Page 40 of The Enforcer

His response isn’t long in coming.

Shane: I can’t wait. Now go clean yourself up and get some rest. Good night. I love you.

Me. Yes, Counselor. Love you too.

Chapter Seventeen

Shane

I’ll never look at my office couch the same way again. It’s been a week since Zeke and I exchanged videos jerking off and I think about it every time I look at my couch. I would have rather had Zeke in my office, plowing my ass while my files were strewn on the table, but that wouldn’t have been a good idea. I needed to get work done and if Zeke had shown up, I would be more behind than I am now.

It was so hot though, jerking my dick while I fingered my ass for him. It would have been even hotter if we were on FaceTime, but I would have been tempted to ask him to come to my office to fuck me, impaling me on his large dick. God, Zeke has the best dick I’ve ever had. Thick, long, and veiny—and he knows how to use it. Every time he thrusts into me, his cockhead brushing against my spot deliciously. He knows just how to play my body and I’m never able to fight my orgasm.

Pulling myself from those thoughts by sheer force of will—and rearranging my half hard dick in my slacks—I stare at the computer screen, trying to figure out what exactly I’m seeing. Agent Schwartz got approval from his higher ups to send me the photographic evidence he had that justified the raid and it doesn’t look right. It looks legit, like it came from an actual bust, but it doesn’t look recent. When I asked Schwartz who sent him the photos, he wouldn’t give me his contact’s information, saying they’re still working together on the case and he has to keep it confidential. That raised red flags, but I didn’t push. I would just have to tell the guys they had to continue to be careful since there was still someone that wanted them sent away for a long time.

The entire time Zeke and Reaper were on their run to Georgia, I was afraid they’d be caught with all that product on them. Knowing how tight lipped everyone in Devil’s Mayhem is, Reaper and Zeke would have taken those federal charges. I didn’t exhale fully until Zeke told me he’d made it home.

It wouldn’t have been smart to talk Zeke out of going himself. He wouldn’t have listened to me and he puts the needs of the club above himself, even his own freedom. All I could do was hope that nothing bad happened and he would come home to me. But there’s nothing to worry about, as he told me he wouldn’t be going on the next one. At least I know he’ll be safe and free for the foreseeable future.

Looking back at the photo on my screen, I feel like I’ve seen it before, but I can’t place it. I’m not sure if it’s from a case or from a movie or something like that. It doesn’t look fake or like a prop. The pictures appear to be from a proper bust. Though it’s grainy as fuck. Old, even.

The main question is, why did the agent think just because there were photos, the drugs would be there? There has to be someone that convinced him that the photos were enough evidence to go forward with the raid, but who? Who has that kind of pull?

Out of curiosity, I run the picture he sent through a reverse image search on a secured account I have on my computer. Nothing pops up on the usual internet search engines. Okay, not a movie or television show prop. My instincts of it being a legitimate bust are correct, but wouldn’t those show up? I’m stumped.

Going with my gut, I decide to give our contact in the police department a call. Maybe he can track something down or give me a lead.

Pulling out my phone, I give him a call, hoping he’s not at his desk. If he’s out, he’ll be able to talk to me on the burner phone Prez gave him so none of his conversations are recorded. I get lucky. “Chance,” he answers after the third ring.

“Chance, it’s Shane Astor. I need a favor.”

His voice drops low as he asks, “For the club?”

“Yeah.”

“No problem. What’s up?”

“I have a photo that was sent to me by a DEA agent. I’m not sure where it came from, but there’s something fishy about it.”

Chance is quiet for a beat, then says, “Shoot it to my email. I can run it through our system. Maybe it’s from another department.”

“Thanks. Let me know as soon as you find something out.” We hang up and I send the photo to the email Chance texted me. Hopefully he can get back to me and give me some answers.

In the meantime, I have work to do. The charges are still on Perry’s record. When I pull up Perry’s charge sheet, it has a flag from the judge, but no explanation on why. I was going to call Judge Moss to ask him about it, but he didn’t return my call from last time. It’s probably for the best. This needs to be an in-person conversation. I’m sure there will be more questions that I’ll think about asking in person than if we were on the phone. Besides, I have to file an injunction at the courthouse anyway, so making a quick pit stop at the judge’s chambers won’t be out of the way.

Grabbing my jacket, I slide it on as I pick up my briefcase, heading to the district courts. The drive is quick, but I’ve thought of a few questions to ask Judge Moss about this flag. I’ve never seen it before, and I’d like to be aware of how to avoid it in the future.

Submitting the paperwork for the injunction takes no time, even though I have to come back in a few days for the actual hearing. Once that’s done, I jog up the stairs to get to the hallway that leads to the judge’s chambers. Most of the offices are empty and I wonder at it, since it’s usually nonstop activity up here—interns coming and going, lawyers needing to speak with judges and make appointments. When I take a peek at my watch, I groan, pissed that I didn’t check before I came here. It’s lunchtime, making this floor a ghost town.

Hopefully, Judge Moss is in his office. If not, I’ll give his secretary a call to set up an appointment this time instead of waiting for a call back.

When I enter his outer office, his secretary’s desk is empty. I start to turn around, resigning myself to calling her to schedule an appointment, but a hearty laugh coming from his slightly ajar door makes me pause. Good, he’s here. I can ask my questions quickly so he can enjoy his lunch.

I take three steps to the door and raise my hand to knock when I hear Prez’s name. His real name.

Dropping my hand, I slide out of the line of sight of the ajar door and press my back to the wall. If someone is talking about Prez, that means they’re talking about the club. I need to know what the fuck they’re saying so I can take it back to Prez to prepare him for whatever bullshit there is. Holding my breath so I don’t miss a word, I listen to what’s being discussed.

“So, this Rafael Orozco, what is his story?” Judge Moss asks.

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