Remy (Golden Glades Henchmen MC 4)

“Oh, God. We have to call the police, right?”

That was a tough one.

If it were me, or mine, I wouldn’t. But Myles wasn’t my person. He was Lark’s person. And she would likely feel better knowing that the police were on the case.

“We can call the police,” I said, nodding. “But we will need to figure out what to tell them.”

“Because this is about me, right?” she asked, shoulders slumping. “Because of these guys. I would have to tell them that.”

“You would if you want them to be able to find Myles.”

“What do I do?” she asked, tone as desperate as the look in her watery eyes.

“That’s going to be up to you, babe. You can call the cops, report him missing, tell them about the blood and see if they are willing to investigate right now.”

“Why wouldn’t they?”

“Because it hasn’t been long. And because this is a very trace amount of blood. But you can get it on the record in case he doesn’t turn up in the next twenty-four hours. And then they would get on the case.”

“And then in that twenty-four hours, we can look for him?”

“Yeah. What?” I asked when she threw up an arm and mumbled Oh my God!

“His uncle is a cop. I can call his uncle, right?”

“Who’s his uncle?” I asked. “I know a lot of guys on the police force,” I clarified.

“Oh, ah, Lou? Lou Truman.”

I knew the name. He’d never been on our payroll, so I couldn’t say how he would react to Lark and her involvement in what happened to Myles.

“Okay. Let’s go talk to him.”

The ride to the police station was full of tense silence, interrupted only by the panting of Lyle.

“Okay, buddy. We won’t be long,” Lark assured him as she put on the radio. “We will leave the music and AC on for you.”

With that, we made our way up to the police station—a place I wouldn’t have imagined I’d walk into willingly if you asked me a week ago.

“Detective Truman?” the woman at the front clarified.

“Yes. Detective Truman,” Lark said, nodding.

“You said your name is Lark?”

“Yes. It’s about his nephew Myles, though,” Lark clarified.

“Okay. One minute,” she said, moving away.

“I’m nervous he is going to lock me up. Or hit me,” Lark admitted, moving closer to my side.

“He won’t,” I assured her.

“Lark, hon, is everything okay?”

“Is there somewhere we can go to talk?” I asked, watching his gaze slide to me, taking in my cut, my patches, then nodding.

“Unofficially?” he asked, brow raising.