For a split second, anger flashes across her face, before her expression shutters closed. She scoffs, turning away. “Whatever,” she mutters, walking away without another word.
I watch her go, unease settling like a stone in my gut. That wasn’t just about a partnership, and we both know it. But I’m too exhausted to untangle that particular knot right now.
My old room is exactly as I left it the last time I crashed here: sparse, functional, with a bed that’s seen better days. I pull my phone from my pocket, staring at the dark screen. I should turn it on. Should call Kayla, apologize for last night, explain what’s happening.
No, I don’t have the energy for that conversation. Not now. I’ll call her when I wake up, when I can think straight.
I toss the phone onto the dresser and strip out of the suit shirt and pants I’ve been wearing under my cut since last night. They’re wrinkled beyond salvation, smelling of sweat and exhaust fumes. I let them fall to the floor, too tired to care.
In just my boxers, I collapse onto the bed. The mattress isn’t nearly as comfortable as the one at home, but right now it feels like heaven. The world fades around me, exhaustion pulling me under into blessed nothingness.
9
Chapter 9
Roman
A pounding on the door jolts me awake. I bolt upright, hand automatically reaching for my gun before my brain catches up with my surroundings. Clubhouse. My old room. I blink at the sunlight streaming through the blinds, momentarily disoriented. How long have I been out? The pounding comes again, followed by a hesitant voice.
“Viper? You in there?” Whoever it is outside my door is speaking in a low but urgent tone.
“What?” My voice comes out as a growl, rough with sleep.
“Atlas needs you downstairs. Now.” There’s a pause. “There’s a cop here. Something about your wife.”
The words take a moment to penetrate the fog of exhaustion. Cops. My wife. Kayla.
“What about her?” I’m already on my feet. Crossing to the dresser I grab a pair of jeans and a t-shirt and pull them on.
“Dunno, man. They just asked for you, and Atlas said to get you down there.”
Adrenaline sweeps away the last cobwebs of sleep as I yank on my boots. I glance at the window, full daylight. Must be afternoon. I’ve been out for hours.
I grab my cut from where I’d tossed it on the chair and shrug it on as I head for the door. The prospect, a skinny kid named Reed, practically jumps out of my way as I emerge.
“Who’s down there?” I demand, striding toward the stairs.
“Sheriff’s deputy,” Reed says, jogging to keep up with my longer steps. “Been here about ten minutes. Atlas is keeping him company.”
I nod, taking the stairs two at a time. My mind races with possibilities, none of them good.
The main room of the clubhouse falls silent as I enter. Atlas sits at a table with a uniformed deputy; Colton, I recognize him. Mid-thirties, one of the sheriff’s favorites, always looking to make a name for himself by busting bikers.
“Sullivan,” Colton says, standing as I approach. “Roman Sullivan?”
“That’s me,” I confirm, not offering my hand. “What’s this about?”
Colton’s eyes flick to my cut, taking in the VP patch and Devil’s Rejects insignia before returning to my face. “Mind if we sit?”
I lower myself into a chair across from him, noticing that Atlas has positioned himself at the head of the table. Making it clear who’s in charge here. Typical.
“I’m going to ask you some questions,” Colton says, pulling out a small notebook. “And I’d appreciate straightforward answers.”
I say nothing, just stare at him. The chatter around the clubhouse has resumed, but at a lower volume. Everyone’s listening.
“Where were you last night?” Colton asks, pen poised above his notebook.
“Here,” I say, maintaining eye contact. “All night.”