LITMIR.BIZ

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you curious how your mother died?” he asks.

      “It was an accident,” I snap.

      “You believe it was an accident because you were told it was an accident.”

      It’s better than the alternative—that Mom took her own life. I meet his stare, and we become statues as we carry on the eye showdown.

      “I didn’t come here to get into a pissing contest with you. I’m here to help you,” he says like he’s my priest ready to grant absolution. “Maybe give you some peace.”

      “Who says I’m torn up?”

      “This involves your mother.” He allows a moment for his words to sink in and for my stomach to twist. “A boy never gets over losing his mother. Some things are universal. Black, white, poor, rich, college-educated to thug.”

      I raise an eyebrow. I’m guessing I’m the thug.

      “You’ve thought about your mother’s death. Maybe you’ve even been tormented. I’ve been on this case for a while, so I don’t come here lightly. I know what people say—that your mom killed herself—”

      A storm of anger flares within me. “It was an accident.”

      “It was no accident. I believe there’s one of two ways that night went down. There were no skid marks. Nothing to prove she tried to stop. Your mother either went off that bridge on purpose or she went off thinking going over was her better chance at survival.”

      My throat tightens. She died. My mother died.

      “I’ve talked to people. They say your mother was unhappy. That she had been unhappy for months. They say she was preparing to leave your father and she was going to take you with her.”

      A strong wave of dread rushes through my blood, practically shaking my frame. “You’re full of shit.”

      “Am I?” he asks. “People say your father worshipped you. That he wasn’t going to allow her to leave with you. Don’t you want to know how she died? Don’t you want to know if the people you claim as family were involved? If you work with me, we’ll find the answers you’ve been searching for.”

      My cell buzzes in my pocket and the distraction breaks the tension between me and the cop. I pull it out and find a text from Chevy. I’m late meeting him and evidently he was worried: Pigpen and Man O’ War coming in strong.

      “Do you hear that sound?” I say.

      He’s got that lost expression going on. “What sound?”

      The phone in the house rings and the welcome rumble of angry engines echoes in the distance. He turns toward the road and I beeline it into the house. Two seconds in, the file is open and I snap as many pictures as I can.

      “Razor!” the guy shouts from the other side of the screen door. My back’s to him and he sure as shit won’t walk in without a warrant or probable cause. “Bring that file back out here.”

      “Phone’s ringing,” I yell, knowing full well he can’t see what I’m doing. I close the file, then wave it over my shoulder to prove he and I are good. The house phone goes silent, but then my cell’s ringtone begins.

      I answer and it’s Oz on the other end. He and Chevy—they’ve been my best friends since birth. “You got trouble?”

      “Could say that. How’d you know?”

      “You’re late to orientation, and Pigpen saw someone with Jefferson County plates headed down your drive. He gave you a few minutes to show on the main road, and when you didn’t...”

      Oz drops off. He doesn’t have to explain. The club, as always, has my back. Especially Pigpen. The brother adopted me as his protégé.

      The detective bangs on the door. “Come out here or tell me I can come in, but if you leave my sight with that file in hand, I will bust down this door.”

      “I gotta go.” I hang up and stride out onto the porch. The cop snatches the folder from my fingers and his hand edges to his holstered gun as Pigpen and Man O’ War burst off their bikes and stalk in our direction.

      Pigpen earned his name as a joke because the girls fall over themselves to gain his attention. Blond hair, blue eyes...a late twentysomething version of what I hope to be. Man O’ War acquired his road name because when he’s in a fight, he’s famous for causing pain.

      “Got a warrant for something?” Pigpen asks in a low voice that’s more threat than question. Less than a year and a half ago, the guy was crawling around in the muck in some foreign country as an Army Ranger. Even though he was recruited by the Army because of his mad computer skills, it was a bullet in the shoulder and chest he took saving someone in his squad that brought him home for good. The brother is damn lethal.

      “Just having a conversation,” the cop answers in a slow drawl, “and I was leaving.”

      Pigpen climbs the porch and Man O’ War lags behind on the grass. I lean against the house and stay the hell out of the way. Most people say my wires are crossed, but even I know to grant a wide berth when these two are pushed into irritable.

      Pigpen slides into the man’s space and goes nose to nose. To the cop’s credit, he doesn’t flinch.

      “He’s still in high school.”

      “Razor’s eighteen,” the cop bites out. “Legal age.”

      “Leave and don’t come back. You have questions, you bring them to the board. I hear you’re slinking around him again, you’re dealing with me.”

      “Is that a threat?” The cop cocks his head to the side like he doesn’t give a damn Pigpen’s in his face. What I find more interesting is that the two are talking like they’ve met before, or are at least familiar with each other.

      Pigpen grins like a crazy man. “Yeah, it is.”

      The cop slips a white card out of the file and holds it out to me, but I keep my arms crossed over my chest. With his eyes locked with mine, he drops the card and it floats like a feather to the porch.

      He walks down the stairs, across the yard, and within less than a minute his Chevy Caprice is crackling rocks under rolling tires.

      Pigpen releases a long breath and glances over his shoulder at me. “Am I going to want to know what that was about?”

      I shake my head.

      “Will the board?”

      The club’s board—the group of men who oversee the members. They tackle the day-to-day operations of the club and they tackle any problems that arise. The detective suggested the club killed my mom, so, yeah, guess they will want to hear about this. I incline my head in affirmation.

      “Shit.”

      Sums it up.

      “Get to orientation. I’ll set up a meeting with the board soon.”

      Pigpen swipes up the card, but I catch a peek as I head past him to my bike. The cop’s name is Jake Barlow, and not only is he a detective, but he’s part of a gang task force.

      We’re a legit club. We don’t dabble in illegal nonsense. We aren’t the clichéd MC that sells guns, drugs, or deals in prostitution. We’re just a group of guys who love motorcycles and believe that family can mean more than the blood running through your veins. This guy, he was fucking with me. Just fucking with me.

      “Razor,” Pigpen calls as I straddle my bike.

      When I meet his eyes, he continues, “Are you tight?”

      I’m not a talker. Speak only when I have something worth saying. Everyone knows this, but this silence is beyond my normal. My mind replays the image of Mom’s car. It was crushed almost beyond recognition. The cop said there were no skid marks, no signs she tried to stop. My lungs ache as if someone crushed me beyond recognition.

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