She squinted as she looked him over, lifting her fingers off the keyboard. He’d gained her full attention. She easily dialed into her unique motherly intuitions, quickly and efficiently assessing whatever current mood held him captive. She actively read him without asking any questions.
“I’ve been thinkin’ about a buzz cut or shavin’ it,” he added, his mind still very much distracted by the piece of shit he’d just let walk out of the building. His bad feelings had only sunk lower with the hundred steps he’d taken from his shop to this office.
Had he made the right call by letting the loser leave? Surely, someone who smelled as bad as Stink didn’t have too many people who would notice if he turned up missing.
Feeling like he’d lost a chance to relieve some of his tension, Dev had to resist the urge to call in a few local favors to track Stink before he got too far down the road. He might be able to show Stink a couple of new techniques as he ended the loser’s life in the same way he tortured that Julian guy.
Damn. He ducked his head and turned, going to the small desk on the opposite side of the room from his mother before he changed his mind. His fists ached to live the fantasy in real time of knocking that douche’s teeth out.
“Gotta make a call.”
He’d been having to watch his own back for far too long. The paranoia and worry of what government agencies were currently tailing the club made his decision-making abilities unreliable. What he did know for fact was that those images Stink showed him of the battered and beaten pretty boy bothered the hell out of him.
Stink fucked that guy up. Whoever Julian Cullen was, he needed serious protection. The Disciples were damned good on the defensive regardless of whether or not people like Julian wanted them there.
The ability and desire to defend a community was the biggest difference between being a patched member of a bike club and the dark destruction behind many of the gangs running these streets. In Dev’s universe, regardless of what he looked like or how he portrayed himself to the world, he lived and died by a code of ethics. Pretty boys being beat to shit for nothing more than enticing a man? That shit was unethical as hell. Eye for a fucking eye.
Robin Hood had always been Dev’s number one superhero. He’d eagerly show Stink what being preyed upon felt like.
That stupid motherfucker bragging like that… That shit turned Dev’s stomach. Then trying to negotiate his entrance into the club off an unwarranted death? Like they’d ever have the loser in the first place.
Dev clamped his teeth down on his lip, letting the stinging pain center him. His thoughts may have slowed, but they were still all over the place. Dev plopped down into the empty office chair as if he’d been on his feet all day, working a grueling manual labor shift, and let go of a heavy sigh. The chair squeaked and rolled under the abrupt addition of his weight. It seemed to know its way to put him in the dead center of the desk, in front of the computer screen and keyboard.
He quickly typed his credentials into their proprietary club software. They were far more technically equipped than any other bike club he’d ever been around. Again, his mother’s doing.
Dev went through the thirty-five steps of logging into the program—okay, just three, but each came with its own layer of frustration as he tried to get the sequence of numbers and letters entered properly, all from memory. This program was a red herring. It didn’t hold a lot of information just in case they had another early morning raid by the police, or the feds, or the local girl scout troop. All were about the same level of concern. Nothing more than annoying gnats flying around a person’s head on a muggy fall evening. He hated those goddamn insects.
The contacts loaded on the screen. The size of the database spoke to the empire his father had built. They were twenty-one thousand members strong these days, spanning twelve countries. His old man, a king in the field of bike clubs, generally looked like he’d rolled out of bed after a good night of drinking and whoring. Which technically hit the mark.
No matter how much shit his club brothers gave him about being the crown prince to the Disciples throne, he didn’t have the temperament or desire to ever fill his old man’s motorcycle boots when the time came to pass the title down. Who in their right mind would ever want to manage this band of misfits while having both local and federal law enforcement doing their best to fuck things up on the daily?
His mother cleared her throat, redirecting Dev’s thoughts. He took it as a sign from the gods of karma or whoever spiritually guided him. She was the proper answer to his question of who would be suited to take over. His mom already handled almost all the club business. Every member shielded and protected her in ways she didn’t fully appreciate but learned to live with a long time ago. She led this club. His father’s contribution to her efforts came through his brute force and bad to the bone reputation.
Dev’s sister, Shanna, though, was a little badass in her own right. She’d chosen nursing school. She trail-blazed a path completely devoid of anything club-related or at least Dev liked to pretend that way. They’d have to see.
With a final keystroke, the screen opened to a search bar, drawing Dev from his skittering thoughts. The fucking sprinting in his head, always jumping this way and that, never fucking stopped. He had to force his focus back to Julian Cullen of Coronado, California.
“I see the look of determination on your face. Be mindful. We’re in a precarious situation right now…” his mom warned.
He moved his fingers over the keyboard, bringing up the details of their San Diego club. He found the local chapter prez’s cell phone number.
“Yup. It’s the reason he left the buildin’ unharmed,” Dev answered and reached inside the desk drawer, using his palm to push against the hidden compartment artfully installed in the desk. No matter how many times they were raided, no one had ever found the secret space. He pulled out one of the two burner phones. A small, loaded pistol and thousands of dollars in cash filled the rest of the hidden drawer.
“Okay.” Her tone still questioned his actions. Whatever her disapproval, he gave her room to have it. She was the best mother in the world. He certainly hadn’t made it easy on her while growing up. His antics, once he’d hit puberty, had been a bitch for everyone involved.
His brother, Keyes, could attest to most of his misdeeds while growing up. Goddamn Keyes. Fucking Saint. Could barely tell a lie. It was why his buddy kept his mouth shut and fists flying most of the time.
The crazy volley of thoughts in his head made it harder than normal to stay focused. He needed a bump or a fist full of Adderall, preferably the first one. Speed, meth. Always his drug of choice. It made him feel bulletproof.
When was the last time he’d partied all night just to get off?
Hell, who knew.
He must be going through something substantial, even life-altering. All the signs were there. Of course he was.
Most likely, he’d finally matured into a full-fledged adult. Gross.
The Disciples clubhouse. He needed to spend more time there. They had every possible drug and drink known to man. Willing women—dirty, eager, up for anything—the club had their fair share of club whores ready to spread themselves for any patched brother. Why had he stopped going there?
