Nitro: MC Biker Romance (Dark Pharaohs Motorcycle Club Romance Book 4)

by Ivy Black

  Prophet turns to me, an inscrutable expression on his face. “You’re not buying any of this, are you?”

  “Does it show?”

  He shrugs. “A little bit, yeah.”

  “I just think we’re wasting time with all of this,” I say. “And I think it’s Cort. And I think he might have had some help.”

  “It’s not Cort. Trust me on that,” Prophet says, sounding a little offended. “But I’ll tell you what, you’re a smart guy. Find me a suspect.”

  “What, you mean like run an investigation?”

  He nods. “That’s what I said, isn’t it? Find out who jacked our shipment. Find me a valid suspect. But do it quietly.”

  “And if it turns out it was Cort?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “Then we’ll deal with him like we would with anybody else who fucks us over.”

  I think about it for a moment. It’s a big responsibility and I’m more of the foot-soldier type. What I’m definitely not, is the Sherlock Holmes type. I’ve never learned how to run an investigation or what it takes to do that properly But, if it helps the MC, I’m all for it. I’ll give it my best shot.

  “You got it, Prez. I’m on it,” I say.

  Chapter Four

  Hadley

  I pull into the lot behind the sheriff’s station and turn my car off. One of Brent’s clients is currently cooling his heels in one of Sheriff Singer’s hospitality suites, and he asked me to come down and interview him. He’s slowly been giving me more responsibility and having me do more important work than just filing briefs or taking notes. I’m doing a lot more lately, and I like it.

  Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I climb out of my car and head into the station. The doors slide open as I approach and I step into the lobby, which is quiet. An older woman with iron-gray hair, piercing green eyes, and sergeant stripes on her sleeves looks up from the watch desk when I step in and gives me a smile.

  “Back again, huh?” she asks.

  I shrug. “People just can’t stop getting into trouble.”

  “Good thing for you or we’d both be out of work.”

  “True that,” I reply. “How are you today, Sarge?”

  “You know what they say, any day above ground is a good one.”

  I laugh softly. Sergeant Beverly Greene, the station’s Watch Commander is, aside from Sheriff Singer, the only one around here who treats me with a modicum of respect. Most of the deputies treat me like a leper and give me a wide berth, preferring to talk shit about me behind closed doors. My job is to undo their work by defending the people they lock up. To them, I’m making the streets less safe by providing a defense for people they consider to be criminals and dangers to society. And I get it. I understand their frustrations with me and Brent. I do.

  But what these cretins don’t seem to get is that the very Constitution they swore to uphold when they took their oaths as police officers provides for a vigorous defense of somebody accused of committing a crime. To them, I’m the enemy. I’m persona non grata around the station as far as they’re concerned, but they limit their disdain to sneers from across the station or muttered curses when I walk by.

  But Sheriff Singer and Beverly have always been good to me. They’re both tough, no-nonsense, take-no-shit-from-anybody kind of people, but they’ve always been cordial and professional with me. They understand I’m only doing my job. Unlike the others, they seem able to separate my job from me as a person.

  I can’t say they’re as friendly with Brent as they are with me though they’re always professional. That’s because he’s spent years making their lives hell in court and he doesn’t always work and play well with them. All of that is probably why he sends me to the station instead of coming himself most of the time—Brent knows I’m more apt to get what he needs than he is. Brent is a smart and pragmatic man that way.

  “So what do you have today?” Beverly asks.

  “Marlon Burgess,” I reply, rolling my eyes.

  She chuckles. “Ahh, yes. Mr. Frequent Flyer. You’d think at some point, he’d learn to take an Uber.”

  I shrug. “Not as long as Brent can keep getting him sprung on technicalities.”

  She grinned and nodded. “Let me amend my statement. You’d think at some point, the deputies around here would learn to be a little less sloppy in their work, so their charges actually hold up against a shark like Brent Polaski.”

  “Hey, maybe this will be the time,” I say.

  She grins and shakes her head. “I always have hope, but I’m not holding my breath. Not with some of these clowns still on the job. I tell you, back when I was still in a car, everything went by the numbers. The work wasn’t sloppy.”

  Beverly is a cop from a bygone era. One of the first women to wear the badge in Blue Rock, she has a deep reverence and respect for the job. She actually holds it as a sacred duty while most of the guys today seem to treat it as a lifestyle choice or a status symbol. Some of them joined up because they think the badge is a quick and easy way into a woman’s pants.

  Truth is, I think if we—or any city, really—had more cops like Beverly and Sheriff Singer, we wouldn’t see some of the problems we do today. They’re tough, but they’re also very fair. They do the job because they believe in doing right and living a life in service to others.

  That’s not to say there aren’t good cops in the world today. I’d go so far as to say the majority of them do the job the right way for the right reasons. But some... don’t. The good cops like Singer and Beverly get painted with the same brush. And it’s unfortunate because they’re good people and good cops.

  “Maybe you should give these clowns a little retraining,” I offer.

  “I would if I thought it would actually take,” she says. “But some of these kids are so arrogant, they think they know everything already. They’ll never listen to an old fossil like me.”

  “I don’t know about that. They all fear you, Bev. Fear’s a good place to start. Grabs their attention,” I tell her.

  A small smile touches the corners of her lips as she looks at me. “Too bad you’re dead set on bein’ a lawyer,” she says. “You’d make a hell of a cop.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve never been all that big on guns. I think I’m less apt to get shot in a courtroom.” I laugh.

  “These days? That’s not a sure thing,” she replies with a laugh.

  The phone on her desk rings and she smiles at me. “Duty calls. Go ahead and go on in,” she tells me.

  “Thanks, Bev.”

  She hits a button on her desk, and there’s a loud buzzing sound as the door to the back of the station unlocks. I return her smile, pull the door open then step into the station proper. The moment I start walking through the bullpen, heading for the holding cells, I can feel the chill descend over me. I don’t even need to look around to know I’m getting some hard glares from the deputies. I hear the whispered insults flying back and forth between the deputies, and I have to stop myself from rolling my eyes hard at them.

  One thing I’m learning to do is to pick my battles more carefully. But it’s hard. I so badly want to turn around and flame them all, but it won’t do me any good. It’s not like I’ll win them over to my side or anything. The better course is to just ignore them. Sticks and stones and all that.

  I walk through the door in the back of the station and into the area where the holding cells are located. The deputy on the desk looks up from his phone, sees me, and rolls his eyes.

  “You again,” he groans.

  “Me again,” I reply. “Here to see Marlon Burgess.”

  He sighs as if I’m putting him out but puts his phone down and gets to his feet. I wait as he goes into the back where I hear the squeal of a cell door opening. A moment later, he leads Burgess through the reception area and toward the interview rooms.

  “Hey, counselor,” he says with a grin. “Good to see you again.”

  I flash him a smile and bite back the scathing re
ply that’s sitting on the tip of my tongue. Arguing with our client and lecturing him on responsibility probably isn’t the smartest thing to do. But given that this is his fourth DUI arrest in the last twelve months, somebody should. Or should just slap him upside the head. One of the two.

  After depositing him in the interview room, the deputy comes back out and takes his seat again.

  “He’s all yours. Room two,” he says.

  “Thank you.”

  I turn and head for the hallway that leads to the interview rooms when the deputy’s voice stops me.

  “One of these days, he’s going to kill somebody, you know,” he says. “You keep putting him back on the street. Next time, he could kill a kid. Or a family. That happens, the blood’s on your hands.”

  I turn back to him, trying to control my temper. I get where he’s coming from, and I understand his point. But at the same time, it’s not quite as black-and-white as he’s making it out to be.

  “I get it, Deputy. But let me just say this... he’s entitled to a vigorous defense. If you guys had done your job properly, we’d never have been able to get him off,” I reply. “So because you guys don’t seem to care enough to dot your Is or cross your Ts when making the arrest, any potential blood will also be on your hands.”

  Without waiting for him to reply, I turn and walk to the interview room, slamming the door behind me. Burgess sits up quickly and gives me a toothy smile. He’s a forty-seven-year-old man, but he looks ten years older than that, thanks to the booze. He’s got dark circles under his brown eyes, red splotchy cheeks, and a red veiny nose. All the classic signs of a drinker. His hair is dyed jet-black to cover the grays, and he’s got three days’ worth of stubble on his face.

  Burgess is a twice-divorced software developer who’s got more money than sense. He’s got all the expensive flashy toys of a man going through a midlife crisis, and the mentality of a drunken frat boy who likes to party twenty-four seven. That’s never a good combination.

  “You look like shit,” I tell him.

  “Well, aren’t you a little ray of sunshine today?” he said.

  “Listen, Marlon, it’s not that I don’t appreciate the fact that you very nearly fund Brent’s law office entirely on your own but one of these days, you’re going to hurt somebody,” I say. “Have you ever thought about taking an Uber or something when you feel the need to go tie one on?”

  “That’s why I have you guys on speed dial. And why I pay those exorbitant fees—for you to work your magic,” he replies.

  “One of these days, we’re not going to be able to help you, Marlon. One of these days, you’re going to do something so bad, nobody is going to be able to help you. And you will wind up going to prison.”

  He laughs and waves me off. “People like me don’t go to jail. You know that. People like me pay for the best representation money can buy precisely for your skill in keeping me out of jail.”

  I let out a long breath and shake my head as I pull my recorder, a pad of paper, and pen out of my bag, laying them all out in a neat line on the table in front of me. I look up at Burgess to find him looking closely at his fingernails, scraping a little dirt out from under one of them.

  “Let’s get started,” I say.

  I spend the next two hours going over Burgess’ story and refining it with him. I collect all the pertinent facts and jot everything down, in my mind, already crafting the narrative and strategy for trial; there are a few problems with the paperwork and areas of inconsistency we can attack.

  When we finish up, Burgess is grinning like he’s already gotten away with it. I remind him that strategies and courtroom tactics are all well and good, but there is no guarantee of success. He waves it off with his usual aplomb, reiterating his confidence in Brent’s skill. It’s all I can do to keep from throttling him myself. He just doesn’t get it. The man is a menace, and I find myself wishing that Brent loses his case.

  I leave the interview room and tell the deputy I’m done as I walk out of the holding cell area. I’ve got no desire to engage with him any more than I already have. My mood is already foul enough, and I don’t trust myself to not lash out at him. As I’m walking through the bullpen, I see Sheriff Singer standing off to the side talking quietly to a man in a suit.

  The man’s back is to me, but Singer sees me and gives me a friendly wave, causing the man to turn around. And when he does, I feel the blood in my veins turn to ice and my stomach turns over on itself inside of me. My throat is dry, and I feel rooted to my spot, unable to speak or move. It’s the man from the coffeehouse. The man who put his hands on me and really creeped me out. His stern expression quickly morphs into a wide, warm smile when he sees me. He lifts his hand in greeting, snapping me out of my temporary stupor.

  I quickly turn and bolt out of the bullpen, pushing through the door. My heart was racing, feeling desperate to get the hell out of there.

  “Hey, you okay?” Sergeant Greene calls after me.

  “Yeah, fine. Just in a hurry,” I call over my shoulder. “See you soon, Bev.”

  I burst out of the station and walk quickly around to the parking lot behind the station. When I turn the corner though, I see the man already standing there, leaning against my car. His arms are folded over his chest, and he’s standing there casually, like he hasn’t got a care in the world. He grins as I approach my car, sending a sharp jolt through me.

  I pull out my phone and key in Sheriff Singer’s personal number, letting my thumb hover over the send key. I stop about ten feet away from the man and, without his jacket, can see that he’s wearing a Glock in the holster on his hip and the ID badge I’d glimpsed the other day. I can see it clearly this time though—the colorful ATF insignia is emblazoned upon the white plastic laminate card along with his photo and his name: Christopher Rollins.

  “So you’re a Fed,” I say.

  He nods. “I am indeed,” he says. “I have to say, this is like kismet. Serendipity.”

  “Funny, I was thinking it’s more like a recurring nightmare.”

  He chuckles softly. “I really like your wit and that sharp cutting tongue of yours. It’s endearing to me.”

  “I guess the Feds don’t have very strong sexual harassment programs in place, do they?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “Since when did trying to be friendly constitute sexual harassment?”

  “You need to get off my car,” I tell him. “I’m leaving.”

  “Listen, I think we got off on the wrong foot the other day. I just want to apologize for coming on too strong. That’s not who I am,” he says.

  “Sure looked that way to me.”

  “I’m sorry. Can we start over?”

  “No, actually, we can’t. Now, if you don’t get off my car,” I say, holding my phone up for him to see, “I’m going to press this button and have Sheriff Singer come out here and hook you up for harassment.”

  “Wow,” he says. “You’re not exactly the warm welcoming type, are you?”

  “It’s not in my job description. Nor is there any law saying I have to be the warm welcoming type. Especially to guys who creep me out.”

  He raises his eyebrows. “Creep you out? All I wanted was to have a cup of coffee with you.”

  “And I declined. Listen, I tried to be nice about it, but you need to get the hell off my car and get the hell out of my way,” I snap. “Now. Or I call the sheriff out here. It’s your choice.”

  His smile gets smarmy and even more creepy as he stares at me—something I didn’t think possible. But he does as I say and pushes off my car and takes a few steps away. He looks at me, his eyes narrow and predatory, sending a cold chill sliding across my skin.

  “Anyway, I just wanted to apologize for my behavior,” he says, his words seeming to be at odds with his tone. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  I don’t say another word to him as I step forward and climb into my car. I shut the door, quickly locking it, put the key into the i
gnition, and start it up. He doesn’t move. He just stands there as I back out of the spot and throw my car into drive, rocketing out of the parking lot to leave ATF Agent Rollins behind me. It’s only when I can’t see him in my rearview mirror, standing there and smirking at me, that I let out a long breath of relief.

  ***

  “He’s a federal agent?”

  I nod, still feeling rattled after my encounter with Agent Rollins. “Yeah. He’s just a creep.”

  “Sounds like it.”

  I’m sitting with Robin, one of my very few girlfriends and the one I feel closest to. I guess that makes her my best friend by default. Robin is one of the very few people I trust in this world. When I left the station after my run-in with Rollins, I was still so rattled, I called Robin and asked her to meet me for coffee and a chat. Very few people can put me at ease or provide me with the perspective that she does.

  I actually met Robin at a bookstore some years back. We bonded over a shared love of literature—as well as trashy bodice-ripping romance novels. I’ve always been shy and a bit socially awkward, but I felt comfortable around Robin from the start. I felt like I could really open up and talk to her from day one. That was about one of the only times that ever happened in my life. But we’ve been thicker than thieves from the day we met each other. She’s my touchstone.

  Robin is stunning. Tall, willowy, with an air of refinement around her. She’s got hair that’s blacker than a raven’s wing, dark, soulful eyes, and creamy pale skin. She’s lean but still has curves that never fail to draw attention and full ruby red lips. Beautiful isn’t adequate to describe her. Ethereal might be closer to the mark but I find even that lacking.

  “So what are you going to do about it?” she asks.

  “What can I do about it? I mean, it’s not like he actually did anything,” I reply. “Unfortunately, being a creep isn’t a crime.”

  She purses her lips then takes a drink of her coffee. But then she sets her cup down and looks up at me as if suddenly struck by an idea.