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He recognized an opportunity and took it, making sure he showed he could be trusted and counted on. He was fourteen when he started asking to do odd jobs around the clubhouse for a meal. Truck had been the one that gave him more. He’d given him a home and taught him a trade. That was the beginning of a new life for Hemlock, and he’d never be able to explain to Truck how much he appreciated it.

But that was years ago, and the chapter had been through a radical change recently. One that was much needed. Still, those who had been in since the start-up of the chapter were still waiting for the hammer to drop.

After parking the bike he pocketed his keys and headed for the kitchen door. When it opened, he waved at Truck and was greeted with a string of words that to anyone else would be insulting. To him they were words of endearment. “What’s up, old man?”

“Who you calling old, asshole?”

“You’re older than me.”

“Five years.”

“Six,” Hemlock corrected Truck.

“Get your ass inside. Have you eaten? I’ve got leftovers.”

Smiling, Hemlock chuckled as Truck went into dad mode. “I haven’t and leftovers sounds perfect.”

“You know where everything is. Help yourself.” Truck watched the man he considered his younger brother make his way around the kitchen. He missed having the kid living right outside the kitchen door. Two years ago Hemlock had put his money to good use and bought a condo in town. He explained it was an investment. Truck had agreed it was a great investment. “What brings you my way tonight?”

“A girl.”

Truck smirked, he should’ve known. The boy had the worse luck with the opposite sex. Last chick he dated had stolen his credit cards and in one day she almost bankrupted the kid. “Finish fixing your plate, then we’ll talk about this girl you’ve gotten mixed up with.”

“I’m not mixed up with her. I’m helping her.”

“Wait, is this cinnamon girl?” Truck saw the sideways glance Hemlock gave him. Shaking his head, he took a seat at the kitchen table and waited for Hemlock to follow suit. When he sat down, Truck smoothed his hands over the top of the wooden table as he waited for his brother to spill his guts.

Hemlock took a bite of food before looking at Truck. The man always knew what was on his mind. Always knew how hard it was for him to talk about his personal shit. “I let her move in with me. Temporarily,” he added before Truck could explode. “She’s in a bad spot, Truck.”

“So kill whoever’s putting her there and let her move along.”

He forked up another bite of food and ignored Truck’s comment momentarily before pointing the fork at Truck and telling him that shit wasn’t cool. “She needs someone to help her with some legal stuff.”

“Hemlock, you’re smart, but you’re not the kind of smart she needs, son.” He knew it was an insult, but it wasn’t how he intended it to sound. The kid was wicked smart. Smart like Sherlock just not with women.

“There ya go sounding like an old man.”

“All I’m saying is if you can’t help her, pass her on to someone who can.”

“She’s not an offering basket. She’s a girl that needs a hand up.”

Truck recognized Hemlock had made up his mind and relented. “Tell me what you know about cinnamon girl.”

Hemlock told him everything he knew about Charlie. How she worked three jobs so she could live at a cheap hotel while her ex-boyfriend and ex-bff lived in an apartment she paid for. How the bff had punched her in the face and the hotel she been staying at had given someone a key to her room. “The place was tossed. Her clothes were ripped and cut up. I couldn’t leave her there, Truck.”

“What did the hotel surveillance show?”

“They didn’t have any.”

Truck scratched at his facial stubble while thinking about the situation. “Get with Sherlock and have him look through the CCTV footage around the area.”

Hemlock stopped eating and glanced at Truck. Leaning back, he set the fork down and pulled out his phone. “That’s a great idea.”

“You might not know who went into her room, but you can possibly see who went into the hotel.”

Chapter Seven

Charlie’s bare feet made soft, quick noises as she hurried down the hall, the dim glow of the hallway light offering little comfort against the unsettling remnants of her nightmare. She could still feel the rush of adrenaline in her chest, a gnawing anxiety that refused to let go. Her heartbeat pulsed in her throat as the memory of the knife-wielding woman loomed in her mind.