Page 56

I didn’t know what kind of dynamic my ex-husband had with Officer Shepard. I knew where my loyalties resided though. So I stayed silent.

“Shit,” Officer Shepard muttered.

Up ahead, the courthouse came into view. Lined along the curb were bikers, seven in all, wearing the Blackjack colors. I pressed my lips together to hide a smile. Neil was at the front, leaned up against his bike, legs crossed at the ankles, dark shades shielding his eyes.

“I warned him to stay the fuck away,” Officer Shepard grumbled.

“Neil doesn’t really like being told what to do,” I replied.

“I can see that."

Officer Shepard stayed practically glued to my side as he led me into the courthouse. Neil watched my every step until I was safely inside. Five minutes before the trial was about to start, the heavy tread of footsteps made me twist around in my seat.

The Blackjacks filed into the courtroom, boots shuffling, chairs scraping.

“Dear God, they’re like a herd of wild animals,” Officer Shepard said under his breath.

Neil and his crew claimed the second row of seats behind me in the courtroom. I recognized some of them—Gatling, Spike, Blackbeard, Big G, and Credence. But there were other faces I hadn’t met at the clubhouse the other day, especially the sole woman among them. I knew Vlad was at my sister’s house.

How many more men did Neil have waiting in the wings?

It was impossible to miss the club, looking out of place in their leathers and tattoos amid the stuffy, rigid courtroom with wood paneling and polished benches. They weren’t even trying to blend in either. Their appearance was a big fuck you.

They weren’t afraid to show that they were loud and proud, unwanted misfits of this proper society that had rejected them.

And they were here to back me up.

Chapter thirteen

Kingpin

There was no way in hell I would stand by and let my wife walk into this trial alone. The security guards on duty weren’t thrilled at our appearance, but I didn’t give a shit. As long as we weren’t acting up, or causing any trouble, they didn’t have a reason to kick us out. It was a free country. We had every right to be here.

I could have worn plain clothes, slipping into the back row, unnoticed. I could have left the club on standby, waiting for my signal if I needed them.

But the time for subtlety was over. As soon as Cooley went after Hattie, the gloves came off.

A moment later, Welch entered the room, handcuffed, wearing a plain gray button up shirt and jeans. He shot a scathing look at Hattie, seated next to Officer Shepard.

Then his gaze slid over us, claiming the entire second row of seats. His eyes darkened and a muscle clenched in his jaw.

The fucker was angry. Good.

I kept my expression neutral, giving nothing away. He wouldn’t know who I was, or the fact that I gave the order to haveCooley killed. But gossip had a tendency to spread like wildfire behind bars. I’d used that to my advantage.

Even if the cops didn’t have any evidence to pin Cooley’s death on us, the rumor that we did it was more than enough. One look at our Blackjack colors, and Welch had recognized our name.

Barber was still in the wind. If Welch managed to plead not guilty, and he got off scot-free, there was no doubt in my mind they would want revenge for their dead friend.

And they would start with Hattie.

“All rise,” the bailiff declared.

Then the trial began.

When Hattie was called to the stand to testify, I inhaled a deep breath. I was proud of her for doing this, but I didn’t like seeing her exposed. All I wanted to do was get her out of here and take her home. Not the clubhouse. Not her sister’s place. Home—our home, where she belonged.

“Miss Harriet Fields,” the judge said. “Could you relay to the jury, in your own words, how you came to be caught up in this bank robbery? I understand you’re a schoolteacher from Seattle.”