When the car pulled out of sight, his muscles unfroze. Slade dropped to his knees on the concrete, staring down at his throbbing hand.
Now branded with a mark.
Chapter Two
Sladelineduphisshot at the back pool table of The Last Call bar, trying to tune out whatever godawful squawking came from the bartender’s playlist. Asshole must be tone-deaf to like such bullshit. Two riding buddies stood on the other side of the table. “Hey, y’all know a rich asshole driving around in a gold Bentley?” He’d waited all night for them to comment. Neither seemed to notice the ugly black mark on his hand, even when discussing tattoos.
“Not me.” Badger hovered by the table, alert to Slade’s every move. He’d earned the name with a bad attitude and tendency to burrow—under other people’s skin.
“If I did, he wouldn’t have it long.” Moose leaned against the wall, waiting to play the winner. The fucker might never learn his lesson about stealing cars. Hell, he’d gotten released from prison six weeks ago. Was he planning to go back already?
So much for Slade’s slim hope. His fellow bikers barely rubbed elbows with the middle class, let alone the rich. The amount of beer they’d chugged down on Wednesday didn’t bode well for them remembering anything past their own dicks.
Slade took his shot, neatly landing the eight ball in the corner pocket. He straightened, holding out his hand for his winnings.
Badger groaned, counting out twenties. “If I hadn’t watched every move, I’d swear you cheated.”
No cheating needed. Badger sucked at pool. As casually as possible, Slade asked, “Either of you remember a blond twink in here Wednesday night?”
“I don’t notice twinks. They’re too much trouble. Give me a man who can handle a good pounding any day.” Badger acted out holding a guy by the hips and ramming home. Slade bet ten bucks the grumpy bastard last got laid over six months ago.
“You don’t remember me leaving with someone?” Slade perused the bar. No one resembling the kid came in. Nope, leather, denim, muscles, tats, as far as the eye could see, many of the tats Slade’s work.
Moose pushed away from the wall. “You left alone. Claimed you had a headache.”
A headache? Not according to Slade’s memory. He placed his cue in the rack on the wall. “Speaking of headaches, I feel another one coming on. I think I’ll head out.” Leaving the bar—alone—before ten p.m. on a Saturday night. What a damned waste.
He muscled his way through the crowd. Saturday nights lured more people into the bar, offering a wider variety of prospective partners. The bartender ambled over, the same middle-aged man Slade thought he’d seen Wednesday. “Need another beer?”
“Not right now.” Slade leaned over the bar. “Let me ask you something. You tended bar Wednesday night, right?” If he kept yelling over the poor excuse for music, he’d get the made-up headache for real.
“Yeah. Every Wednesday night this month.” So far, so good.
“Did you see me leave with anyone?”
The bartender cocked his head to the side, brow furrowing. “No. You left alone. I remember, ’cause you swore you weren’t leaving without someone on the back of your Road King.”
Okay, maybe not so good. “Did anyone ask about me?”
“No. If they had, I wouldn’t’ve told ‘em. I don’t answer questions without a warrant.” The man let out a belly laugh.
Slade held out one last hope to prove his sanity. “Do you have video of the parking lot from Wednesday night?”
“Why? What happened? Did someone mess with your bike?” The bartender pursed his lips, bald head gleaming in the low light and bushy brows reaching for his nonexistent hairline.
“No, I’m looking for someone.”
“Sorry. The camera’s been out for a few days now.”
The twenties Slade won tonight said the camera went out on Wednesday.
Someone called from down the bar. “Gotta go.” The bartender turned away.
“Thanks, man.” Slade clapped the bartender on the shoulder in passing, throwing a ten into the tip jar sitting on the bar. Unease squirmed in his stomach, increasing with every step out to the parking lot.
What the ever-loving fuck? Some kind of coverup? Why? He hadn’t imagined the man or the twink and also didn’t have a fucking idea what to do if they suddenly appeared. He’d do—something. The bastard marked his hand, mumbling nonsense about Slade not being able to stay in one place.
He’d go wherever the fuck he wanted. No stranger told him what to do.Nobodytold him what to do.