His Bold Heart (Death Lords MC 7)

“Decided to have one of your club meetings right in front of Chief Schmidt?” She smooths a hand down the back of her skirt and takes a seat across from me. “You can leave any minute.”

That’s directed to Officer Paulson who can’t tear his eyes off Amelia’s ass. She clears her throat when he doesn’t move.

“Officer, you don’t shut that door and you’ll be in danger of violating my client’s constitutional right to speak to his attorney. I don’t think detective promotions are handed out to officers who are responsible for civil rights suits against the city.”

Paulson’s face morphs into instant rage as he slams the door shut.

“You made an enemy there,” I warn.

“We were enemies the minute that I walked in the door and announced I was representing you.” Her red lips curve into a happy smile. She gets off on the fight. I think she likes it more when everyone hates and underestimates her. “Now, I thought I told you to stay out of trouble.”

“I have.” I spread my hands. “Can’t help that Schmidthead has a hard on for me.”

“There are two sworn statements that place your vehicle in the proximity of the country club last night.”

“Don’t know how that can be when I was home with Chelsea since seven and before that I was at Wheels Up.”

“All day?”

“Other than having lunch at the sub shop, yeah. Judge has a waiting list longer than your arm and we’re trying to work our way through it.”

“Anyone other than Chelsea at home with you?” Her questions are rapid fire.

“No, but the Cut-n-Curl is open until nine. Someone may have seen me go up.”

This tidbit elicits a small nod of approval. She makes a note and asks another question. “How do you know Jessica Trainor?”

“Don’t. I heard she and Chelsea got into it at Carmichael’s grocery but she’s part of the country club set that doesn’t pay much attention to folks in Fortune.”

“So you resent them.”

“Don’t know enough about them to have any feelings.”

“But you and Judge are very protective of Chelsea.”

That isn’t a question. Everyone knows that Chelsea is off limits so I didn’t answer.

“How long have you been sleeping with your sister?”

I bite down on the inside of my cheek until I can taste the copper of my blood. Good thing my hands are under the table so she can’t see them form into fists. “Thought you were on my side counselor.”

She leans forward. “I am on your side. You should know by now that the questions I ask aren’t anywhere near as intrusive or offensive as the prosecution will throw at you.”

When I went to prison, I wasn’t soft by any means. I’d grown up in the club and as soon as I graduated, my dad had me doing small runs with him, getting me ready for my patch. But prison had made me hard, not just in my body but in my mind. No one is breaking me now. Not Miss Amelia and her razor sharp questions or Chief Schmidt and his immoral pursuit of the Death Lords.

“I took Chelsea’s virginity when she was seventeen and she’s been mine ever since. That’s how long I’ve been sleeping with her.”

If Amelia is surprised by this, she doesn’t show it. Back when she represented me four years ago, Chelsea begged me to keep my mouth shut. She hadn’t wanted Judge to know that we had started something. Maybe she didn’t trust my intentions, but I knew—even if she didn’t—that taking her virginity was the same as making her a promise that there’d not be another woman after her.

When I got out, I was tired of hiding. Didn’t matter to me what other folks said. Chelsea wasn’t my sister, no matter that Judge looked after her since Chelsea was fourteen. She’s my girl, my old lady, my motherfucking heart. So no, I didn’t care what a million Mrs. Trainors had to say about my relationship with Chelsea.

“Fine. What did you do after you got home around seven?”

“Ate dinner. Had sex. Chelsea fell asleep and I got up around two to watch some television when Dumb and Dumber showed up.”

“Dinner lasted how long?”

I could see her mapping out a timeline. “Half hour max.”

“And then you had sex?”

“Yeah.”

“And after sex you went to bed?” She raised her eyebrows in disbelief.

“Chelsea was wore out.” She actually might have passed out after our second go around. Since I’d come already, I held off for a long time, making sure that the only feelings Chelsea had were good ones.

“That’s all you did was eat and have sex? All night?” Amelia taps her pen against the paper.

“It was only about three hours.” And for the first time since I was dragged from the apartment, I grin because Amelia is dumbstruck.

“No one has sex for that long,” she hisses.

“You ain’t never had a Death Lord in your bed have you?”

“Incredible.” She stares and then starts laughing. “I have to go to one of your parties, don’t I?”

“Invitation is always open. Of course, I don’t know if half those fuckers would know what to do with a classy broad like you.”

“Three hours, Grant. I don’t know what to do with them.”

We share a smile before Amelia gives a little shake of her head and we get down to business. “Not many people are going to believe that you had sex for three hours. And Chelsea’s not a great alibi because she’s your girlfriend. Can you get me a list of the people who would have been at the Cut-n-Curl between the time you got home and the time it closed?”

“Yes. Did they say when Trainor was killed?”

“Time of death hasn’t been identified yet.” She wrinkles her nose. “Small town crime means the autopsy isn’t top priority either so I imagine we won’t know for a week or so. On the bright side, since you do have an alibi and you aren’t a known flight risk, we should have you released shortly.”

“What’s that mean?” Short in lawyer time could mean days instead of weeks.

“Shortly means I’m going out there right now and demanding your release. They have statements that your vehicle was in the vicinity but that’s it. There’s no gun of yours that matches the bullets used on Jessica Trainor and the statements only identify your vehicle, not you. That’s not enough to convict anyone, not even you.”

Not even me, a convicted felon who had already killed one man.

“Why the arrest then?”

“Because they can.” She pushes away from the table and knocks on the door to get Paulson to let her out. “You should think about getting a new zip code because I don’t think these guys—“ she tips her head toward the door “—like you much.”

It’s the same tune that Chelsea’s been singing, only a slightly different verse. When I sat in my cell in Oak Park, the thing that kept me sane was imagining coming home, pulling on my cut and making love to Chelsea. I’ve only been back a year and already people are telling me it’s time to go.

I don’t like that.

But I also don’t like seeing Chelsea’s ragged face as every belonging of ours is tossed to the ground. And the bracelets I’m wearing around my wrists don’t feel great. Nor do I want to sit behind bars for one more goddamned minute. It was one thing to serve time for something I did do, which was knife that motherfucking skinhead rapist, but it’s an entirely other thing to be incarcerated for killing a woman I could barely pick out of a line up.

Time passes way too slow for my liking but the clock on the wall tells me only an hour has ticked by when Paulson throws open the door. From the sour look on his face, I know that Amelia has gotten her way. I stand and hold out my wrists.

“Nice visiting with you.”

He’s rough when he handles the cuffs, trying to rub the metal into my skin. It’s a bullshit move and one that show’s how desperate and weak he is. “You’ll be back soon enough.”

He hands me a bag of clothing and I strip there in the room, happily shedding the orange jumpsuit. Chelsea’s

packed me a change of underwear, jeans, heavy socks, my favorite boots and a long sleeve henley t-shirt. Each piece of clothing reminds me of how much you lose when you’re imprisoned. It’s not just freedom, but privacy and a sense of self. In prison, there are regular checks that require you to strip out of your jumpsuit. The guards can make you bend over and spread your ass cheeks to make sure you’re not hiding contraband up your butt.

Clothes, several layers, is just part of regaining dignity.

So are unlocked doors. I knock on the door to signal my readiness. Paulson takes his sweet time in opening it but I ignore him. Instead, I walk toward the Club members who are waiting for me. Though the glass partition separating the waiting room from the rest of the police office, I can see Easy smiling and joking with the receptionist while Michigan stands in the corner looking ready to cut off the head of anyone who looks cross-eyed at him. Dad is talking with Amelia. They laugh over something. BangBang, the Club’s Warlord, is tossing his keys in the air. He’s a fidgety guy except when he’s upset or in the zone. When BangBang goes quiet, it’s best to find some kind of shelter because shit is about to go down.

Paulson’s heavy treads reverberate behind me. “By the way, your sister’s snatch smells good.”