Page 4 of The Enforcer

“Huh,” Rax says as he plays in Finn’s hair. Finn hums, closing his eyes as he burrows deeper into Rax.

“Huh what?”

“Nothin’. You just know a lot about him not to want to pursue him.”

“I know a lot about you too, sugarplum,” I mock, blowing him a kiss.

Rax doesn’t even take the bait, which reinforces my theory that Finn has him in touch with his feelings and shit. “Yeah, but we’re brothers. Closer than blood can make us. You and Shane ain’t. Seeing the two of you together when you visited the safe house all those months ago, it makes sense. Now that I think about it, you two were awfully close on that big ass couch.”

My cheeks flame. It’s the truth. It seems that whenever Shane and I are together, we’re nearly on top of each other. The brothers give us shit about it, but we always brush it off. Until recently.

Every time we’re together now, I imagine there being more. Something, anything. Then I think I’m being a selfish fool and put it out of my mind.

I thought coming to see Rax and Finn—and checking on the latest shipment of cocaine for the other motorcycle clubs we supply—would help me figure shit out, like how to leave Shane alone and try to forget about him being mine, but Rax and fucking Finn are trying to push us together. Fuck, they’re insufferable.

In a sleepy voice, Finn says, “I don’t know Shane as well as you two, but I don’t think he’d let personal shit get in the way of his job. If you two don’t work out, he won’t fuck the MC over. He would end up fucking himself too. He knows way too much. Prez won’t let him just walk away with all his knowledge. But even still I don’t think he would do anything to jeopardize the club.” Finn opens his eyes, pegging me with an earnest look. “Don’t let obligation get in the way of love. You’ll regret it.”

Wise words, but words I don’t think I can heed. The MC is my life. I can’t do anything to jeopardize it and how we operate. If it means I can’t go after what I want, then so be it.

Chapter Two

Shane

My head thumps and my eyes burn so badly, I can barely make out the words on the document in front of me. I’m burning the midnight oil, preparing for a case but I can’t focus. It’s almost three in the morning and no matter how much I go over the confession of my client, it’s not making sense.

It seems like a classic case of police intimidation, making a kid confess to something he didn’t do so the cops don’t have to do actual work and find a damn criminal.

Even though I’ve moved up from working on what my firm calls the shit cases, I do one pro bono case every quarter for someone that could never afford a proper defense. The kid’s case I have in front of me? He needs an attorney, badly.

Again, I go over the confession, highlighting and circling discrepancies that will help my client not only get bail, but have the charges dropped. The kid is being charged with assault with intent to murder after police allege he was seen in the area where a homeless man was beaten with a tire iron.

They have nothing on my client but him being young and not knowing he should have called an attorney as soon as they sat him in an interrogation room. No matter. All this shit will be tossed.

Closing my eyes, I rub the bridge of my nose, wanting to wrap this up before I leave the office. If I don’t leave soon, I’ll be too tired to drive home.

Fuck it, I can sleep here. Not like I haven’t done it before. I have a spare suit and I can always shower tomorrow after work. The thought of not taking a shower before I put on clean clothes is unappealing, but I’d rather sleep here and be a little smelly than drive home and get into an accident.

I’m just standing from my desk, getting my blanket and pillow from behind the couch in my office when my phone rings. Only one person calls me this late: Zeke.

My heart trips over itself as I rush to answer. I’m so fucking pathetic. I thought I had a lid on the attraction and feelings I’ve had for Zeke since we met. But even after all these years, I’m still a fucking fool for him.

Pressing the green button on the phone, Zeke’s handsome face fills my screen. He’s so good looking, it’s scary. He almost doesn’t look real. He looks like a male model cosplaying as a biker. Zeke’s wide brown eyes, warm, dark brown skin, high cheekbones that confirm his Jamaican ancestry and his full lips always have me struck stupid.

But I know Zeke is the real deal. No playing dress up for him. He’s as deadly as people would think he is as the Enforcer of the Devil’s Mayhem MC. It’s that deadly air that surrounds him that’s always drawn me in.

Like I said, I’m a fucking fool.

“You look like hell,” he says by way of greeting, ever the blunt and honest one.

Chuckling, I sit on the couch, fluffing my pillow before I lie down. “Yeah, well, I’m working.”

“Sleeping at the office again?”

“Unfortunately. I want to finish this case up. They got a seventeen-year-old for assault. He’s just a scared kid that happened to be walking to the store to get a snack. He’s not dangerous, but they made him out to be a criminal. I need to finish this up so he can go home to his family.”

I swallow thickly, remembering being in the same position when I was fifteen.

One night, after playing a game of basketball with a few friends, I decided to walk to the store for a bottle of water instead of going straight home. It was only a few minutes out of the way from my usual route home. Years later, I’m still not sure if I wish I had gone straight home or not.

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