Page 6 of Tiny's Law

“Reggie, I’m fucked.” Through heaving sobs, I try my best to arecite the entire scene from my office.

“Kourt, I can’t understand you when you’re crying, babe. You have to calm down.”

I take a deep, shaky breath before repeating myself in a much calmer voice.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he shouts. “I’m going to come up there and kick every one of their old fucking asses.”

“It’s no use, Reg. Stan’s brother is Walt Moore.”

“Shit,” Reggie breathes.

“Yeah.”

I sniffle again, picking at my still-chipped thumbnail. “What am I gonna do, Reg?”

“Shit, babe. I don’t know.”

My bottom lip trembles. “I think I’m going to see my parents for a bit.”

“Does Papa Walker know?”

“No, and I honestly don’t think I’m going to tell them.”

“The fuck, Kourt? How the fuck are you not going to tell them? If you can’t practice law, I think they’ll notice.”

I flinch at the truth in his words.

“Why don’t you come visit me? The guest room is finally done with the remodel. Come here for a few days before you make any rash decisions. I know Owen would love to see you.”

“I do miss Owen’s cooking.” Reggie’s husband, Owen, is the best cook I’d ever met. He went to school to be a professional chef until an unfortunate accident with a knife left him unable to work with the speed needed in the culinary world.

Reggie and Owen recently moved back to Owen’s hometown, a small town a few hours north of here.

“When can I come?” I ask, not recognizing my own small voice.

“I’ll have Owen put fresh sheets on the guest bed now.”

“I’m on my way.”

“Atta girl. See ya soon, babe.”

Chapter 3

Tiny

Two months later

“I’m out, Bossman,” Riley’s voice cracks. Poor kid’s nineteen, and his voice still cracks as if he just hit puberty three weeks ago.

“Drive safe, kid. Shoot me a text when you get home,” I call behind him as he hefts his backpack over his shoulder on his way to the door.

I turn back to my computer in front of me with a scowl. I’m starting to get really fucking pissed that there is someone out there good enough to outsmart me.

My club, the Desert Outlaws MC, has been dealing with some shit over the last few months, and if I looked in the mirror close enough, I could probably pick out quite a few gray hairs from all of the stress all this shit has caused me.

I can’t seem to figure out how every single time something happens, all of our cameras are wiped. I know for a damn fact that my security is airtight so I don’t know what the fuck is going on. I’ve practically ignored all of the other aspects of my security company trying to figure this shit out.

I push away from my large oak desk and head into the small kitchen area. Pulling the carafe from the machine, I pour some into my mug. Fighting the urge to spit it back out when the cold liquid hits my tongue, I turn to the sink and dump out the old coffee.

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