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CHAPTER TWO
___________________________
TEMPORARILY RESTRAINED
JUDGE
“WHAT THE FUCK you doin’, man?”
I wish I fuckin’ knew.
My head had been screwed on crooked since the moment I’d pulled into that damn parking spot opposite of her. I’d clocked her before I’d even ripped my helmet off.
Never in my damn life had my body reacted faster to anyone. Her blond hair had been pulled into a messy knot with pieces falling around her face. Her leggings had clung to her, showing off the fan-fuckin’-tastic body her oversized tee had failed to hide. She was a tiny thing but had thrown attitude around like she was double my size.
It made me hard as hell.
It also pissed me off because, for all I knew, it was an act.
Nash—a local club owner, greedy fucker, and sack of shit—used his stable of strung-out, expendable women, selling their bodies and souls like currency to get everything he wanted.
Money.
Power.
Cars.
A big house Nox called his ‘Fortress of Fuckery’.
Politicians in his back pocket.
A big chunk of territory to run drugs and guns.
But none of that was enough. He needed more and was trying to take out the competition to get it. With some of the smaller clubs already out of the way, he’d set his sights on Wicked—a strip joint owned by Nox’s friend and former cellmate.
Nash had tried poaching the girls and starting shit, but that hadn’t done anything.
Then he’d gotten Lars’ cousin involved, and that’d ended messy.
We were almost positive he’d sent someone into Mayhem for intel, and that’d ended ugly.
After one of his idiot soldiers went after the wrong woman, he’d been trying to play it friendly. He’d sent peace offerings to Wicked—dancers and expensive booze. He’d bought Nox Cuban cigars and top-shelf scotch, but Nox was so off the radar, he hadn’t been able to find an address so had sent it to Wicked instead.
Then he’d gifted an SUV packed with women, coke, and highly fuckin’ illegal firearms to the Mayhem clubhouse. None of us used, wanted to dip our dick in toxic snatch, or trusted a weapon from him, so we’d returned to sender real fuckin’ fast.
So I wouldn’t put it past the fucker to send one of his best girls to try to hook me, lure me in, and then drown me while she took notes.
And any man with eyes would follow her into crashing waves until his lungs burned and he sank into the big, blue nothingness.
After Haze and Swedes—and the unplanned cargo in the back of the van—hit the road, Jury and I had gathered her shit. Her purse was nothing but the usual receipts, random makeup, and mints, but I’d pocketed her ID and phone to search through when I had more time, leaving the rest in her car. Then we’d headed in the opposite direction of where we’d needed to be.
Standing on the sidewalk, I double-checked the license.
Ophelia Jade Kline.
Seven thirty-three East Clay, apartment 5C, Danvers, Massachusetts.
Gray eyes.
