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Irritated, I walked to my door and opened it wide. “Out.”
One of the patched members just happened to be walking by at that moment. Karter stopped in the doorway, staring at her bared cunt like it was a feast.
“How about you come to my room, sugar?” he suggested. “I’ll be better company than this motherfucker.”
The woman went from scorned to siren in a heartbeat. Without bothering to get dressed, she draped herself over Karter’s shoulder, pressing her tits against his bicep.
“We have Church in twenty,” I reminded him.
The bastard grinned at me over her head, then left. As I shut the door, I heard him call out to his best friend, Jaxon King. Those two shared everything.
After pulling on my clothes, I found a new cell phone on the nightstand and pocketed it, then noticed something I wasn’texpecting to see. Dimitri’s dog tags. I brushed the tip of my finger against the cold metal. I remembered giving these to him on our sixteenth birthday. We both had a set. I’d lost mine along the way, but D still had his. There was a spot of dried blood on the metal, and I rubbed the pad of my thumb over it gently. This was the last thing I had of D’s—this and that damned mutt. Sliding the chain over my neck, I tucked the tags into my shirt and left the room.
Down the hall, I passed Rixon’s office and entered Church. I was the first one there, and I took a moment to breathe it all in. The rectangular table was once smooth and polished, but after years of punishment dished out by fights, boredom, and Rixon’s gavel, the top was worn, dented, and scratched. It was big enough to seat twenty, but it had been a long time since we’d had that number. All patched members were expected to attend unless they were out of state on a job. The prospects weren’t invited unless something pertained directly to them. Even then, Rixon would let them know individually if needed.
Memorabilia hung from the walls, photographs of the founding member, Doc Jones, who started the club after the Vietnam War. There were mug shots of members who had served time in the name of the club—including mine—and photos from rides. Certificates from charity shit Rixon had gotten into. Parties. Family days. Doc’s cut was encased behind glass and hung pride of place above the head of the table—Rixon’s spot. I inhaled, taking in the scent of wood polish, leather, and lemon. Fuck, I didn’t realize just how much I’d missed this place. On the opposite wall to Rixon’s seat was a clock that ticked quietly, watching over our proceedings. Pulling out the chair to the left of Rixon’s, I sat, feeling a sense of peace fall over me. It was something that I only got when I was at the clubhouse—this sense of belonging. This sense of rightness.
“I heard you were back, brother.”
I looked up to find Maverick Williams striding into the room. Mav was our resident pretty boy, so his dark-blond hair was tied at the nape, his beard trimmed perfectly. He flashed me a smile with his perfectly straight teeth and lifted me out of my chair in a bear hug.
“Nice to see you too, brother,” I huffed out.
“Stop fucking humping him,” someone else grumbled, and I peered around Mav’s shoulder to see Silas Tate, our club’s secretary.
“Silas is still a moody bastard? Good to see some things haven’t changed.”
Silas held out his fist to me. “Fuck you, Russian.” I knocked my fist with his. “Someone has to be the serious one around here.”
As a qualified accountant, he was smart as fuck and as serious as a heart attack, but that’s what made him good at his job. He was just taking his seat on the opposite side of the table as Ryker Lee and Vox Jameson strolled in. Ryker was still rubbing the grease from between his fingers, pocketing the rag before sitting down at his place. Vox was our road captain, and if the skull mask that covered his face from nose to throat didn’t scare you, the dangerous vibes he gave off sure as shit would.
Kaash was the next one through the door. He dipped his chin in my direction but said nothing. He took his seat opposite me at the table, his ice-blue eyes weary. Kaash and I had history, but I never let it get in the way of club business. He had a few more scars than the last time I saw him, and the brow piercing was new, too.
Gunnar and Rixon were the next to arrive, along with some members I hadn’t met yet. When Rixon walked into the room, everyone shut up and showed the president the respect he deserved. He took his seat at the table, looking around at everyone there.
“Where the fuck are Karter and Jaxon?”
As if by magic, the remaining members of the Hunt filed into the room. Jaxon had a smear of lipstick on his mouth and Karter’s pants were still undone.
“Where the fuck were you two?” asked Rixon.
“Just being hospitable,” Karter replied with a grin, buttoning his jeans and pulling up the zipper.
Gunnar smacked Karter upside the head as he sat down—the admonishment for his lateness and the smart remark he gave the president.
“Right, now that everyone’s here, Church is in session.” Rixon slammed the gavel against the table, and the mood in the room shifted from jovial to serious.
“First order of business,” Rixon said, his voice booming. He turned to face me, his voice a dark baritone. “Welcome home, son.”
Every single member called their agreement, Maverick slapping me on the back.
“I think I speak for everyone when I say that you were missed.” He cleared his throat. “Now, we need to find out who killed Nick’s brother.”
My hand resting on the table curled into a fist.
Rixon’s eyes darted to it briefly before settling back on my face. “This is what we already know. He was shot in the back while walking across campus after his class. No witnesses. No clear motive right now. Campus security said their CCTV feed was malfunctioning at the time of the shooting. There are no leads.”
I asked, “The Devils a suspect?”
