Page 20 of Remorseless

“You’re his son. Christopher’s…” He gulped. “My…”

“Nephew?” Pounder supplied. He nodded. “Unknown to Bash until two and a half years ago. Two years before, my mother’s death bed confession sent me into a tailspin. I didn’t want to believe it. Nor did I want to shit on the man who’d raised me as his own. He was killed six months after Mom died.” He clenched his jaw, his features awash with grief. “I had a good life,” he said quietly. “The best schools. I stayed in the top percentile of my graduating class…” His voice trailed off and he closed his eyes. “It doesn’t matter. I searched for Bash. A paternity test revealed the truth, so I moved closer to get to know him. Earned my patch and opted for Nomad status. He calls me in for special jobs.”

“Then you aren’t a fucking dancer. Your actual name isn’t Easton.”

Pounder offered a disapproving look. “Didn’t you check my background?”

“How can I do that? Anyone who can is tied to the club.”

“If you’re going rogue, you need your own network.”

“Fuck you. I’m not going rogue. I’m protecting my wife and daughter.”

“I’m not here for Kendall or Matilda. I’m here for Meggie.”

A chill snaked along Johnnie’s spine. That Pounder knew Kendall and Mattie’s names alarmed him. For their sakes, he had to brazen through the meeting. “I don’t believe a fucking thing you said. Bash is a master bullshitter. He’s probably schooled you and told you everything you need to know. You’renot his son and you’re not my nephew, so fuck you. If you ever mention my wife and daughter, I will fucking kill you.”

“Believe me or not. I don’t give a rat’s ass. Tell me about Megan Caldwell.”

Standing, Johnnie shoved his suit coat aside, enjoying the momentary panic crossing Pounder’s face. He smirked. “Not a gun, fucker.” He pulled out keys from the pocket of his trousers and dangled them. Crouching, he unlocked a thin bottom drawer, opened it, and pulled out a plastic envelope. He snapped the flap up. Removing a small stack of photos, he rose to his feet, threw the envelope aside and walked around his desk.

Pounder held out his hand.

Johnnie hesitated. The pictures were sacred to him. He had more at the club, locked away in a closet. Out of anger, he’d recently used them to smear her name, something he regretted but didn’t know how to rectify. His club brothers ate up every accusation he’d wielded against her.

Photos told whatever story needed. Those at the club revealed his time with Megan almost two decades ago. Months before he met Kendall, when the tide turned forever. The pictures he kept of Megan in his office presented a more comprehensive study of her progression through the years, beginning with her as an eighteen-year-old just discovering her sexuality to three weeks ago at Christopher’s birthday party.

Swallowing, he placed the photos in Pounder’s hand. Watching him closely as he flipped through the images. Wanting to know if he was the only one who still found her so exquisite and delicate even after giving birth to fifty children and years asChristopher’swife.

Pounder reached the end, grunted, and set the pictures on the desk. His blank expression didn’treveal his thoughts. He scrubbed a hand over his jaw, shifted in his seat, and folded his arms again.

“I hope you have as many photos ofyourwife,” he said finally.

“That’s your motherfucking takeaway, motherfucker?” Johnnie snatched the images and stormed around his desk. He returned them to their special spot, locked the drawer, then sat in his chair again.

“Should it be something else?” Pounder retorted sarcastically.

“No.” Johnnie refused to expound. He refused to ask if he was blind. Instead of seeing the real her, he saw whohewanted to see. “And I have a thousand times the amount of photos of Kendall than I do ofher. On my phone. Framed in my offices.” He leaned aside so Pounder could see the three of Kendall on his hutch. “On my nightstand. In my glove compartment. Everywhere.”

“What do you see when you look at your forbidden photos?”

“Forbidden?” Johnnie snapped his brows together. “You make me sound like a fucking creep. They aren’t forbidden, asshole.”

“They’resomething. Hidden in a locked fucking drawer as they are.”

“I didn’t show you those motherfuckers for a fucking psychoanalysis,” Johnnie barked. “You wanted information on her. You have it.”

“Is she a fucking cunt? Will she be easy to talk to? Does she pitch pussy? Is she a good cocksucker?That’sinformation, dickhead. Answers. None of which still shots of her provide. I don’t even know if she’s truly that achingly gorgeous. Photos can be manipulated.”

Yesterday, Kendall and Mattie had a spa date with Megan and Rebel. Because Bash was lurking again, Johnnie handpicked brothers he trusted to watch overhis wife and daughter from afar. They were younger members, in Diesel’s crowd, which amused Johnnie to no end. He’d tapped brothers close to Diesel—and thusCJ—to assist him. Some of the baddest and most brutal motherfuckers around, on par with Diesel’s viciousness.

And Bash had the audacity to call Johnnie stupid at yesterday’s meeting. He was fucking brilliant.

Smirking at his own magnificence, Johnnie dialed Dementor’s number and put him on speaker.

“Sorry, John Boy,” Dementor greeted. “Forgot to tell you I got the money just fine. Already gave Exorcist, Bedhead, Turbo, Nitro, and Alchemy their portion.”

Pounder lifted a brow. He needed to take a lesson on badass biker names. No matter the reason to have ‘Pounder’ as a nickname, it was still fucked up.