by Laura Kaye
“Slider, I couldn’t do that on my own. This is your hou—”
“It’s yours now, too,” he said, simply. “Strip it all away, Cora. All but those figures that the boys love. Get rid of as many of the reminders as you can. Make me forget.”
He might as well have reached into her chest and squeezed her heart with his bare hand. That’s what it felt like his words did. But forgetting was a charade. The past never went away. And it never could. “How about instead of trying to forget, we make new memories that are brighter and louder and bigger than the old ones?” She didn’t want to guess at what she saw in his eyes, but it sure as hell looked a lot like affection.
Finally, he said, “Does that work for you?”
For a long moment, his question hung in the space between them. A challenge. Maybe even a plea. For her to tell her secrets, too. She wasn’t oblivious—she knew she’d given more of herself away than she would’ve liked on a few occasions. But she just couldn’t. Cora feared that telling her secret would make it real in a way that hiding it didn’t. She feared that people would look at her and think rape victim. She feared that people would think she deserved it, or asked for it, or didn’t fight back.
Damnit, she just . . . feared.
So Cora hedged. “It’s a work in progress.”
“I guess that’s all any of us are,” Slider said, and she couldn’t tell if she imagined the disappointment in his voice or if it was truly there.
That night, they passed each other in the hallway before bed. She was coming out of Ben’s room after he’d had a nightmare, and Slider was going in. Wearing a pair of sweatpants and nothing else. Well, nothing else except for that glorious tattoo and those beautiful sleeves of ink.
She wanted to take his hand or hug him or offer him some other way to begin making those new memories, but that wasn’t what they were. So instead she tried not to ogle him. “Good night, Slider.”
His gaze scanned over her bare shoulders and dragged down over the tank top and boxers she wore. Her body lit up in the wake of his perusal. “Night,” he said.
She watched him disappear into the dimness of his son’s room. And wished that when he was done, he’d join her in bed. Or, at the very least, that he wanted to.
Because he hadn’t lost a loving wife after all. Or even a faithful one. And that made Cora wonder exactly how long it’d been since somebody had truly, deeply, and unconditionally loved Slider Evans.
The way that she was suddenly, irrevocably, and completely sure that she did.
Chapter 14
Just got out of court. News isn’t good. Emergency meeting of Church tonight, 8PM.
Slider had received Dare’s text before lunchtime, and it’d been eating at his gut ever since. News isn’t good. That could only mean that Jagger hadn’t been set free.
Sonofabitch.
From what Slider understood, the guys on the Ravens’ board—Dare, Maverick, Phoenix, and Caine—had been all over investigating Jagger’s situation ever since he’d been arrested. Though the club had one close friend in the local sheriff’s department, it also had at least one staunch enemy, so the Ravens weren’t leaving it to the cops to be a force for justice when it came to the freedom of one of their brothers.
It just didn’t make sense that Jagger hadn’t been released. Their club’s friend, Sheriff Henry Martin, knew as well as they did that the Ravens hadn’t dumped the oil and tires that’d landed Jagger, as manager of the racetrack, in jail. Not only was Jagger legit brilliant and devoted to the Ravens’ main business venture, the guy had been preparing for the track’s annual licensing inspection, so no way would he have jeopardized that by illegally dumping where the inspector would see.
If that wasn’t proof enough, Alexa’s ex, Grant Slater had told her that he’d do whatever it took to force her to come back to him, even though he knew she was with Maverick. Before his death, Slater had been Frederick’s biggest real estate developer, and he’d had the mayor and at least one of the sheriffs so far up his ass it was almost laughable. Add to that Slater’s years-old grudge against the club, both because Alexa had dated Maverick years before and because Slater wanted the club’s land, and two plus two equaled fucking four.
Jagger was innocent. And justice wasn’t being served.
Which was why Slider was attending Church for the first time in a long damn time. And why, even though he was midshift and therefore driving the tow truck, he was doing it wearing his cut.
It was time he stood with his brothers again.
At the clubhouse, he parked the truck at the end of a row of Harleys, proof that a number of guys had beat him there. He’d been a member of the Ravens for sixteen years, so walking up the steps and crossing the wide front porch of the old two-story inn should’ve felt like coming home. But since he’d been lost for so fucking long, he was still figuring out what, where, and who home exactly was.
Which, of course, had him thinking about Cora.
The only person who now knew the secret he’d kept for so damn long.
He hadn’t been able to hold it in for one more second. Not after nearly taking her head off for doing something he’d planned to do anyway, and not when the bleak look of hurt on her beautiful face had nearly gutted him. It was just that seeing Kim’s things on display in the living room had been a sucker punch. He hadn’t been ready for it. And it’d hurt like hell. So Slider had lashed out.
But Cora hadn’t deserved it. Not one bit.
Coming clean had seemed like the only way to truly set things right, even though a part of him worried that she’d think less of him. He already had a hard time believing that she thought all that highly of him to begin with.
Then again, she’d called him a hero . . .
He didn’t believe it. Not for one fucking second.
Inside the clubhouse, Slider stepped into the main lobby. The old inn’s long reception desk remained, but otherwise, the room now resembled a giant lounge with big brown leather couches. Framed pictures of club members dominated one wall, and the Ravens’ motto was carved into the woodwork above the desk: Ride. Fight. Defend.
Exactly what Jagger needed from them now.
To the right sat the big mess hall and to the left, their bar and rec room, but both of those rooms were quiet. Voices filtered from the back of the clubhouse, though, from the direction of the big room they used for Church—the club’s official business meetings, open only to fully patched members of the Raven Riders.
Slider tried to ignore the way those voices died down when he walked into the room, where about twenty guys were already congregated. And then the surprise ratcheted up even more when he chose a seat at the table instead of one of those against the wall at the back of the room.
“Anyone sitting here?” he asked, grabbing a chair.
“Just you, my brother. Just you,” Meat said, clasping his hand.
Feeling a little bit like a science experiment gone wrong, Slider sat his ass down.
And then his brothers included him in run-of-the-mill conversation that made the weirdness go away.
“Anything new at the shop?” Meat asked. Feeling like he was testing the waters of their reaction to him, Slider detailed the same-shit, different-day problems around Frederick Auto Body and Repair.
“How are the boys doing? Ben making out okay with his cast?” Bear asked, when Slider had answered Meat.
“You’d never know he had a broken bone,” Slider said. “He’s doing great. Both of them are.”
Doc chuckled, his deep laugh part of the reason that he made a perfect Santa at Christmastime. Well, that and the white beard and mustache. “If we could bottle up the way kids bounce back from things—and their energy—our old asses would be A-OK.” Nods and laughter all around.
More brothers filtered in until there were nearly thirty men taking up every seat in the joint. Proof of just how well respected Jagger was.
“Cora still liking her new ride?” Phoenix wanted to know as the newcomers got s
ettled.
Slider did a bit of a double take at that one. When had Phoenix seen the Camry? “Yeah, she calls it her baby.”
Phoenix grinned, which he’d always done easily and readily, even in the worst of times. Slider admired that about the guy. “She looked good behind the wheel.”
Slider wasn’t able to restrain an arched eyebrow or the come again? glare.
“I mean, you know, she looked happy,” Phoenix said, apparently catching the vibe Slider was throwing off even though he had no damn right to be throwing it. For fuck’s sake.
Thankfully, that was the moment Dare banged the gavel and called the meeting to order. “Thanks for coming,” Dare said, his gaze snagging on Slider long enough to be an acknowledgment. “Got some news I wanted to share, and I wanted to do it in person.”
Tension hung thick in the air, because Slider wasn’t the only man who’d deduced enough about Jagger’s fate to be unhappy.
“Jagger’s hearing was today, and he was sentenced to four months. He’s been credited with time served, but that still means he has almost six weeks to go.” Dare’s expression was a storm cloud of discontent, and his voice was tight with righteous anger.
The room erupted with echoes of that same anger.
Dare held up a hand. “Phoenix has agreed to keep running things at the track until Jagger’s home again, so that’s one problem solved.”
“He’s been doing a damn fine job, too,” Maverick said. “Attendance is up since the carnival we held back in June, and it’s thanks to Phoenix’s efforts.”
Even as the men nodded in agreement, Phoenix shook off the praise. “It’s what we do here. We step up for our brothers and for the club. I need no special thanks for that.” Of course, the comment had Slider feeling shitty for the attitude he’d given the man before the meeting started. Because he was right. Being a Raven meant stepping up when the chips were down, and Slider hadn’t done nearly enough of that these past two years.
But that was changing. Or, at least, it would right now.
Slider cleared his throat. “It doesn’t need to be said that I haven’t been around.” He forced himself to look around the table and meet his brothers’ eyes, even though it was about as comfortable as eating crushed glass. “But if there’s anything I can do—either at the track or in general—consider me available. And interested.”
Another round of approving murmurs circled the room.
Phoenix nailed him with a surprised stare. “Actually, the grader, water truck, and roller could all really use some maintenance. With doing double duty, I haven’t been able to give the track equipment the TLC it deserves. Any chance you could come by before Friday’s race to take care of it? Jagger’s gonna kick my ass if he gets out and sees I haven’t taken care of his babies.”
Slider didn’t even have to think about it. Because it was a brother asking. Because maintaining the equipment they used to prepare the dirt surface of the track that was the club’s financial lifeblood was right in his wheelhouse. And because it felt damn good to be useful. “Consider it done.”
Dare nodded, approval and appreciation clear in his dark eyes. “Okay, next. Grant Slater’s death has made tracking down the people responsible for the dumping hard as fuck. All signs point to him having hired a crew to do it, and the PI we hired finally thinks he’s got a lead. Get this, he got it by tailing Curt Davis.”
The name of the sheriff who they all knew had been on Slater’s payroll elicited groans from everyone there.
Maverick sat forward. “Davis was the one who responded to the so-called anonymous tip about the dumping.” Coincidentally, Slider had been present the day of Jagger’s arrest because he’d been dropping the boys off at the clubhouse for Cora to watch. It still boiled his blood to think about that asshole Davis being the one to arrest Jagger—and Dare, too, though he’d been released. Some of his brothers had a higher tolerance for club business that crossed any lines, but Jagger was one of the most law-abiding of all of them because he wanted to keep his nose clean for the track. “So Davis was in on this from the beginning. Looks like he might still be getting some kind of a cut from the estate, too, because he’s been in and out of the company headquarters these past weeks.”
“Which is what led our guy to start tailing him. The PI was in Slater Enterprises posing as a photocopier repairman when he overheard Davis and some suit arguing about covering Slater’s tracks.”
“Well, that sounds ominous as hell,” Slider said.
“Fucking A it does,” Mav said. “Who the hell knows all the dirty pots he had his hands in.”
“Is someone following the suit, too?” Caine asked, his ice-blue gaze slicing across the table. Their sergeant-at-arms was the club’s enforcer and someone Slider had never managed to get to know, because the younger man said little and socialized even less.
“Our man’s doing what he can, but this investigation has tentacles for days precisely because Slater was so dirty. He’s stretched thin,” Dare said.
With jet-black hair and gauges in his ears, Caine put off an intimidating air on a good day. But then his eyes narrowed, and his look was downright lethal. “I’m on it.”
Dare nodded and surveyed the room. “We all need to expect some shit when we get to the bottom of this. This is your heads-up.”
Slider’s gut tightened. He was one of the few men here who had kids, and so he’d always kept some distance from club business that might turn violent because he never wanted to abandon the boys—by choice or by circumstance. But when an enemy came at you with the clear intent to do you harm, you had to assume he wasn’t going to stop until one of you was in the ground. That was just the hard reality. And, clearly, if Slater hired the dumping out to some associates, he wasn’t their only enemy.
After that, Dare moved through a few other topics. He and Maverick briefed them on the relocation they’d just undertaken for one of their protective clients, and Phoenix shared a few new clients they were considering taking on. Slider’s father had ghosted on the family before Slider turned ten—Sam’s age, it killed him to realize—and his mom had been a drunk and a recreational drug user ever after. Even with all their failures, his parents had never taken a hand to him. But Slider had still been drawn to the club’s protective mission from the very start. It felt good to create a little hope in the midst of devastation.
Annnd he was thinking of Cora again. Wasn’t she doing that for him and his boys? Damn. Damn. His chest went tight at the thought.
Slider tuned back in from his thoughts just as Dare called a vote to make one of their two prospects, a young guy named Blake Green, a fully patched member. After his best friend, Jeb, had died defending the clubhouse a few months before, Blake had thrown himself into club business like a man on a mission—or, more likely, like a man trying to outrun his grief. Slider recognized that shit from a mile away, because pot, meet kettle. Either way, it was time for the club to reward Blake’s loyalty and commitment. And they did with a unanimous vote of support.
“Anything else?” Dare asked.
Slider sat forward. “Not club business, but I’ve got a question. Cora’s volunteering at the county animal shelter, and they’ve been having a problem with abused dogs being dumped off in the area. These animals are in bad shape, and the vet thinks the injuries are evidence of dogfighting.”
“Fuck,” Caine bit out. “If it’s who I think it is, she needs to steer clear.”
Slider’s gut did a slow plummet, because a warning like that from Caine’s mouth was like a siren in the night. “Who do you think it is?”
A few looks got traded around the table, and then Caine nailed him with a stare. “The 301 Crew.”
“Aw, hell. Fucking miscreant lowlifes,” Dare said.
Ice snaked down Slider’s spine. The 301 Crew operated forty minutes away in the far northeast of the county, a homegrown gang with white supremacist leanings that got its start decades ago as muscle for one of the East Coast’s most notorious crime syndicates, n
ow largely out of business after a series of federal stings and arrests. Years ago, they’d proposed a business partnership with the Ravens around race betting and Doc had said hell no. Not just because the club ran its own under-the-table betting, but because the Crew was the lowest of the low, referring to themselves as Dead Men because the number of kills each member had determined their status and rank in the organization.
Given that they were into a little bit of everything, dogfighting sure wasn’t any stretch. “You got definitive intel that it’s them?” Slider asked, his gut a stew of dread. “Because I’ve never heard of them being into this before.” Frankly, it seemed almost too tame for the Crew.
“There’s been some rumbling the past few months,” Caine said. “Want me to dig?”
Slider nodded, and his voice was much more even-handed than he felt. “I’d appreciate it.” He needed Cora safe, and he wanted the peace of mind that she was.
Church broke up not long after that. Slider didn’t know what to think of this Crew bullshit, but his brothers helped chase some of his worry away by coming up to him one by one, some of them just saying hello, some wanting him to know they were glad he was back, some offering condolences for all he’d been through that were still hard to hear.
Dare hung back and waited until they were alone. “You being here tonight—really being here—was just about the only good thing in my whole fucking day.”
The two of them clasped hands. “I’m here. And I’m sorry as hell about Jagger,” Slider said. As the club’s president, Dare carried the responsibility for every single member like a weight on his shoulders, and the guilt and grief he felt for Jagger was apparent in the dark circles under the man’s eyes. “How did he seem? Did you get a chance to talk to him?”
“He’s tough,” Dare said. “Was more worried about how his sister was doing and how things were going at the track than about himself.”
“That’s Jagger for ya,” Slider said.