Page 2 of Loving Smoke

Her piercing screech competed with the seagulls overhead, but I figured in a few hours or a day or two she’d give me a call and I’d have my ass right back in that lounger.

Twenty-five minutes later, I entered our clubhouse which was not only empty, but deadly quiet.

“Hey, fuckers! Where is everybody?” I yelled into the empty bar. Fuckin’ weird. The place was deserted so I headed toward the back office and our inner sanctum wracking my brain as to what the fuck was going on.

I pushed through the door and froze.

Jameson sat at the head of the table in the president’s seat, my seat.

My heart kicked up as his eyes bore into me like lasers.

“What the fuck is goin’ on?” I directed my question at Jameson, then let my gaze fall on Blood shifting his feet while avoiding my eyes.

Jameson continued to stare at me making me go from nervous to pissed off real damn fast.

“Where were you?” Jameson finally asked.

“Out.” I was thirty-five years old and he was making me feel like an irate teenager. Fuck this.

“Don’t fuck with me, Smoke. I would think my presence alone would raise some red flags, but it seems you don’t know what’s goin’ on in your own house.”

“Look, we can play word games all day, but if you came to say something, spit it out.” I hadn’t gotten to be prez by backing down, and yeah, Jameson was the National Chapter President, but I wasn’t about to break.

Jameson nodded to Blood and he left the room, again avoiding eye contact with me.

When the door closed behind him, Jameson slowly pushed out of my chair, then walked around the table putting about five feet between us. We were matched in height, but my muscles were leaner and more defined from regular workouts and cage fighting on the weekends. An activity that brought in big bucks for the club and the chapter.

“You take on a prospect a few months ago?” Jameson asked the question like he already knew the answer.

“Yeah, what about it?”

“Who vetted him?”

“He was Crank’s boy, said they came up in the same neighborhood in East L.A. He’s been with us for about three months.” I looked over my shoulder. “Where is Crank and the rest of the brothers?”

Jameson flipped a glance at this watch. “Right about now I’d say they’re in central booking.”

“What?”

“That’s what happens when the DEA comes in and does a sweep.”

“DEA?” I gripped the back of the chair next to me. “What the fuck?”

“Seems your prospect was an undercover agent.”

“Nah, impossible.” My heart skipped a few beats as a cold sweat crept up my spine.

“Not when you don’t do your homework.” Jameson leaned in and growled in my face. “Not when getting your dick wet is more important than keeping an eye on your clubhouse.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“At five o’clock this morning your clubhouse was raided by a government agency and instead of being here doing damage control you went missing. Blood managed to slip out the back, but everybody else got hauled in. He tried calling you but you had your phone off.

I squeezed my eyes shut trying to recall the timeline of the last forty-eight hours. Hazy memories filtered in—lines of blow, tequila shots, and losing my phone in the tangle of Egyptian cotton sheets covering Tamara’s bed. Then waking up mid-afternoon and stumbling out to the pool for more booze, weed, and blow jobs. Sure, I lost track of time, but shit, if Jameson got a look at Tamara’s body or her plush lips he’d understand.

Jameson cleared his throat and I focused on his deadly glare—Or maybe not.

I kept all that to myself figuring it was safer to stay quiet and let him blow off steam. When he was done I’d call our high-priced lawyer and figure all this shit out.

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