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All humor and lightness had evaporated from his tone, replaced by a low timbre that suggested he knew his words would hit the bull’s-eye. Dead center.

I clenched my teeth and flicked a glance in his direction. Blackbeard propped one shoulder against the brick wall of the clubhouse, his gaze unwavering despite the nuclear bomb he’d dropped by opening that can of worms.

“The kid doesn’t look like me,” I protested.

“Mirror image actually,” he replied. “When you were about, oh, eighteen, nineteen. A gangly Prospect, eager to cut your teeth on a club and make a name for yourself, carve out a place to belong, even if you had to break bones to do it. Admittedly, Crash doesn’t seem to be as violent as you were, but the buzz cut, those baggy jeans…and the dogged determination…”

The thought had occurred to me, unfortunately. And it sat there, silent as a stone, staring me in the face, while I refused to look directly at it. Distracting myself with everything else.

I didn’t need Blackbeard digging up the history books and airing out the moth-eaten, musty skeletons in my closet though. He wasn’t even around when I was a Prospect—it would be several more years before he was patched in for the first time on the Texas-Mexico border with the Chupacabras MC. He was simply a nosy bastard who loved to gossip with elders who let too much lore slip out over a few beers.

“Digger was his brother,” I said.

A shadow crossed Blackbeard’s features.

“Shit.”

I climbed off my bike, brushing a few specks of dust off the seat.

“Exactly. Crash wants to join for all the wrong reasons. I can’t have his head muddled up with memories of his brother. It will get him killed, and I already have the blood of one dead kid on my hands. I’d rather not be responsible for two dead kids. Just because he looks like me…”

I trailed off, shaking my head. That part didn’t matter. Sure, it spooked me, looking at a younger version of myself—before I joined the club, before I met Hattie. Getting patched in as a Prospect had altered the course of my life forever.

“Baby Doll will have pity on him,” I said. “And it won’t take long before he’s following her around like a puppy.”

“She does have that effect on people,” Blackbeard admitted. “No matter how tough she acts.”

“It’s not up for debate. Crash will never be a Blackjack.”

Blackbeard nodded.

“Agreed.”

I took my bike for a test ride, savoring the way she hugged every curve of the road. My head whirled with thoughts of Hattie, the upcoming trial, Crash, the club…

Even after the sun slipped below the horizon, and the shadows stretched long and dark across the pavement, I kept riding. Following the road, wherever it would take me in an attempt to clear my mind.

Eventually, I turned around and headed for home. After spending that one night at the clubhouse, I had no interest in repeating my mistake again. As much as I appreciated thecompany of my brothers, their bickering could wear on my nerves, especially when I was preoccupied with thoughts of my ex-wife.

And I simply wasn’t in the mood to endure more of Spike’s naked ass. He spent so much time at the clubhouse these days, I was beginning to wonder if he’d stopped paying rent on his apartment.

I felt my phone vibrate with a call in my cut pocket. I pulled over right away, glancing at the screen.

Credence. Not Hattie.

“Hey, boss,” Credence said. “I dug up some dirt on those bank robbers the cops are looking for.”

After I heard about Hattie’s trial, I called Credence. For two days, he had set up shop at a table in the clubhouse, with dual laptops and multiple tabs running through various databases.

With his background as a bounty hunter, he had a knack for tracking down people who didn’t want to be found. I didn’t have a clue how he did it, and most of his explanations flew over my head anyway, but as long as he got results, I didn’t give a shit about his methods.

“What can you tell me?” I prompted.

“The bank robber Hattie identified is Rudy Welch,” Credence said. “He was the main suspect in a string of robberies up and down the California coast five years ago—elderly folks who lived alone, mostly. Easy targets. Beat the shit out of one little old lady who was too terrified to give her statement.

"Two of his buddies—Ted Cooley and Anderson Barber—were suspected accomplices, but the cops didn’t have any solid evidence, so they walked. They’ve been arrested more than once on battery charges. Got out on bail every time. Seems like they’re not squeamish about playing rough.”

“Do you have an address where we could drop by and pay these guys a visit?”