It’s a long ride. Pine Hollow sits on the outer edge of Slater County. About forty-five minutes later, we pull into the parking lot behind the large, rambling Victorian house. Rock continues to the edge of the lot, lined in overgrown grass and trees. The house itself is painted what was probably a sunny shade of yellow at one point, with white trim. Large chunks of paint peel away from the siding like open wounds. Carpet that was once meant to mimic green grass covers the wide, wrap-around porch. Now it looks brittle and worn in certain spots. Four different chimneys poke out of the sloped roof.
“This is a nice area,” Rock says. “Quiet. Unassuming.”
“Until a bunch of bikers roared into the parking lot,” Murphy says.
“You wanted to ride,” Rock reminds him.
Jigsaw joins our group but hangs slightly back. His gaze lingers on the peeling paint and rickety-looking railing next to the stairs. “Place needs work.”
“Yup.” I’m already plotting how to wash some cash through the construction costs when we renovate the building.
Rock pulls out his phone, clicks to a map, and studies an aerial view of where we’re standing. “What is Pine Hollow? A village? Hamlet?”
“A hamlet. No local government.” I rub my hands together, savoring my favorite part of the location. “They rely on the Slater County Sheriff’s Department for law enforcement.”
“Who are barely competent as it is,” Rock says, without looking up from his phone. “Very nice.”
I respond with a quick nod, but pride beats in my chest. Club’s never done anything like this, and I want it to be a success.
Three cars are parked next to the house. A cheery lemon-yellow mint-condition 1950s-era Ford Thunderbird catches Murphy’s eye. “Don’t see a lot of those in such good condition.”
“Yellow isn’t your color,” I snark.
“It’s a sweet ride,” Jiggy says, stopping to study the classic car.
A garage separate from the house has four bays. None are open. “Hearse must be kept in there.”
A plaque screwed into the porch railing says Cedarwood Family Funeral Home and Cremation Company, spelled out in a fancy—but dated—script. It matches the larger sign at the front of the building.
“That’s a mouthful,” Murphy says.
“I don’t think they’ll be open to a name change.” I elbow him.
We thunder up the rickety porch steps like a herd of rhinos instead of four bikers. The wide door opens but another screened door creates too many shadows to see who’s about to greet us. A latch squeaks. Old hinges scream as I pull the door wide enough for us to enter. Mr. Cedarwood backs up a few inches out of our way.
“Mr. Cedarwood.” I hold out my hand to the older man as I cross the threshold.
We’re roughly the same height and he looks me directly in the eye. His grip is firm and confident. “Good to see you again.”
He wants this deal to work as much as I do.
Rock holds out his hand next. “Rochlan North.”
“Ah, father and son.” He slides his gaze between Rock and me. “I’ll rest easier having a family as partners.”
All the air squeezes from my lungs. Fuck. I didn’t say anything to Cedarwood about Rock being my father. He just assumed.
Murphy chuckles and mouths, “Mini-me.” My gaze darts away.
Rock eases over the awkwardness. “Thank you for meeting with us,” he says, without confirming or denying Cedarwood’s assumption.
“This is my brother-in-law,” I introduce Murphy. “And our friend, Jensen Kilgore.”
“Welcome.” Cedarwood smiles brightly, seeming not at all intimidated by four bikers in black leather filling up the corridor.
“Do you want a tour?” he offers, graciously sweeping his hand toward the rest of the house.
“Lead the way.” Rock follows Cedarwood.