His Bold Heart (Death Lords MC 7)

His words make her pause halfway between the table and sink. Judge is washing up so he can’t see her white face but I do. This fight about the money is so damned odd that I know I’m missing something. Something’s eating at Chelsea hard and I want to get to the bottom of it, but it’s clear she’s not saying a word while Judge is around.

I take the plates from her. “Go on. We’ll finish up here.”

She nods in short jerky movements and then flees to her bedroom. When her door slams shut, Judge and I flinch.

“Are you—”

“When you—”

We both talk at the same time. He nods and says, “Go ahead.”

“Are you really upset with how Chelsea’s handling the petty cash fund for the club?”

He scrubs the plates and rinses them before he answers. “No. Helen called me and said that she saw Chelsea giving money to Sean Ellerby. Must be for drugs.” He’s so wrapped up in his concern over Chelsea’s supposed drug use that he doesn’t notice that I almost break two plates when I hear Sean’s name. “I never saw the signs. When you two were up in Big Stone did you see any signs of it? She must be shooting up under her nails or something cuz I haven’t seen any signs on her arms.”

“It’s not drugs,” I say in a tight voice. I’m trying to keep my anger locked down but it’s not easy.

“How do you know?” He sounds skeptical. He’s really saying that I’ve been gone from the family for three years and I don’t know anything. I open my mouth to tell him that Sean’s likely blackmailing Chelsea but then clamp it shut. She’s not going to want to say anything. I’ve already fucked up by not making Ellerby my first priority when we got home. I underestimated the snake. I thought I’d talk to him this weekend, take him down to the gulley and beat some sense into him away from the police.

“I just know,” I say. I quickly wipe and stow the rest of the dishes. “I’ve got an errand to run. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

He nods absently, still caught up in his worry over Chels. As I reach the door, I turn back. “If Chels asks, say I went to the club.”

Judge gives me a piercing glare. “You seeing a woman tonight? You be careful, son. Don’t think that the takeout food is better than a home cooked meal.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I shake my head and brush off Dad’s cryptic message. “I’m going to take care of some business with Sean Ellerby.”

He nods slowly and then says, “Take Michigan with you. Chels is club business.”

“Got it.”

At this time of night, Michigan is probably at Rowdy’s, a bar owned by the club. The gravel parking lot is lined with club rides and other bikes. My truck looks out of place but I'm not having Ellerby riding bitch on my bike. I park the truck by the back entrance and circle around to the front of the bar on foot.

I'm taking Ellerby down by the gravel quarry which is across the town line. We don't own the quarry but several of the club members work there. The benefit of taking care of business like this down at the quarry is that it's outside of the reach of Chief Schmidt and there's plenty of rocks and dust to cover up any stains.

There are a few other cars in the lot but those probably belong to the women or prospects who haven't gotten the funds yet to pay for their own bike. One benefit to being a fully patched member is you're given a bike. Course if you ever get kicked out, you give the bike back along with your cut and anything else the club provided. Dad once called it the best unwritten prenup in existence because property rules are enforced with blood and flesh rather than the court of law.

Inside I find Michigan, our club enforcer, leaning up against the scarred wooden bar extending the width of the room. A beer bottle rests at his elbow but I bet if I touched it, the glass would be warm and the beer would taste like warm piss. Michigan doesn't drink outside the club; instead he watches everything and everyone. Not much escapes his notice.

At his side is Easy. They've been friends for a long time. They served together in the Marines as battle buddies. Easy's from Fortune; Michigan isn't but they came home together. To call them a couple would be a mistake. They aren't. They're a…unit. They fight together and they fuck together. They both wear a tired but searching expression—as if they've been looking for something for a long time but haven't found it.

And this time, it clicks. They’re looking for a woman they can settle down with. Just one, because that’s their thing. Like the Bedlam Butchers Club who do everything in pairs. Finding a woman who would be into that and face public scrutiny might be damned hard in Fortune.

“Michigan. Easy.”

Michigan returns my chin nod with one of his own while Easy, our sergeant at arms, draws me in for a man hug.

“Good to see you, Wrecker.” Easy pounds me on the back and yells for Bear to get me a beer.

Bear walks the beer down instead of sliding it along the lacquered oak surface. “You here for Ellerby?” he asks.

I shouldn't be surprised. Bear is Helen's husband. No doubt she went straight home to Bear who told her to take the business to Dad. “He here?”

“Playing pool and losing money.” He tips his head toward the side room where two pool tables sit.

I follow his gaze and see the skinny shit leaning his chin against a pool cue. Money's lying on the rail—Chels's money. My hands curl into fists.

Michigan rises to his feet. He's an intimidating guy—not because of his height of six feet…I stand an inch taller—but because of the subtle air of menace he exudes. He hardly ever smiles and when he does it generally means bad things for the recipient.

“You gonna need help taking out the trash.”

“I think you're supposed to make sure I don't go to prison again,” I half joke.

“I'll hold up the bar while you two have your fun,” Easy grouses.

Since I've been gone for a while, I don't know Ellerby's opponent but he's no threat because as soon as he sees Michigan and me approaching, he lays down his pool cue and leaves. The other game ends just as abruptly and within seconds, it's just the three of us.

“We're going for a ride,” I inform Ellerby.

He shakes his head. “I don't think so. Your sister wouldn't want you here.”

His inflection isn't lost on Michigan whose brows furrow. “This pissant bothering Chelsea?”

“Well, are you, Ellerby? Are you bothering my stepsister?”

He gives me the finger and pockets the money on the table, but his attempt at nonchalance is ruined by the shaking of his hands. Impatient for this to be over so I can go home and comfort Chels, I reach over and grab the back of his shirt and twist. He yelps in surprise and then claws at his throat.

Without waiting, I start walking toward the back door. This is Death Lords territory and no one makes a move to stop me. It'd be this way in any bar in town, but particularly this one.

Why Ellerby stopped here and not at the five other liquor establishments is a mystery, but Sara definitely got the brains of the two.

“You best let me go,” Ellerby screeches as I drag him by his shirt. “Or I'm going to say something that your sister ain't going to much like.”

“Go ahead and open your mouth inside the bar and I'll cut out your tongue.” I say it so matter of factly that Ellerby shuts up. Everyone in Fortune knows I went to prison for killing someone, including Ellerby. They don't know the real reason why. He's going to find out tonight.

When we get outside and he spots the truck, he starts putting up more resistance. He tries to spin around but my grip on his shirt tightens. His feet start dragging in the dirt but I've put on a lot of muscle on the inside and it takes little effort to get him to the truck. I slam his head into the side of the passenger door. “Oops. Forgot I needed to open the door first.”

“Fuck you, murderer,” he groans holding his head. I press one hand against the back of his neck and kick his legs open. Reaching inside his jeans, I pull out his wallet and toss it to Michigan. He pulls out three

hundred.

“Unlike Chels, I don’t give a fuck what you call me, asshole. Where’s the rest of the money?”

He laughs, spraying a smear of spit all over my window. I’m going to have to get this thing washed tomorrow. “Spent it.”

I shake my head and bang Ellerby’s head once again. Michigan reaches out and opens the back door and I toss him inside.

Ellerby scrambles to the opposite side and tries to get out but Michigan is there, quick as lightning to stare him into submission. He starts bargaining before my front tires clear the gravel and hit the asphalt.

“I needed a hit,” he whines. “I wasn't going to bother her for more money.”

“This piece of shit blackmailing Chelsea?” Michigan asks in disbelief, quickly catching on.

I nod, but watch the road carefully. I don’t want to get picked up and Schmidt has a hard-on for club members, me especially. It was a real coup for him to get me charged and sent away. Word is that he’s none too happy with my early release and he’d love to find a way to throw me back inside. But I’m not going to sit on my ass while this shit-stain threatens Chels.

Michigan turns around. “You’re a dumb motherfucker. You don’t mess with Chels. She’s club property.”

“She’s a sick pervert.”

The truck weaves as I turn around to introduce my fist into Ellerby’s face. Michigan grabs the wheel while pulling me forward at the same time. Ellerby ducks and cowers in the far corner of the backseat where I can’t reach him while I’m driving.

“Pay attention to the road,” Michigan barks. “I’m not planning to be a statistic tonight.” Under his breath, he mutters, “Rein it in. Revenge is cold. Blah-blah-blah.”

“Blah-blah-blah? Is that some kind of secret enforcer code?”

“Yeah, the kind that allows you to do your job and not get dead.”

It takes forty minutes to get to the quarry. Behind the gravel pit is a copse of trees, old oak trees with sturdy trunks. I stop the truck behind a hill of gravel. No one will be able to see us back here. Michigan hands me a pair of rubber gloves.

“Extra large,” he says and jerks his head slightly toward the backseat. “Junkies have bad blood. Better be safe than sorry.”