Chapter 25

Rocky

Ispent all night in Peyton's bed. God, I fucking loved sleeping with her. And I meant sleeping, not fucking. Although I loved the fucking, too.

I could still feel her clamped around my cock, could still her hear shouting her pleasure with my name falling from her lips. I could still taste her on my tongue. Fuck, I couldn't stop thinking about her even now, when I once more had to leave her before she woke.

I couldn't fucking focus on anything, which made me wonder why the fuck I bothered to show up to the clubhouse. Because there's shit that needs to be handled. Right. There was the asshole threatening Peyton and now there was some unknown assholes who shot up the clubhouse.

"Problem?" Slate looked up from his laptop with an amused grin on his face as if the fucker knew exactly what was on my mind.

"A million and one. You find anything yet?"

One ebony brow arched. "Care to be more specific?"

I glared at him, the glare that made men shake in their boots.

Slate simply smiled even wider. The asshole. "Yeah, I did find something, actually. And I found it in Carter's blackmail dossier. I'm waiting for Diesel, but I'm happy to go through it twice to put your pretty little mind at ease."

"Dick," I growled. "I can wait."

Ten excruciating minutes later, Diesel showed up with Rebel and Hawk on his heels. "You said you have news?"

Slate nodded and cracked his knuckles, the way he did when found something good and wanted us all to bow down to his hacker skills. "Two items on the agenda today. First, I found a lead that could help with all the trouble Rocky's girl is in."

"She's not my girl," I grit out.

Slate just rolled his eyes. "The girl Rocky's clearly fucking who lives in his house again and who he obsesses over every minute of every day."

I glared at him in pure annoyance, but he completely ignored me and kept talking.

"I might have found a lead on who slit her roomie's throat. I hacked into the dead girl's phone and all its messages and calls—looks like she was sleeping with a married man."

"Who?" Rebel asked.

"Dunno," Slate replied with a shrug. "He was using a burner. I know from their conversations that he has three kids, and just turned fifty-three. And she's suggesting hair-growth supplements to him a lot, so I guess he's losing his hair. I can keep digging in the abundant spare time I have these days, and if I latch onto something, I'll let you know and pass it on to the cops."

"Do that," Diesel said. "What was the second thing?"

"Wait," I cut in, before we could move on. "How does that make sense with Peyton? She received a threat from the murderer. ‘It was supposed to be you', remember?"

But Slate only shrugged again. "Maybe she was fucking the old guy, too?"

"Maybe his wife found out about them and went on a rampage?" Rebel adds. "Wanted to kill them both, but Peyton wasn't home at the time?"

I frowned. "That doesn't sound right."

Hawk just snorted. "Ooh, sorry buddy, maybe your girl isn't quite the angel you hoped for."

"She's not—ugh." I slaked a hand over my face. "Fuck off."

An ugly, vicious curl of jealousy swirled through me at the thought of Peyton fucking this mystery old man. Even though it was before she met me. Even though I kept telling her we weren't a thing. She'd have every right to fuck the whole town, if she wanted to.

I snarled at myself mentally and angrily threw the thought away, determined to ignore it.

"I just mean," I grit out through my teeth, "that she's gotten more messages from the murderer, talking about how they should be together and shit. Doesn't sound like something an angry wife would say."

"So then, the old man wished he was fucking Peyton instead of the dead girl?" Hawk asked.

"I'll look into it," Slate said, and Diesel motioned for us to move on.

"Okay, so item number two," Slate continued. "I spent all night combing through surveillance footage in search of the fuckers who shot at us last night, and I got something. The footage is grainy, but it was another MC." Slate turned and pulled up the footage on the big screen television on the wall. "You can see the patches."

The video was so damn grainy it might as well have been a fucking silent film.

"I can see they have patches and that's about it," Rebel muttered.

Slate rolled his eyes. "See the big patch on the lead guy's back? It's the Red Skulls, an MC out of Reno."

"How the fuck can you tell that?" Hawk asked.

"Because I have eyes," Slate responded sarcastically. "Can't you fucking see it?"

"We're not used to staring at blurry pixels like you, Slate," Hawk reminded him.

"Yeah, well—" Slate began, but Diesel interrupted to get things back on track.

"Reno?" Diesel shook his head. "They're a long way from home. What the fuck do they want with us?"

"Like we need another fucking problem on our doorstep," Rebel agreed. "Now we have random MCs picking fights? What the fuck for?"

My mind raced with the possibilities. "Any signs they're trying to expand into our territory?"

"None yet. They have no ties to the metro area that I've been able to find. No connections in jail, no childhood friends in the area. Nothing to say they have any fucking reason to be down here."

"And yet, they are," Hawk said, a grave note to his voice.

"Maybe someone hired them," Slate said. "Maybe we did something to them without realizing. Maybe they're looking to expand and are testing the waters our way. Who fucking knows?"

"You should," Diesel growled. "It's your job to know."

"Listen!" Slate threw up his hands. "I'm doing my fucking best, you've thrown the whole world at my feet in one go!"

"Aw, does little baby Slatey need a nap-nap?" Hawk cooed.

"Fucking yes," Slate huffed, "I do. In the meantime, I do have a wild theory, actually. But you're not going to like it."

"Now you have to tell us," Rebel said.

"Okay, well, my money's currently is on what's left of the Carters, who might not be as cool with things as they're pretending publicly."

Hawk let out a groan. "I thought we were done with the fucking Carters."

Slate shrugged. "It's just a hunch. But you can never put it past rich folks to be vengeful as fuck, I guess, even over a rotten son of a bitch like Robert Carter. Maybe some related scion somewhere is mad we offed his uncle or some shit, what can I tell you. And if not them, then…it's some new enemy. A rival MC, or worse, someone who knows about the blackmail file and is in it—or wants it for themselves."

"Well, fuck," Diesel growled. "That could be anybody in the whole goddamn world."

Slate nodded. "Yup. Which is why I didn't mention it until asked. I'm still digging."

"Dig deeper and faster," Diesel ordered. "Between the shit with Peyton, and the Carter mess still not completely settled yet, and now some random fucking MC shooting us up—we have enough to fucking worry about." His eyes met mine, and I knew what he was thinking. The Peyton mess wasn't our responsibility, and if we had more shit coming at us, she might fall down the priority list.

Maybe for Diesel and maybe even for the MC, but not for me.

Never for me.

I promised her I would protect her and that's exactly what the fuck I was going to do.