office.
He’d ignored her.
The buzzer sounded again.
The man awaiting entry served as a prime example of why surveillance in his office wouldn’t be a good idea. Bland greetings in view of the other cameras hid whatever took place behind his closed office door.
Standing, Johnnie adjusted his tie and walked from behind his desk. He opened his coat, took out his phone and pulled up Mattie’s app.
“I’m in my office, Pounder.”
The name still blew Johnnie’s mind. Shaking his head, he pressed the button to allow the motherfucker entry.
Leaning against the edge of his desk, Johnnie folded his arms. A moment later, Pounder opened the door. His appearance startled Johnnie. Dressed in an expensive suit and wearing glasses, Pounder in no way resembled the biker he’d met yesterday.
“Close the door, fuckhead.”
Pounder complied, leaned against the door, and casually brushed his coat aside, revealing his gun .
Tension settled into Johnnie, and he gritted his teeth. Straightening, he mimicked Pounder and revealed the holsters on each side of him.
Amusement lit Pounder’s blue eyes. “Impressive how well you shed your biker persona.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” he bullshitted. “And I don’t have a persona . It’s who I am. A biker.”
Still not moving away from the door, Pounder shrugged.
“Taking a cue from your president or do you intend to come further into my fucking office?”
“The door stayed open yesterday,” Pounder reminded him, grinning. “We never made it to an office and, today, we’re in private.”
Scowling, Johnnie stalked around his desk to his executive’s chair.
“You’re incredibly blasé about your life, aren’t you, brother?”
Johnnie dropped into his seat and lifted a brow. He wouldn’t remind him they weren’t allies, so the term brother was a misnomer. “Meaning?”
“You turned your fucking back on me.”
“If you shoot me, you’ll be dead before the end of the day. My cameras are monitored.” A lie. He didn’t even have a camera in his office and the others weren’t supervised. But what was he supposed to say?
Cash ordered Stretch to stop monitoring Johnnie when they realized he’d met with Bash and hadn’t told Christopher.
If Pounder killed him, someone would find Johnnie’s body. By the time anyone pulled the recordings, Pounder would be long gone and no longer a businessman.
“I’m not going to shoot you, Johnnie,” Pounder said, still across the room. “You’d already have a bullet in your brain. If Bash wanted you dead, he would’ve shot you yesterday. ”
Johnnie glared at Pounder. The motherfucker smirked.
“I’ve been sent to do a job. Not hurt you.”
“I’m aware,” Johnnie lied. Not . He wasn’t sure why Bash was fucking with him again and making impossible demands. “You want details on Megan.”
A smile curved Pounder’s lips; he nodded. “The woman of the hour,” he chortled, finally moving his ass away from the door and walking to one of the chairs in front of the desk. He sat. “Bash could’ve told me.”
Anger surged into Johnnie. “I’m sure. Why make me do it?” he couldn’t resist asking.
“He’s bored. Your willingness to cooperate keeps him amused.”
“I’m not a fucking lackey, where he can jerk my fucking chains,” Johnnie spat.
Folding his arms, Pounder leaned back. “Nope. Just a stupid motherfucker.”
Johnnie jumped to his feet. “I resent that,” he snarled. “You’re a fucking underling. A tool. A flunkey. I outrank you, motherfucker. Respect me or else.”
“In your club,” Pounder said calmly.
Johnnie squinted, lost. “In my club? What does that mean?”
“You outrank me.” He spoke with the same patience. “Unless you’ve deserted the Dwellers in truth, you don’t know what the fuck I am in the Scorpions.”
Motherfucker had Johnnie there. Pressing his lips together, he sat down again. “You’re a rank-and-file member, so stop fucking with me, Pounder. Shitty name, by the way.” Every time he said it, he wanted to laugh. “Bash wouldn’t put an officer on the job.”
“You know enough about Bash to know that for sure?”
“Twenty fucking questions are over, so shut the fuck up.”
Shrugging, Pounder grinned again. Johnnie heaved in a breath and blinked, unease spreading in him. Fuck.
Pounder beamed. “I see you’re getting a clue.”
“You’re his son. Christopher’s…” He gulped. “My…”
“Nephew?” Pounder supplied. He nodded. “Unknown to Bash until two and a half years ago. Two years before, my mother’s death bed confession sent me into a tailspin.
I didn’t want to believe it. Nor did I want to shit on the man who’d raised me as his own.
He was killed six months after Mom died.
” He clenched his jaw, his features awash with grief.
“I had a good life,” he said quietly. “The best schools. I stayed in the top percentile of my graduating class…” His voice trailed off and he closed his eyes.
“It doesn’t matter. I searched for Bash.
A paternity test revealed the truth, so I moved closer to get to know him.
Earned my patch and opted for Nomad status. He calls me in for special jobs.”
“Then you aren’t a fucking dancer. Your actual name isn’t Easton.”
Pounder offered a disapproving look. “Didn’t you check my background?”
“How can I do that? Anyone who can is tied to the club.”
“If you’re going rogue, you need your own network.”
“Fuck you. I’m not going rogue. I’m protecting my wife and daughter.”
“I’m not here for Kendall or Matilda. I’m here for Meggie.”
A chill snaked along Johnnie’s spine. That Pounder knew Kendall and Mattie’s names alarmed him.
For their sakes, he had to brazen through the meeting.
“I don’t believe a fucking thing you said.
Bash is a master bullshitter. He’s probably schooled you and told you everything you need to know.
You’re not his son and you’re not my nephew, so fuck you.
If you ever mention my wife and daughter, I will fucking kill you. ”
“Believe me or not. I don’t give a rat’s ass. Tell me about Megan Caldwell.”
Standing, Johnnie shoved his suit coat aside, enjoying the momentary panic crossing Pounder’s face.
He smirked. “Not a gun, fucker.” He pulled out keys from the pocket of his trousers and dangled them.
Crouching, he unlocked a thin bottom drawer, opened it, and pulled out a plastic envelope.
He snapped the flap up. Removing a small stack of photos, he rose to his feet, threw the envelope aside and walked around his desk.
Pounder held out his hand.
Johnnie hesitated. The pictures were sacred to him. He had more at the club, locked away in a closet. Out of anger, he’d recently used them to smear her name, something he regretted but didn’t know how to rectify. His club brothers ate up every accusation he’d wielded against her.
Photos told whatever story needed. Those at the club revealed his time with Megan almost two decades ago.
Months before he met Kendall, when the tide turned forever.
The pictures he kept of Megan in his office presented a more comprehensive study of her progression through the years, beginning with her as an eighteen-year-old just discovering her sexuality to three weeks ago at Christopher’s birthday party.
Swallowing, he placed the photos in Pounder’s hand. Watching him closely as he flipped through the images. Wanting to know if he was the only one who still found her so exquisite and delicate even after giving birth to fifty children and years as Christopher ’ s wife.
Pounder reached the end, grunted, and set the pictures on the desk. His blank expression didn’t reveal his thoughts. He scrubbed a hand over his jaw, shifted in his seat, and folded his arms again.
“I hope you have as many photos of your wife,” he said finally.
“That’s your motherfucking takeaway, motherfucker?” Johnnie snatched the images and stormed around his desk. He returned them to their special spot, locked the drawer, then sat in his chair again.
“Should it be something else?” Pounder retorted sarcastically.
“No.” Johnnie refused to expound. He refused to ask if he was blind.
Instead of seeing the real her, he saw who he wanted to see.
“And I have a thousand times the amount of photos of Kendall than I do of her . On my phone. Framed in my offices.” He leaned aside so Pounder could see the three of Kendall on his hutch.
“On my nightstand. In my glove compartment. Everywhere.”
“What do you see when you look at your forbidden photos?”