Page 34
Story: Dex (Heavy Kings MC #4)
Thor stood at his right, a manila folder in his massive hands that looked too official for typical club business.
Tyson flanked Duke's left, already in tactical mode, eyes scanning and calculating.
The others—Wiz, Tank, Archer—filled out the table with the kind of focused attention that meant this wasn't just another Serpent dustup.
"About fucking time," Thor growled as I took my seat. "We've got a problem."
The word problem was like calling a compound fracture a scratch. Thor's jaw worked like he was chewing glass, and that told me more than any briefing could. Thor didn't get rattled. Thor got even.
"Lay it out," Duke commanded, his voice flat with the kind of control that cost him.
Thor slid the folder across the table to me, and the weight of it felt wrong. Too heavy for paper, like it contained something that would change everything.
"Rhett 'Rattler' Brown has made contact through official channels." Thor's words dropped into the room like grenades. "Not the usual back-alley bullshit. Lawyers. Paperwork. The whole fucking circus."
My hands stilled on the folder.
Rattler.
Cleo's father.
The piece of shit who'd abandoned his family to slow death by poverty and grief. Official channels meant this wasn't just Serpent posturing—this was something bigger, something that could bring heat we couldn't shoot our way out of.
"He wants his daughter back," Thor continued, and my blood turned to ice water in my veins. "Claims she's got information about money her mother stole from the Serpents before she died."
I opened the folder with hands that wanted to shake, scanning the formal demand letter written in the kind of legal language that meant real lawyers, not jailhouse bullshit. The letterhead alone—Morrison, Krensky & Associates—meant serious money behind this play.
"Two hundred thousand dollars," Duke said, each word precise as a bullet. "That's what they're claiming. Two hundred grand that supposedly went missing when Rattler's old lady ran with the kid fifteen years ago."
Two hundred thousand. The number hit the room like a sledgehammer. That was war money. The kind of debt that couldn't be forgiven or forgotten, that demanded blood payment if the cash couldn't be found.
I forced myself to read every word of the letter, even as understanding clicked into place like tumblers in a lock.
"Says here the debt transferred to Cleo when her mother died." My voice came out steadier than expected, professional when I wanted to roar. "They're claiming we're harboring stolen property."
"Bullshit," I snarled, but even as the word left my mouth, pieces were falling into place. Cleo's sudden withdrawal. The fear in her eyes. The way she'd been about to confess something before the phone rang.
She knew. Somehow, some way, she knew about this.
"They're using inheritance law," Tyson observed, analytical even in crisis. "Debts pass to next of kin. It's thin, but with the right judge..."
"The right judge they've already bought," Duke finished. "This isn't amateur hour. They've been planning this."
"Question is," Thor said, those blue eyes finding mine across the table, "does she know? Has Cleo said anything about this?"
The table went quiet, everyone's attention shifting to me. Brothers I'd bled with, fought beside, trusted with my life. Now they were looking at me like I might be compromised, like I might be harboring another enemy asset.
Again.
"I don't know," I admitted, the words scraping my throat raw. "But I'm going to find out."
"Dex—" Duke started, but I cut him off with a look.
"I'll handle it," I said, standing abruptly. "She trusts me. If she knows something, I'll get it out of her."
But did she trust me? Three days of pulling away said otherwise. Three days of building walls said she'd already chosen her path, and it didn't include me.
"This can't turn into another Vanessa situation," Duke said quietly, and the comparison hit like a knife between the ribs. "We can't afford—"
"I said I'll handle it." The words came out harder than intended, but I was done being reminded of my failures. "She's not Vanessa."
"You sure about that?" Thor asked, and the doubt in his voice made me want to put my fist through the table. "Young woman, vulnerable, shows up right when the Serpents start making moves? Starts pulling away right when her daddy makes contact?"
The parallels were too obvious to ignore, but my gut still rebelled against it. Cleo wasn't a plant. Couldn't be. The fear I'd seen in her eyes was real, the way she'd melted in my arms was real. The way she'd whispered Daddy in the dark was—
Real. Or the best fucking performance I'd ever seen.
"Give me twenty-four hours," I said, meeting Duke's eyes. "If she knows something, I'll find out. If she's playing us . . ." I couldn't finish the sentence. Couldn't put words to what I'd have to do if history really was repeating itself.
Duke studied me for a long moment, then nodded. "Twenty-four hours. But Dex? If she runs, if she contacts them, if she does anything that puts the club at risk . . ."
He didn't need to finish. We all knew the stakes. Knew what happened to threats against the club, no matter what face they wore.
I grabbed the folder, needing the physical evidence of why my world was imploding. "I'll get answers."
"You better," Thor said quietly. "Because if Rattler's making official moves, this is just the opening shot. Whatever he's really after, it's bigger than money."
I knew he was right. Knew this formal demand was just the first move in a longer game. But all I could think about was Cleo's face this morning, the way she'd looked like she was already saying goodbye.
Twenty-four hours to find out if the woman I'd fallen for was exactly what she seemed—a damaged girl who needed saving—or if she was something else entirely. Something that would end with blood on my hands and another scar on my soul.
Either way, the clock was ticking.
I t was quiet when I got home, the kind of silence that felt loaded with secrets.
I rounded the corner and froze. She sat on the couch with my laptop open in front of her, and even from across the room I could see the screen. Bus schedules. Greyhound's website laid out like an escape map, departure times and ticket prices in neat columns.
Des Moines, Chicago, Denver. Anywhere but here.
She was planning to run.
Not talking about it, not considering it. Planning it. Researching routes and prices like she was organizing a vacation instead of an abandonment. Like what we'd built meant so little she could reduce it to bus fare and departure times.
My mind catalogued details with the same clinical precision I'd used in combat. The way her fingers hovered over the trackpad, ready to close the window. The guilty flush spreading up her neck. The way she couldn't quite meet my eyes, gaze fixed on the screen like she could will it to change.
Just like Vanessa.
The thought burned through me like acid, eating away at what was left of my control.
"Going somewhere?" The words came out deadly quiet, the tone I used right before violence became inevitable.
She slammed the laptop shut like that would somehow undo what I'd already seen. The gesture was so guilty, so fucking obvious, that it would have been funny if it wasn't tearing my chest open.
"It's not what it looks like," she started, and the cliché of it, the absolute predictability, made me want to punch through the wall.
"Really?" I moved closer, each step measured and controlled when what I wanted was to rage. "Because it looks like you're planning to run."
Three strides brought me across the room, and I towered over her, using every inch of my height advantage. She pressed back into the couch cushions, laptop clutched against her chest like armor that couldn't protect her from the truth between us.
"It looks like you've been lying to me for days," I continued, voice steady when everything inside me was chaos. "Pulling away so it won't hurt as much when you disappear."
"Dex, please—" She reached out like she wanted to touch me, then thought better of it when she saw my expression.
"How long?" The question cut through her protest like a blade. "How long have you been planning this?"
The laptop slipped from her nerveless fingers, clattering onto the coffee table. Her face went white as paper, eyes huge with the kind of shock that only came from being caught. Not surprised by the accusation—surprised that I knew.
“Your father contacted the club.”
She looked confused. “But why—”
“Says you owe him money. $200,000.”
Her eyes widened more.
“It’s a lie.”
“Is it?”
"I can explain—"
"Can you?" I crossed my arms, needing the physical barrier between us. "Can you explain why you've been lying to my face? Why you're researching bus tickets instead of coming to me for help? Why you're acting just like—"
I bit off Vanessa's name before it could poison the air between us more than it already had. But we both heard it, both felt the ghost of another woman's betrayal hanging over us like smoke.
"I'm not her," Cleo whispered, but the words held no conviction. No fire, no righteous anger at the comparison. Just guilt and fear and the kind of desperate sadness that came from being caught red-handed.
She sat there looking small and lost, and part of me wanted to gather her up, wanted to believe there was some explanation that would make this okay.
I thought about the folder in my jacket, the formal demand that proved her father hadn't forgotten about her. Thought about the promise I'd made to Duke, the twenty-four hours ticking away while she planned her escape.
"You know what the fucked up part is?" I asked, voice rough with emotions I couldn't sort. "I was ready to protect you. Whatever your father wanted, whatever the Serpents were planning, I would have stood between you and them. Would have bled for you. Died for you if necessary."
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