“Big party tonight,” Trinidad said. Trinidad wasn’t his real name—he’d said once, when he first joined, that his father was from Trinidad, and everyone had called him Trinidad ever since. Bikers weren’t known for their creativity with nicknames. “Starts late. You should come.”
You should come was code. It meant I was expected to show up, or the club would wonder why. In the Black Dog, even parties weren’t optional. “I’ll drop in,” I said.
“Sure you will.” Even Trinidad’s chuckle was spooky. “You got something else to fucking do?”
I did. I had to prevent the president’s old lady from committing the equivalent of suicide at four o’clock in the morning. And suddenly, something she’d said while she was in that chair sent a chill over me, so cold I nearly shuddered.
“Wilder?” Trinidad said.
I found my voice. “You’re right,” I said. “I have nothing else to do. I’ll be there.” I hung up.
I looked at Devon again and Dani’s words came back to me. If I can figure it out, then so can the club. And once they do, you’ll have to run, just like me.
Devon was a billionaire. It was in the news that he was a billionaire. My last name, my brother’s face for anyone to see, connected with a billion dollars. My name was in the fucking article, listing me as filthy rich.
If the Black Dogs found out, what the hell would they do when they learned my brother and I were two of the richest men in the country?
It was simple: They’d want money. Lots of it.
Devon’s money. My money. At any cost.
The club made money. They did a protection racket, they did the odd run of guns, they did other odds and ends. And there was that all-time economic mainstay, drugs. They moved pounds of weed a week on the black market, the stuff coming and going in big sealed plastic bags. Pills—Oxy, and more recently fentanyl. Heroin and coke weren’t their mainstay, but they could handle it from time to time to make some quick cash. Drugs made money, but they were work, and they were risk. Members could, and sometimes did, go to prison. The club’s morality might be slippery, but their rationale was that you had to do what you had to do to make a living.
If they tapped Devon’s money, they wouldn’t need to do any of it.
If they tapped Devon’s money—my money—they’d be the richest club in America in one transaction. And I was the key.
Did I think they’d hesitate to use me, to shed my blood to get what they wanted? No, I fucking did not. They would do anything to make me pay. Kill me, hurt me. Even better, hurt me and blackmail Devon for money over it. It was right there that Devon was looking for me—sure as shit, he’d pay. The Dogs could get both brothers to pay up, and big. Double their money.
Would McMurphy do it? Killing and pain weren’t usually his thing, but this was a big payoff. I meant nothing to him. I would just be in the way. So yes, I knew McMurphy would do it.
Dani knew, too. That was why she’d warned me. She knew, better than anyone, what McMurphy was capable of.
She was right. I had to run. The only thing I had going for me was a head start—McMurphy didn’t know about this yet.
I looked around my apartment. I’d lived here for nearly five years, since I came from the New Mexico chapter, and I owned almost nothing. Some clothes, a few books, a phone, a shaving kit, half a bottle of Jim Beam, the old laptop. The furniture had come with the apartment, and so had the mismatched dishes. I had a toothbrush and a few condoms and an extra pair of boots.
And a car. It was a refurbed Dodge I’d gotten for a song from one of the garages that did work for the club, and despite its age it ran just fine. It ran fine enough to get me hundreds of miles from here. And it had plenty of room in the back seat for my few belongings.
“Fuck,” I said softly to no one, standing up and looking around. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. I should never have inked her. I’m fucking dead.”
True. But then again, I realized, if I’d never met her I might be fucking dead anyway. And suddenly, it mattered.
Not me—not my life. I didn’t care about that. But I cared about Dani’s. And I cared about Devon’s. I’d abandoned Devon ten years ago, just walked away, but I didn’t want to see him at the mercy of the Black Dog. Especially over me.
“Fuck,” I said again, louder. Caring was the last thing I should be doing. But too late now.
I grabbed a duffel bag from under my bed, pulled my clothes from the dresser, and started to pack.
I had to get out of town, and fast. But first, I had to go to a party.
Four
Dani
There was a reason I had to go to the party. The entire club would be there; if I skipped it, if I left town before the party started, everyone would notice. Everyone. It would put them on my trail that much sooner.
The better plan was to go to the party like normal. Watch the club drink themselves to unconsciousness, like normal. Watch them get stupid and eventually fall asleep. And then, while they were snoring their way to a hangover—that was the time to run.