Page 1 of Rough Patch

Less than a year ago, Fiona Strong was a genius. Since then… she’d married, gotten pregnant, lost her father, taken over the Screaming Demons motorcycle club and its various enterprises and empire, and lost every damned brain cell she’d ever owned. All because of her husband, Grier Owen.

Her office—once her father’s—was frilly and girlie and white and Hamilton couldn’t have looked more out of place. She slammed the folder closed and stared at him as he sat across the desk in a chair too small and fragile for a man his size. “Are you sure?”

He nodded. His short hair catching the light thanks to the gel he loved so much and his face grim, normal, but grim. “Yeah. Dave was FBI. His wife isn’t even his wife. She’s an agent too and the kids… maybe junior agents?” It was as close to a smile as Fiona had ever seen from him. Hamilton, her best friend, knew everything about her, and she knew everything about him. From his clenched fists and burning eyes, the only thing keeping him in his chair and rather than finding Grier and committing a murder, was her, their friendship and his respect for the fact killing Grier would take an order from her. Normally Hamilton was more the kind of guy who believed it was easier to ask forgiveness than permission. Thank God there was nothing normal about this.

Well, fuck. “Dave’s gone now, so I suppose we need to thank whoever rid us of that particular problem.” Although, no telling how much intel he’d fed all his agent friends, how much he knew about the whole operation. “Who are we thanking, Ham?”

She’d put him on this as soon as she saw the picture of Grier handing a mysterious envelope to Dave, even before she’d gone to Ralph’s to verify the authenticity of the picture. And while it broke her heart to do it, Grier had left her no choice. Wouldn’t tell her anything.

“I don’t know yet.” His tone said he had an opinion he just wasn’t sharing with her. And that was very much not like him at all. If he knew for sure, though, he would have led with it.

Fiona stared at Hamilton, his short military haircut, his stormy gray eyes, the build that would have scared any sensible man. Her best friend. “Do you trust Grier?”

His blank expression gave away nothing. “If you trust him, I trust him.”

She needed his truth right now, not the auto-agreement he’d always given Max. “That isn’t what I mean. Do you trust Grier?” His silence spoke volumes, and the ticking clock on the bookshelf in the corner counted the seconds she waited for an answer that wasn’t coming. “Never mind.”

There were a thousand reasons that she shouldn’t trust Grier, shouldn’t even want to, but to believe he’d gone to the FBI, to consider it, hurt. Physically.

“Fiona, what do you want to do?” Hamilton’s stare burned into her, as if he was trying to see inside her mind, her empty, without a clue how to fix this mind.

She picked up the second folder. “This is all the PI could find?”

“Just some background history, a couple of pictures from social media. Not even a birth certificate.” He shrugged as if the past didn’t matter near as much as the present they were dealing with right now.

“I saw his birth certificate the day we got married.”

“Could have been a fake.”

Fiona hadn’t considered that. If Grier was FBI, they could have faked his documents. She opened the folder in her hand. For containing information so important to the club, it weighed nothing.

She read the summary page. “Nothing here.” She skimmed a few paragraphs down then looked away from the page and out the window. The sun was bright even through the sheer window shade. The whir of the fan overhead drowned out birds she knew would be chirping. And she was tired. So damned tired of all of this. “Hamilton, he was sixteen when he came here and he’s been with us ever since except when he left with Kye. No way would he have gone to the feds.” He might not have loved Max, but he respected him, had his hands in enough of Max’s business that he would be counted equally as guilty. She tried to think of specific laws he’d broken, things that, if he was some undercover whatever, would end that particular career. Damned if she’d ever seen him get his hands dirty, though until he’d gone, she’d been shielded from the dark side of the business. “Do you remember when Grier showed up here?”

“It was a dark and stormy night…” Grier spoke from the doorway, and Fiona spun her chair to look at him.

Woah. All in black, from his leather jacket to his jeans and t-shirt, Grier was beautiful. Tan and beautiful. Tall, tan, and… oh, enough already. He could have worn a brown paper bag and been striking. Of course, that wouldn’t save him—even she wouldn’t be able to save him—if he was a rat or a plant from the FBI.

He pushed off the wall and strode in to plunk down in the chair next to Hamilton. “Rent.” The brown paper envelope landed on her desk and the flap spilled open. A few twenties slid toward the edge.

Hamilton stood. “I’ll be in the garage if you need me.” He leaned down and dropped a hand to Grier’s shoulder. “She better not need me.” He gave a squeeze that inspired a wince from Grier before he walked out. It was going to take a while before Hamilton got into the forgive and forget portion of the program with Grier. Especially in light of this new information.

“Grier…” She needed a plan. Something better than the friends close, enemies closer thing her father employed. If Grier was FBI or was hiding some other deep dark secret, she didn’t have time to flush it out of him. She needed to know now. “Do you want to come for dinner tonight?”

This invitation had nothing to do with how much the pathetic parts of her missed him. She didn’t give two damns about them. This was about protecting the club, its business, and all the men who’d been loyal to her father.

His eyebrows lifted and he smiled. “Yeah.”

He held her gaze until she had to look away, couldn’t stand looking anymore. “Nothing special, just… dinner.”

“I won’t pack a toothbrush.”

Enemies closer. “I might have a spare if you need it.” And whether or not it was a result of pregnancy hormones or the man himself, a part of her hoped he would need it.

* * *

Dinner with Fiona. He hadn’t had a moment’s peace since she’d made the invitation. Nor a clear thought. He missed her. He wanted her. But he’d let her down. Repeatedly. Sent her straight into that asshat’s trap, then failed to find Tyler Sedotal when she’d had to shoot him. And, he’d left her to deal with the aftermath all on her own. Of course, she hadn’t given him much choice. She’d taken a room at the clubhouse and made it clear he wasn’t invited in.

Each thought chased another until they wrapped around the pile of lies he’d created. Lies he wanted to explain but couldn’t. Yet. Not until he caught Sedotal, at least. Then he would come clean. He would tell her all of it. And face whatever the consequences.