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I frown. “You trying to get rid of me?”
“Not at all,” she shoots back. Then, her tone changes. “Hang on, got the cops on my tail. Need to handle this.”
“Good luck,” I tell her, wanting to say more but not quite sure what to say.
“Thanks. You too.”
The call ends just as Lucky returns, and we jump on our bikes, watching for enemies as we rush toward the clubhouse. Thereare no signs at all of the Bloodthirsty Devils or the Latin Mafia, which is a good thing because I don’t want my brother hurt, no matter how much I need to wreck some shit right now.
“You good?” Lucky asks when we arrive at the clubhouse.
“I’m good. Just wish I would’ve shot one of those fucking BTD assholes.”
Lucky’s mouth tugs into a crooked grin. “Don’t worry, little brother. I’m sure you’ll get a chance to spill some enemy blood soon.”
It’s a promise he can’t keep, but I lean into that tingly sensation I get when I can unleash my inner asshole for a good cause. And what better cause than my MC? “Yeah, yeah. Don’t play with my emotions.”
Lucky laughs again, patting me on the back as we step inside. “You’ll get your chance,” he says again before we find Ace.
Our Prez picks up on our distress immediately and gets to his feet. “What’s up?”
Lucky and I tag team the storytelling of our surprise visit from the Bloodthirsty Devils.
He says nothing for a long time, just nods around his dark features. “We need to talk about what’s next. Church. Tonight at nine.”
“You got it, brother,” Lucky and I say in unison like the family unit we are.
CHAPTER NINE
Cassidy
Driving along, my mind keeps drifting back to Diesel–his texts, the flirting, his whole vibe. It’s ridiculous, really. Getting so wrapped up in someone I barely know? Yet, there’s something about him. No one’s caught my attention like this in a long time, and Diesel, well, he’s nearly ticking all the boxes. And, yeah, he’s incredibly good looking.
The police lights in my mirror aren’t just a flicker of my imagination. They’re real, and they’ve been tailing me for a bit. It’s not unusual in my line of work, but today, the lights are shining on me, and that’s my cue. With a deep breath that does little to ease my frustration, I guide my truck to the shoulder, a good distance ahead, prioritizing safety over everything else.
I tamp down my annoyance at the fact that the cops are pulling me over right before I go up the mountain. Fuckers.
I roll my eyes as my truck comes to a slow, halting stop, pinching my lips into something resembling a smile and letting my gaze bounce from one side mirror to another.
Two men emerge from a black Charger, and they don’t look like any cops I’ve ever seen, not even VICE or undercover cops. In fact, they look a lot like gangsters, and suddenly, I’m on edge.
The guy on the driver’s side is a white guy with white-blond hair. He’s lanky with a lot of tattoos and an angry scowl on his face. The other one is Hispanic with dark skin and a scar down his chin, and neither of them looks like men on the right side of the law. I pull out my gun from my bag and flip off the safety as they approach.
Suddenly, my passenger door opens, and a third man appears. He has tattoos on the back of his hands and all the way up his arms, a bald head, and a teardrop on his cheek.Nope, definitely not a cop.“Hey,” he grunts and tries to get inside the cab.
Even cops ask for permission, and I act on instinct, lifting my gun and squeezing the trigger. The bullet hits him right in the stomach, and from this distance, it does a lot of damage, so much so that his eyes go wide as he falls backward onto the ground.
My heart races like a motherfucker because whoever the hell these guys are, they’re not police, which means I’m in big trouble.
“What the fuck?” I shout as one of the other motherfuckers yanks the driver side door open. I brace myself as two sets of hands try to pull me out.
“I don’t think so, assholes.”
They tug harder, but I still have the seatbelt strapped on, and no matter what they do, they can’t free me.
“Bitch,” one of them growls, but I’m too busy trying to save my life to figure out who’s speaking.
I flail my arms and throw my head back in an effort to hit one of them. I need to do some kind of damage if I stand a chance at saving myself. The butt of my gun strikes something hard, and a pained grunt sounds a moment later. I smile to myself, but the victory is short-lived as the belt goes slack, and with the next yank, one of them pulls me out of the cab.
