Page 1 of Possession

1

Tomas was getting too old for this shit. He pulled off the reading glasses that were the latest concession to his age and rubbed at his tired eyes. Working on his computer too long always gave him a headache, but his current phone call, combined with working at his desk all damn day, was really taking a toll.

Not to mention the music blasting out in the main part of the clubhouse.

“No, that’s not what I’m saying,” he spat into the phone, completely over the conversation and ready to be done with everything for the day, maybe even the week.

Fuck, maybe he’d turn in his cut and give up on the MC lifestyle for good. He had other life skills. He could just get a regular job and punch a clock and never have to worry again about county officials dicking him around because of the patch on his back.

Besides, it wasn’t like he got to spend that much time on his bike anyway. Other than club rides—where his absence would be noticed and gossiped about by all the mother hens disguised as bikers around him—getting out of his damn office had become increasingly difficult. Being the President of his club broughtadditional… responsibilities, beyond what others had to deal with.

The kind of shit that was starting to pile up so high around him he was having a hard time seeing over it anymore, even with his officers pitching in as much as they could. They did what they could, but they all had their own lives, and most of them had full-time jobs outside of the work the club did. So at the end of the day, most of it landed on his shoulders.

But days like today, he really thought about just quitting.

The nasally voice on the other end of the phone sighed, setting Tomas’s teeth on edge. “Well, what are you saying, then, Mr. Ortiz?”

“I’m saying,” Tomas said slowly, the bass from the music starting to throb behind his eyeballs, “that the citations are bullshit, and your inspector is penalizing the diner out of some misguided attempt to punish me and my club.”

“Those citations are legitimate?—”

“They aren’t. If you don’t reconsider and send another inspector, I’ll be contacting my attorney and filing a lawsuit. And then I’ll be contacting the local newspaper. And then Channel 13?—”

“Jesus,” the weasel muttered. “Okay.”

Tomas waited him out, not letting him off the hook or backing down.

“Well, since you’re so insistent,” the weasel said, regaining some of his confidence. “I can come out and do another inspection sometime in the next few weeks, but the business will have to pay for my time and expenses.”

Had this fucker just asked him for a bribe?

“Whatever needs to happen,” he said, making a mental note to fill in the club’s lawyer, Cynthia, on the little shit. He didn’t make empty threats. If need be, he’d absolutely sic Cyn on the asshole.

He sat back in his chair, eyes darting to his desk phone as it started to ring. Not a lot of people had the number to his office line. His old-school ass liked having a landline, but it wasn’t a public number. He used it only for people he didn’t want to have his cell number. There were too many assholes out there who were only looking to make nice with the MC to get something from them.

“I need to get that,” he said, grateful for the opportunity to get the man off the phone, even if it was probably just some spam caller. “Email me the date of the new inspection so I can make sure you see all of the good things they’re doing there.”

His hard tone let the man know that wasn’t a suggestion. He didn’t care that inspection times were supposed to be a surprise—this asshole and his crony had made his sister fucking cry, talking about having to shut her place down and all kinds of bullshit.

For the first time in the ten-minute conversation, the weasel of a man finally seemed to understand the gravity of pissing him off.

“Of c-course,” he stuttered out, audibly swallowing. “My office will be in touch.”

Tomas didn’t bother saying goodbye, just jabbed the End button and then grabbed the huge, corded monstrosity taking up a whole corner of his desk. Viper—the club’s Sergeant-At-Arms and one of his closest friends—laughed at him every time she saw him use it.

“This is Tomas,” he answered, eyes closed as he pinched the bridge of his nose.

He needed to get some more Tylenol to stash in his desk if he was going to keep having to deal with bullshit like county health inspectors. Considering the club had just gone through the formality of electing new officers—not that anyone new had run for anything but Treasurer, so Tomas was locked in for anotherfew years—he figured more headaches were in his future, and he’d finished his last bottle of painkillers over a week ago.

No one said anything on the other end of the line for a moment, and he was just about to hang up, convinced it was either a wrong number or someone trying to sell him something, when a quiet voice asked, “Is this the Devil’s Hands’ clubhouse?”

Tomas opened his eyes, curiosity unfurling in his chest. “It is. Do you need help?”

It wasn’t a completely random question—though depending on who was on the line, they might think it was. His MC did a lot of work in the community, including helping survivors of domestic violence get out of scary situations and attend court hearings. It wasn’t widely known but not exactly a secret either.

They had a dedicated number—which went to a red cell phone manned at all hours of the day so there was always someone there to answer—that was printed on business cards and passed out by SAVE, the local DV shelter. Or anyone else the club thought might benefit from having a card. But he supposed it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility for someone just to google the club’s number and call if they’d heard they could help.

“Sort of,” the voice said. “I can’t get ahold of my friend Ollie.”

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