Page 34 of Cinder (MC Fables #2)

L ars

“Want to tell me what just landed on my fucking doorstep?” Sheriff Coulter says as we stand over Cheezy’s dead body.

We’re in Cheezy’s apartment. A shitty two-bedroom hovel above a garage in Devil’s Kitchen. It looks over the cemetery and smells like old beer and stale carpet.

Cheezy is sitting in a chair at a table cluttered with crushed beer cans and takeout containers.

Open in front of him is the porn magazine he was jerking off to when someone shot him in the head.

His jeans are open. His soft cock flopped against his zip.

His head is backward. His mouth parted. Eyes half-open and lifeless.

Sheriff Carter is pissed because we have a deal.

We keep the dead bodies out of St. Boniface, and he looks the other way when it comes to our activities .

He also receives a nice fat envelope stuffed with cash once a month, and in return he feeds us any ATF intel and other federal alerts when they cross his desk.

It’s an arrangement that suits us both.

It lets us do what we need to do without the heat of law enforcement on our backs. And he gets to live in a nice house in the rich part of town with extra play money.

“We didn’t do this,” Beast says.

“But you know who did?”

The muscle in Beast’s jaw ticks. “Not yet.”

“This better not be the start of something, Beast.”

“Not if we can help it,” he says.

“That doesn’t inspire a vote of confidence,” Sheriff Coulter snaps, running a palm across the back of his neck.

“I’ve got the new fucking mayor, Sawyer Bennington, breathing down my neck, wanting me to pull crime numbers out of my damn ass, and now I’ll have to explain to him why the goddamn delivery driver of the Knights of St. Boniface settled down for an evening of self-love but ended up with a goddamn nine-millimeter slug in his skull. ”

“We’ll find out who is responsible,” Beast assures him.

“Whatever that looks like, don’t let the goddamn bodies fall this side of the county line.”

“You know that’s usually how it happens,” Beast reminds him .

The Knights rarely leave evidence behind.

“The last thing I need is a goddamn biker war when the new mayor just sat down at the table.”

“We’ll contain it,” Beast assures him.

“Make sure you fucking do,” Sheriff Coulter snaps.

When Sheriff Coulter leaves, Beast and I look at each other.

“Someone is cleaning house,” I say.

Beast nods as he removes his phone from his cut. “I’m calling fucking church.”