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Chapter One
Devil
"Hey,handsome."
"Not interested," I growl, taking a step back as one of the Diamond Kings' sweet butts sashays up to me, her hand extended into claws as if she intends to grab onto my cut. Swear to Christ, I don't know how many times I have to tell these chicks no before they get it. I'm not down to fuck.
Even if it were acceptable to screw around while undercover, my dick shrivels at the thought of passing a woman around. The girls here hop from bed to bed. It's all nice and respectful, don't get me wrong. The Diamond Kings don't peddle pussy. Everyone is here by choice and they're all free to come and go as they please. If they say fuck off, you fuck off. There is no shady shit, not like with Satan's Savages. But sharing women with a club hasn't ever been appealing to me.
I'm a one-woman type of man. I just haven't found the one woman yet.
This chick's face falls into a pout.
I should probably feel bad for hurting her feelings, but I don't. If that makes me an asshole, so be it. I don't get paid to be nice. I get paid to do my job. Everyone here is used to my perpetual bad mood anyway. They're convinced it's because I don't get enough pussy. Little do they know, I don't get any. Haven't in years. But that's not their business.
I step around the girl, shaking my head when I see Risk and Tank guffawing across the room. The fuckers. Risk probably sent her my way. He thinks he's funny. Truth is, he actually is funny. I like the fucker. A lot more than I probably should.
Hell, I like all the brothers a lot more than I probably should.
I've been living at their ranch for the last six months, paying my dues, and earning their trust. It didn't take nearly as long as it could have, as it would have if I hadn't done a lot of shady shit to earn it. No one has a fucking clue that I'm a cop. As far as they know, Creed "Devil" Thomas arrived in the great state of Texas six months ago, looking for a club to call home, and a place to put down roots. Before that…well, we kept a lot of my background intact.
People think undercover means a whole new identity. People are wrong. It's a long con. The best covers are those that require the least amount of bullshit. Remembering a whole host of lies in the heat of the moment is a helluva lot harder than remembering one or two. So we got rid of the cop parts and anything that touched on the cop parts and kept everything else. Instead of a career in law enforcement, I left the dirt bike circuit for a career in personal security. Instead of a law enforcement MC, I was a nomad. If they looked into me, they found just enough to confirm key details. The FBI scrubbed everything else.
"Swear to God, Risk," I growl, kicking the leg of his chair. "I'm shooting you in the fucking kneecap if you don't stop sending them to me. I'm not putting my dick where any of yours have been."
Risk's laughter dies, deep scowl lines cutting grooves into his forehead. "Hell no. Mine ain't been there," he mutters, flipping me the bird.
"Mine either." Tank scowls at me before knocking back his beer.
I'm not the only one here who doesn't like to share or stick his dick into every female who offers. But I'm new blood, so I'm the one who gets shit for it. Paying dues. It is what it is.
"I should shoot you anyway," I say without heat. Risk and I hit it off quick when I moved into the room next to his before graduating to a cabin. He's a cool motherfucker. I hate lying to him, but I can't exactly tell him the truth either. He's clean. No criminal record. No bullshit. He spends most of his time running horse jizz around the state instead of running guns. He's a computer whiz.
"Fine," he says with a shit-eating grin. "But then your surly ass gets to drive all by your lonesome tomorrow."
"Drive where?" I drop into the empty seat beside Tank, reaching out to pound fists with him.
"You're going on a run," he says.
"A run?" I glance between him and Risk, one brow arched, trying to play it cool. Inside, I'm popping like a powder keg going up. Gun runs are big shit. The kind of shit I've been trying to avoid for the last six months. The less I know, the better off everyone is. I've been fortunate so far. They may trust me, but I'm still a low man on the totem pole. The only one newer than me is Ghost, who was patched in two months ago, and then the recruits.
Risk grimaces, sliding a beer across the scarred tabletop to me. "We're delivering horse jizz to the rich-boy-fuckers in Silver Spoon Falls. It's a long drive and you have the fancy wheels, so we need your cage."
Internally, I relax. This is good news. Better than that. It'll give me a chance to have a polite chat with Jason "Cash" Montoya and his bulldog of a lawyer, Jude Despora. They've been riding my dick non-fucking-stop about this case. They want it closed to protect Siobhan's sister and her baby. And I get that, I really do. But I'm not God. He needed seven days to make the world. The devil's taking a little while longer to unmake it. Undercover operations like this aren't easy in and easy out. They take time…a lot of it.
Outwardly, I scowl. "Fucking hell," I mutter to no one in particular, popping the cap off my beer. "Maybe I'll shoot myself in the kneecap instead."
"Suck it up, buttercup," Tank advises. "You'll be off jizz duty soon."
Yeah, that's exactly the fucking problem. Sooner or later, I'll be off jizz duty, and I'm no goddamn closer to tumbling the Savages than I was six months ago. I need to speed this process up. Pronto.
"You stab that phone screen any harder, you're going to break the fucker," I observe, watching Risk out of the corner of my eye. We're nearly to Silver Spoon Falls and he's been far too damn quiet. I don't like it. He usually talks my ear off.
He grunts, still tapping out a text. When his phone immediately dings with a response, he reads it, curses up a blue streak, and then tosses it on the console with another curse. "My goddamn sister is going to drive me to drink," he mutters.
"You already drink."
He cuts his aqua blue eyes in my direction.
