Page 16 of Not Mine to Rescue

I slammed the rest of my beer. Maybe shots were a better solution? If I went home now, I’d jack off at least twice to the memory of how her lips looked when she tilted her head toward mine. Did I misread that?

“I can’t go there, can I?” I looked to Snake for answers.

He frowned and shifted in his chair. “No, you can’t.”

Fuck.

I motioned to the prospect on duty to bring me another beer. I’d have to stay for a while to let it wear off. But hanging here was so much better than being alone.

Snake’s chair squeaked against the wood floor as he pulled it in closer and bent over the table. “I need you to listen for a minute.”

He sounded more like his old role as VP than a chaplain. “I’m listening.”

“You know the club is in deep shit right now.”

Yeah. Having almost a half-dozen missing members of the club’s former chapter was a big red flag to anyone with any kind of sense. Speculation was high, bets were laid. Whispers cut short when no one dared to speak the questions out loud, “Did the Destroyers do it? Were all of those missing men dead?”

As a result, people walked around us a little wider. Cops stared a little longer.

My mouth spat out something stupid. “Me fucking a lawyer might draw some heat off.” Wouldn’t it?

His hand slapped the side of my head. The heavy rings on it stung.

There was a reason he was called Snake. I never saw it coming.

I rubbed my ear. It was wet with blood. “Did I deserve that?”

“Yes,” he deadpanned.

“Fuck, man. I was just joking, not serious.” Liar.

His eyes picked up a reflection from something. The glint hitting the darkness he wrapped himself in and sparking like a teeny-tiny hell flame. “You’re serious. I know you.”

He was hitting too close to home on a truth I didn’t want to admit. “So what? She doesn’t want me. I’m a Destroyer.” She was a lawyer. It wouldn’t work. And, I was at least a decade younger, not to mention I was undoubtedly poorer.

Snake’s brows tightened as he read me. It caused that little flame to die. “Stop thinking like that. You’re one of an elite group. Don’t forget that. Women… well, not all of them are perfect like my wife, but most of them see that patch and want a piece of it however they can get it. Find one of them.” With that, he leaned back. His quiet smile turned into a sly grin. He scanned the somber room and noted every flaw. “I think we need a party.”

For him to suggest that was an anomaly. Snake was clean and sober. Hadn’t touched alcohol or drugs in years. He was married. Had a kid. He was one of the most responsible Destroyers I’d ever met, and that included some of the scarier ones.

I spoke my thoughts aloud. “If we have a party, that’s not really laying low, is it?”

He skewered me with his eyes. “But laying low will hang us. We need business as usual.” He got up and sauntered off to the office area where at least two of our club leadership were holed up.

Why hadn’t I thought of that? By being “good” and “quiet” we were slowly hanging ourselves. We looked guilty by acting like were weren’t. Snake was goddamn brilliant.

“Fuck yeah.” I pulled out my phone, preparing to call the local strip club, but stopped. If Kid or Walt, or Digger said no, I’d have jumped the gun. Instead, I pocketed my phone and slipped behind the bar, checking stock levels on the booze back there. I’d done it so often as a prospect, I knew exactly what and how much we’d need.

“Speck, go in the stockroom and bring out two bottles of Jack, another Jose, and at least six cases of wine coolers.”

The prospect looked at me like I was stupid.

“Now.”

He jumped to it. I went into the industrial kitchen and pulled out the biggest metal tub I could find and filled it with ice. Wine coolers would go into that, along with at least a case of beer. Free booze was always a sure bet.

“What are you doing in my kitchen?” Kid’s wife, Sierra, glared at me from the doorway.

“Ain’t your kitchen, it’s the club’s. There’s a party tonight.”