2. Cam

two

Cam

I'd parked the bike a few blocks away, in an empty parking lot near Puck's house. The walk back gave me time to think about what was happening. I knew who the fuck Riley was. I'd been with him when he'd checked on them, when he'd brought her mom money. I knew Archer had plans, contingencies, if something happened. But bringing her here? When I still questioned his death?

Preacher, the interim president, was going to lose his shit when he found out Archer's kid was here. Only he and AP knew about her.

I had to tell the table. Straddling my bike, I shot a quick text off.

Chapel. Thirty Minutes.

According to our bylaws, anyone at the table could call an emergency meeting. We hadn't had one in years, now we'd had two in a week—the first one being when Preacher found Archer's body.

I fired up my bike and ignored the notifications from my pocket. They'd find out soon enough.

The ride out to the clubhouse was one I'd made so many times, I could shut down and think. She looked tired, Archer's kid. I hadn't seen her since the last time we'd ridden out. She was thinner, less vibrant, but still fucking beautiful.

Archer never approached her, never told anyone but me where she was. I'd always given him shit about his paranoia. And now he was dead. I didn't believe for one second, he'd killed himself.

I couldn't prove he was murdered, not yet. But when I did—I would fuck shit up.

The exhaust growled out the tailpipes as I throttled down and turned onto the stretch of cracked blacktop that led to the clubhouse. It was late, I was tired, and I'd barely managed to rip myself from Archer's place. But the clubhouse was still rocking and would until well on into the morning hours.

A glance at the parking lot told me those who needed to be here, were. When I cut off the bike, the wafting, overbearing scent of vanilla and peaches told me Tammy's daughter had come back to the clubhouse with her.

"I like it." Krystal purred and stepped from the open door.

When I raised my brows in question, she tugged at the hem of the white button-down shirt I still wore under the leather cut.

She'd caked on the mascara and eye makeup, done something to her lips to make them shiny and noticeable. Any other day I would have vaguely entertained those plump, pink lips wrapped around my dick. But not today. Riley hadn't worn any makeup at all, hadn't needed it.

Krystal was the classic pass around that tried too hard. She wanted me to notice, like the way she pulled my shirt until she was pressed so close to me her breath brushed warm against my chest.

I grinned, detached both of her hands, gripping them in one of mine, and stepped around toward the door. I could have her. Hell, probably right there against the wall. And maybe before the end of the night I would—if nothing else to get Archer's daughter out of my fucking head.

Because she was. The entire ride over, all I could do was think of Riley Bowman. Why she was here, what she wanted… how I was going to keep her safe.

Fuck .

"Come see me after chapel?" Krystal sucked her bottom lip between her teeth and kissed me on the cheek before sauntering away.

I watched the way her ass swayed, the short skirt teasing a view that never came. Yeah, I could fuck her six ways from Sunday.

But I didn't want to.

The other guys were seated around the large oak table when I walked in. Preacher at his new seat at the head. My gut clenched so hard I had to fight to keep one foot in front of the other as I took my seat. Much like Archer, the older man was tall. Unlike Archer, he was round in the middle and had to push back from the table to make room for the bulge of his gut.

Too much beer and not enough cardio.

"What's up, brother?" Preacher asked me, his salt and pepper eyebrows knitted with concern like mocking, angry steel wool.

"Change of plans for tomorrow." I leaned back in my seat, rubbed a tired hand across my face.

And if I'd ever thought I couldn't shock the table, I'd been damn wrong.

"The funeral is covered," Drop Top Randy grumbled, annoyed that he'd had to be the go between with the funeral home director. The squat man was as tall as he was round, his dumpy stature being what earned him his nickname. His oddly impeccable organizational skills were how he kept his secretary role term after term.

"Archer's kid is here." Ignoring the rest of the table, I watched Preacher's expression turn from worn out leather to granite, as he hid his reaction.

Yeah, you weren't prepared for this.

"Archer had a kid? How old is he?" Jester asked, voice clear despite the shock on his face. One of the younger crew, one of my boys, it wasn't a surprise Jester didn't know.

"She." AP responded before I could. "Probably about twenty."

AP Merrick was Archer's best friend since birth, a founding member of the club. And one of the two men at the table I fully trusted. No surprise he'd known about Riley. He'd been around when she was born.

Recovering, Preacher zeroed in on me. "How'd you know she was here? She call you? Already bagging her, son?" He snorted a half laugh, but his gaze held a glint of meanness.

"She was at the house when I got back."

A few curse words, some surprised faces. Nothing I hadn't expected or needed to see. I held Preacher's gaze. Once, I'd watched a documentary about prey animals and how they frantically glance around for places to run when a predator watched them. Nah, Preach, I'm a fucking lion. I leaned back in my seat, grinned a little.

"Said the lawyer contacted her. She'll be here for the funeral tomorrow."

"That's why you called this meeting?" Preacher's eyes narrowed. He thought I was just a young idiot that Archer gave too much power.

Fuck him .

"With next of kin, there are changes to make for tomorrow." Drop Top groaned. "I fucking hate this position. None of you degenerates die on my watch. I ain't fucking doing it again. But I'll wake up the goddamn mortician and get this set up."

"Thanks, brother." I stopped shy of sighing.

The short, dumpy man with the ruddy complexion reached across the table to bump his fist against mine.

"You running interference with the daughter?" Preacher asked me, his voice unusually amicable. "Or you want me to? I know it's been rough for you this week."

I'd kill him before he got anywhere near her. His gambling habit wasn't the only thing that had almost cost him his cut. "I got it. She knows me, and I'm already there." The protective rush for someone I'd just met pitched my stomach.

That surge of emotion was something I'd have to throttle back. It had been a long time since I felt anything—I blocked everything out. Losing Archer had stirred up a variety of dangerous thoughts. I wasn't anyone's savior. I was my own man.

I'd keep Riley safe, and then get her the fuck out of Dry Valley. Once she was gone, one less thing for me to worry about. Because I didn't need a woman making shit harder for me.

"Car will be there for her in the morning." Drop Top grumbled, making notes on his phone.

"One more thing," Preacher interjected, rolling the gavel around in his hand. "I'm going to give the Ukrainians another go, see if they'll come off some guns for Wanda's boys."

Wanda, Queen of the trailer park and Nevada's most prolific meth cook. I recoiled at the thought of her.

Merc cleared his throat before speaking. "Ky said no. I don't see that changing."

"He doesn't call the shots, the uncles do. I'm going to see them."

I'd known Merc most of my damn life, but there was some shit we didn't talk about. Whatever he had going on with the Ukrainian mob was one of them. He knew them, so we all deferred to him.

"It's not going to do any good." His voice even, his expression never changed. He thought Preacher's play was a stupid one. I could read it all over his non-reaction.

"I'll see about that." Preacher puffed up, clearly disbelieving. His ego couldn't bear to hear no.

"That it?" AP prodded Preacher before that topic could turn into an argument.

"Yeah." He grumbled low and smacked the gavel on the table to signify the meeting over, frowning as he processed.

That went smoother than I thought. I was halfway out the door before Preacher called to me. "We need to have a sit down, you and me. Soon."

"The fuck for?" I turned back. I'd adamantly opposed his goon Paul's seat at the table. There had been better options, more loyal guys with longer standing. And that was just one thing in a long list of shit Preacher wanted done I didn't agree with. "It is what it is."