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lia
and stepped into the "chapel." Th
or leaned against the walls, their faces a mix of grim curiosity and
spent six years of my life with. The club president whose books I had balanced, who
mall, satisfied smirk clung to her lips. For years, she had wanted
d Tank, slammed a gavel down on the table.
out to lie or assert power he didn't feel he'd earned. "This Church has been called to ad
hythm on the wood. She caught my eye and mouthed a single word, her lips curling in a sneer: Pathe
forward," Doug
. I clenched my fists at my sides, the nails digg
rabbed the front of my leather jacket, his fingers locking hard around the s
back a half-step, the force of the rip pulling me off balance. I locked my knee
nto the table like a piece of trash. "From this moment on, you're a sweetbutt. You'll
hangeable women who floated around the clubhouse. I bit the inside of my cheek, hard. The coppery
ed my head just enough to level a glare at them so cold, so utte
y misreading the dangerous calm that had settled over me
teady, defiant rhythm as I walked out of the Church room, down the na
e clubhouse from my lungs. I didn't go to my own bike. I walked straight toward
ly. I climbed into the cab, the familiar scent of him-oil, cheap cologne, and cigarettes-making my stomach clench. I clicked on a small penlight. M
. Behind the driver's seat was a custom leather saddlebag he used for "sensitive" club documents. I kn
h a pile of oily rags, I foun
d photo. It fluttered onto the dusty floor mat. I picked it up. My eyes scanned th
lently shoved the photo into my pocket. I dug deeper into the envelope. Bank transfer slips. Dozens of th
I had so carefully laundered for the club, the funds meant f
I snapped high-resolution ph
ribs. A prospect, his silhouette visible through the window, walked past, t
back exactly as I'd found it, locked the saddlebag, and wiped the d
Vipers sign on the clubhouse wall. A dead-cold realization washed ov
ar drowned out the muffled music from the bar. As I sped onto the interstate
down had
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