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And he just stared…
Nova watched as Mara stared right back at Darrow.
“Fitz is still sleeping,” Darrow said as he remembered how to walk.
“He’s alive?” Mara asked.
“Yeah,” Darrow said.
“I guess that’s all I need to know for now,” Mara said.
Darrow walked around the bar. He paused at Nova and Mara like he wanted to say something—not sure to who—but he kept going. He broke out into a quick jog and pushed the door open with force to exit the clubhouse.
Nova looked at Mara with a curious face.
“What?” Mara asked.
“That was interesting.”
“What was?”
“Really? The way you two were just looking at each other?”
Mara leaned toward Nova. “Hey. Watch your tongue. You want to start a war within the club? You want to see what that’s like? Words have a way of creating big problems that aren’t there. I’m wearing Fitz’s ink. Got that?”
Cold chills ran through Nova’s body. Everything with the motorcycle club had a way of always becoming very serious, very fast.
“Sorry,” Nova said. “I’m not thinking straight. Hungover. We good?”
“Yeah,” Mara said. “How about some whiskey in our coffee?”
Nova’s entire body jumped and she growled in her throat.
She felt like she was going to throw up.
Chapter Sixteen
Smell a Rat?
He checked his mirror three times. He knew he wasn’t followed. If by some chance he had been followed, he had a story all worked out. Did anyone really think an outlaw turning on his club wouldn’t have every detail mostly worked out?
This was how it would go… (coming straight from his mind):
One of the guys followed him up to the cabin. He’d slip out of the way and run back, waving his hands. He’d tell whoever it was that a fucking cop lived in the cabin. A detective. And the dude was crooked. Just how crooked? The man of authority was the biggest yellow bunny distributor in the state!
He knew it would work. The story would have to work.
Sure, he’d have to pick up some yellow bunny, place it around the cabin, kill the detective before the club could question him… but it would keep his ass safe. Maybe. Maybe not.
He shut off the car and climbed out. The reality was it did pain him to think that his leather cut was neatly folded on his bed in his house. His motorcycle parked behind his own house just in case someone was looking for him, they’d think he wasn’t home.
It was a giant mess. But the lines were already drawn, crossed, and deals were on the table.
The back door to the cabin opened and out walked the detective. In dress pants, suspenders, gun holsters over his shoulders and all that. A gun on each side of him.
The detective nodded. “You know what to do… what are we calling you again? Can’t call you Mark, right? Too serious? Too civilian-like? Rat pisses you off. How about I call you Tar? Rat spelled backwards! That’s a biker name. You could pretend to be badass still.”
“Fuck you,” Mark-Rat-Tar growled at the detective.
