Preacher.
Fuck what do I do?
I look straight ahead to the staff parking lot and my stomach rolls, because Razor is leaning against my car. His bike is parked beside it.
I can’t go back inside now. But walking through this mess feels…
But I can’t back down, I can’t show fear in the pool with all these predators. A man with a cocky grin, intense blue eyes and messy dark hair steps out of the group of Devil’s Ride. He has tattoos from his knuckles up his neck. He winks at me and then turns his attention on Preacher, lifting the hand not holding the gun and wiggling his fingers in a taunt of a wave.
Fuck… I need to move.
I take a deep breath, stand tall and walk straight for my car.
“What are you doing here?” I ask Razor through gritted teeth.
His eyes lift slowly, but before he can answer, another voice comes from behind him.
“We came to make sure you got back home safe.”
Angel steps into view. I only now notice his bike off to the side of Razor’s.
That realization does nothing to calm the tension knotting in my chest. Angel looks tired. Not the usual controlled, immovable presidenteveryone else sees. His hair is slightly disheveled and there are dark circles under his eyes. He looks like a man who hasn’t slept since his sister disappeared.
“I heard about the shooting last night,” he says.
Part of me wants to feel relieved seeing him. Angel has always been the steady one. The one who keeps the club from spinning out of control. But another part of me remembers something else.
Mara.
His own sister. And Razor was able to do whatever he wanted inside that compound without Angel questioning him.
Not that Angel knew. But still. Why didn’t his own sister trust him? Was it simply that she was worried about what was going on with the club… or was it something else?
Razor pushes off my car slowly.
“How is he?” Angel asks.
I swallow and try not to show my nerves as I hear a rumble of more bikes incoming.
“He didn’t make it.”
“Was he one of your patients?” He asks.
I close my eyes for a moment pushing away the vision of blood and loss.
“Yes.” I answer.
“Which club?”
“Devil’s Ride.” I answer.
Razor snorts quietly. “Figures.”
My eyes flick to him.
“What does that mean?”
He shrugs and gestures to where Preacher and the Blood Reapers sit.