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Anemic yellow light shone through the windows of the wood-framed clubhouse when they arrived. Without the sun to illuminate the outside, shadows hid the fading paint and sagging shutters, which both betrayed its age.
All curves in a nearly indecent little black dress, Charlene greeted him at the door the minute he walked in. She wrapped herself around him like a cheap suit, all itchy and ill-fitting. The smell of nicotine wafted off her skin. It even overpowered the bleach and stink of the night still clinging to him from the job.
“I was starting to worry about you, baby.” She stuck out her painted bottom lip in an exaggerated pout and twirled a strand of bleached blond hair around her finger. “I’ve been here all night.”
“I had a job.” The words came out gruffly, but he didn’t have it in him to pretend he cared.
Unfazed, she cupped his jaw with her hand. “It’s cool, you—” Her nose wrinkled as she peered at his beard. Using her middle finger and thumb, she pulled something from the unruly coarse hair on his face.
Oh,Christ. Was that a bone shard?
His stomach roiled, and he pushed her away. “Go home, Char.”
“But—”
“Go. Home.”
He didn’t bother to watch her long enough to see if she listened. In truth, he didn’t care where she went, as long as he didn’t have to deal with her. Rubbing the back of his neck, he trudged to the back room where they held all club business, the room they called the chapel. He was the last to arrive. All but two of the fifteen chairs were taken. They were situated along an oblong table, the seat at the far end noticeably vacant.
The guys cheered at his arrival. Some clapped; others knocked on the worn wooden table.
Forcing his burning eyes to acknowledge his brothers, he dropped heavily into his chair to the left of the president’s position. “C’mon now, y’all did the work too. We all earned it.”
“But you brought in the business.” The booming voice from the door prompted every man in the room to scramble to his feet, even Kane, who wobbled a little when the blood rushed from his head. “I’m proud of you, son.”
Despite his sixty years and decades of hard living, Malcolm Hale still cut an impressive figure. He matched Kane’s six feet, one inch, and probably came close to his two hundred pounds of muscle. Even though he didn’t ride often with the MC, he started the club with his brother, Wes, and as president demanded the respect he considered his due. He also demanded his sons call him Malcolm, just like everyone else did.
Stepping to the head of the table, the man lifted the stack of hundred-dollar bills already waiting in the center. “Ten thousand?”
It wasn’t really a question, so Kane stood silent.
Malcolm cracked a wicked smile, a lot like the one Scott flashed in the middle of the bloody bar. “To take down Sucre de la Cruz, it would have almost been worth doing it for free. We helped make that fucker a king. I’ll bet he never thought we could break him just as easily.” Amid catcalls and cheers, he dropped the money back to the table. “Five hundred dollars a man. Twenty-five hundred for the club. Now, get the fuck out of here so I can get myself a blow job.”
Biting back a sigh, Kane swiped his share and made his exit quickly. There was no telling if Malcolm’s dick would be getting sucked by Kane’s mom or some piece of club property tonight. Neither possibility was one he wanted to think about.
He only had to drag himself a few blocks to his apartment, and he couldn’t wait to get inside to close the door on this long and nasty day.
Too bad he couldn’t close the door on this life. As deeply as he loved his brothers, the way they lived turned his stomach sometimes.
Closing the distance to his private space on his Harley, he kicked off his boots on the porch before heading inside. No need to track DNA evidence through his home. The blood had dried, but it could still mark up his carpet.
He stopped in the bathroom first, hiding Brick’s bag of cash under the sink. Then, leaving his filthy clothes in a pile on the floor, he climbed into the shower and tipped his head forward into the spray. The hot stream sluiced through his hair, and the water at his feet threaded with the rust-colored remnants of his violent night. Once it ran clear, he grabbed the soap and made quick work of his body.
He’d shower again in the morning—right after he bagged up his clothes to burn them—but he wouldn’t be able to sleep covered in death. Satisfied he was clean enough, he squeezed the water from his hair and toweled off, then padded naked to his bedroom.
Charlene was spread out nude on his king-sized bed. When he’d told her to go home, he meant for her to go toherhome, not his. He didn’t invite any women into his private space. Ever.
She had some fucking nerve.
Thank fuck she was asleep. He’d lay next to Charles Manson if it meant getting some rest. Sliding beneath the sheets, he gave the woman his back.
How the hell did she get in here?
He sure as fuck never gave her a key. Charlene was not his old lady, and he’d never pretended otherwise. He wasn’t interested in calling any woman his own. He’d tried it once and had never regretted anything more.
A flash of dark red hair and sea-green eyes scratched at the back of his brain, but like he’d done hundreds of times before, he shoved the memories down, squeezed his eyes shut, and fell into dreamless sleep.
CHAPTER TWO
