Page 11 of Kingpin (Blackjacks MC #1)

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 the company 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?”

Credence made a noise of hesitation, punctuated by the clacking of his laptop keys as he typed.

“Working on it. Looks like they’re paying in cash, avoiding cameras, and using fake names at motels, so they’re covering their tracks on purpose. Last time they were seen in public was at a gas station outside of Bozeman a month ago."

“Which means they won’t like it that Hattie blew their cover,” I said.

“Seems like they know what they’re doing, Prez,” Credence replied. “If they feel the noose closing around their necks, they won’t hesitate to drop bodies if it means saving their own asses.”

I sighed, tilting my head up to stare at the twilight sky. I wish I had been wrong. I wish my gut instincts had been worried over nothing and this trial would pass by without even a hiccup of disturbance.

But that wasn’t going to be the case.

The only thing that brought me some measure of comfort was the fact that Gatling and Tex were still keeping an eye on Hattie, and they hadn’t reported anything unusual.

“Good work,” I said. “Keep me posted. Text the club with info on these guys, so we know who we’re looking for.”

“Will do.”

By the time I got home, it was nearly 11pm. As I stepped into the house Hattie and I used to share, I didn’t bother turning on the lights. I knew every corridor, every turn by heart. Sometimes, in the dark, I could have sworn I smelled a hint of her perfume, lingering in the air.

It wasn’t the prettiest house on the block—more functional than aesthetically pleasing—but Hattie spruced it up.

Painting the shutters robin’s-egg-blue for a pop of color.

Creating a makeshift library in a corner of the living room, stuffing those shelves with more books than she could read in her lifetime.

I knew she had hoped for a cute cottage, or one of those expensive, cookie cutter homes in the suburbs, but our lives had tangled here, twining together. I would have lived in a hole in the ground for all I cared as long as Hattie was with me.

Making my way to our bedroom, I sank onto the edge of the mattress. I still slept on the right side, closest to the door to protect Hattie. I reached out and passed my hand over the cold sheets where she used to sleep.

Five years after the divorce, Big G suggested I should sell the place. It was bogging me down, preventing me from moving on.

But that was the problem. I had no intention of moving on from Hattie. Not now, not ever.

Until death do us part.

This had been our home. We bought it together, moved in, and made it our own. We spent our wedding night in this bed. We had breakfast every morning in the kitchen, even if we were still seething from a fight and could barely look at each other.

Unlacing my boots, I kicked them off and heaved a tired sigh as I eased myself down into the pillows. After the unrelenting chaos of the clubhouse, it was eerily quiet here. Hattie should have been breathing beside me.

I didn’t remember dozing off, but the harsh ringing of my phone jarred me back to consciousness. I grumbled and squinted at the clock on my nightstand.

The red numbers showed 2:44am.

Fuck, that’s not good.

Retrieving my phone from my pocket, I didn’t even bother to check the screen to see who was calling me.

“What’s going on?” I demanded.

“It’s Hattie,” Gatling replied, and I knew it meant trouble when his Appalachian twang came through thick as molasses. “They tried to take her out, Prez.”

I lurched to my feet and grabbed my boots.

Just wait until I get my hands on those goddamn motherfuckers…