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“We discovered evidence yesterday,” Cora explained, ignoring Liam’s testy attitude. “And I need to go speak with someone about it.”
“Anyone I’d know?” Magnus asked.
Liam scoffed. “Not likely, unless you’re friends with the president of the Booze Dogs.”
“Liam—” Cora began. For someone who didn’t want to discuss police business, he was doing a poor job of it.
“No kidding?” Magnus said, impressed. “I’ve heard they’re a rough and tumble lot.”
“They are, which is why I’ll be escorting Cora to The Rolling Log tonight,” Liam said with arrogant satisfaction.
“Glad to hear it,” Magnus said. “I know the place, and it’s not for the faint of heart. In fact, Cora, I’d be happy to drive you, if you still want to go to dinner afterward. I can have a drink while you conduct your interview.”
Cora’s first thought was to decline his invitation, but why shouldn’t she agree? Dealing with Eli was going to be the rotten cherry on top of the crazy week she’d had. It would be nice to end it doing something relaxing and fun with Magnus, a person whose superpower seemed to be showing her a good time with no stress.
Liam, who’d been looking rather smug up until now, snapped to attention. “She’s not going anywhere with you. This is official police business, and anyway, Cora’s not in the mood for lawyers.”
“Liam, I don’t need you to speak for me,” she said in annoyance. His cocksure attitude just cemented her decision. “In fact, Magnus, that would be fine. Dinner afterward would be great, too. As long as you don’t mind waiting for me in the bar while I talk to Eli.”
“Cora, I’m going with you,” Liam insisted. “We already talked about this, and I won’t be left behind to worry about you. I’m part of this investigation, too.”
“Eli will only talk to me,” Cora pointed out. “There’s really no need for you to come.”
“Better me than him,” Liam said, tilting his head in Magnus’s direction.
“Hey, I don’t want to cause problems,” Magnus said easily. “Liam should come, too. Safety in numbers, right? Afterward, we can drop him home and then head to dinner.”
Cora’s phone alarm sounded, signaling it was time to leave. She wasn’t in the mood to argue with Liam, so she made her decision quickly. “All right, let’s get out of here. I’m sorry again about our plans tonight. Believe me, I’d rather talk to a fire-breathing dragon than Eli Shelton. The Rolling Log is the last place I want to go on a Friday night.”
“It’ll be fun,” Magnus said with a roguish smile. “Sometimes the best memories are made when plans go awry.”
Liam folded his arms and stared, unseeing, out the window of Magnus’s Mercedes. He felt like the petulant child who’d been relegated to the backseat. This had been a poor turn of events, to be sure. If he’d known Magnus was going to show up to shoehorn his way into their evening, he’d have insisted they leave sooner.
The Rolling Log was in a run-down area on the north side of the city. It was just minutes from the freeway exit, which probably worked out well for the Booze Dogs. The place was close enough to be easily accessible, or close enough to make a quick getaway, depending on the situation. Most of the businesses on the same street looked as old as dirt, with chipped, faded signs and barred windows. They were all closed down for the night, save for one coin-operated laundromat with a few tired patrons visible through the windows.
“Here we are,” Magnus said, turning into a grungy parking lot filled with motorcycles. He whistled low under his breath at the sight of the bar.
Liam didn’t think it was anything to whistle about. A one-story redbrick building was planted on the asphalt as if it fell there. No architectural details, no front stairs or even a porch. There was only a sun-bleached red awning over the front door. Neon beer ads hung in the small front windows, and a metal pole beside the building held a swinging sign that read The Rolling Log. Several of the letters were burned out, and one was hanging by a wire.
“Look at this place,” Magnus said. “I have a Harley and I enjoy it, but I’ve never felt the need to join a club or hang out in places like this.” He pulled into a parking spot in the corner and turned to Cora. “Are you ready to slum it?”
He and Cora shared a smile, and Liam wanted to punch through the window. Instead, he clamped his mouth shut and got out of the car the moment Magnus parked.
When Cora stepped out, Liam leaned close and said, “Magnus should wait in the car. We’ll win no points with these men if that swindling peacock follows us in.”
“He’s coming,” Cora said. “It’s a public bar, and it’s a free country. Now, check your attitude because you look like you’re ready to throw down, and if you don’t knock that broody scowl off your face, I’ll makeyouwait in the car.”
She tossed her hair and walked straight in, not bothering to see if he followed. Swindling peacocks aside, Liam couldn’t help admiring her. Cora McLeod could be a firebrand, and seeing her like this never failed to stir his blood.
The moment Liam stepped inside, he felt like he’d been dipped in a vat of aggression and desperation. The scent of hardcore partying seemed ingrained in the wood-paneled walls, soaked into the floorboards and diffused into the air. Alcohol-splashed tables, body odor and sweaty leather. Engine grease, heavy perfume, bile and cigarettes. All of it made an impression, and not a good one.
He stood beside Cora as Magnus stayed behind them. Like a hive mind, the bikers in the bar all noticed them at once. Conversations stopped, pool games paused and laughter ceased. The only thing still going was a song about a last dance with some girl named Mary Jane.
The bartender, a lanky man in a black leather vest called across the bar, “You folks lost?”
“I’m looking for Eli Shelton,” Cora said, approaching the bar.
“And what would you be wanting with my husband?” A woman in the corner rose from her chair. She was shorter than Cora and older by about two decades. There was a tautness to her mouth and around her eyes, with faint lines and tired skin, but she had the appearance of a woman who’d once been beautiful before life stepped in and gave her a good thrashing. In jeans, motorcycle boots and a denim jacket, she looked like all the rest of the bikers—weathered, worn and gritty.
