Page 52 of Blood

Irace out of the room, following behind Callan, barely getting my feet into my sneakers. There’s an influx of activity in the clubhouse as we rush through the halls. Reaching Callan’s office, there’s barely enough space for us to enter. The large bodies of pissed-off bikers fill the room.

“What do you want to do?” Grease asks, looking over at Callan. The alarm stops, but the ringing in my ears doesn’t.

“It’s only one car. Buzz them in.”

“You sure?” Daddy asks.

“Yeah. Monster will be back any minute. We need to get rid of them before he gets here.”

Everyone gathers in the bar. Members I do know, members I don’t, women, and prospects all crowd the room in solidarity: a warning to the two officers entering the space. They have no power here.

One cop jerks his head in greeting, looking sheepish. His partner, however, has bigger balls than most. His outright hatred rolls off him in waves.

“Mr. Cox, we’d like a word in private.” There’s no fear, and that’s a mistake. I’ve seen the demon that lies in waiting behind Callan’s facade. And he’s one scary motherfucker.

“There are no secrets here, gentlemen, have your word.” Callan offers his cocky grin that could melt the panties off a nun.

“Fine.” He pulls out a notebook and pen. “Can you tell us where you were last night?”

A bolt of panic zaps through me. The dead men we left at Ray’s haunt my mind.

“Here, there, can you be more specific?” Callan’s cocky attitude feeds the room.

The officer’s jaw twitches. “Between the hours of two and four in the morning.” That wasn’t the time Ray’s got hit. That was after, when Callan left and came back covered in more blood. Fresh blood.

“That is specific. Why are you asking?”

Exhaling heavily, the officer flicks the notepad open and curls his fingers around a pen. “Just answer the question. The sooner you tell us, the sooner we’re gone.”

“You act like you don’t want to be here.” Callan waves his hand around the room. “Can I get you a drink? Food? Maybe a slut to fuck?”

“Mr. Cox.” He’s losing patience.

“Do your superiors know you’re here?” Callan takes a step toward him, his hands clasped casually against his lower abdomen.

“They sent us. That’s why we’re here and not a detective. Answer the question and we’ll leave you to whatever it is you’re doing.”

“Everything okay, officer? You seem blue,” Dodger belts out. The room erupts into laughter. Callan quiets everyone with a shake of his head

“One of ours lost two sons last night,” he bites out, resting his hand on his hip above his gun holster.

Two.

“Someone witnessed you out late last night, Mr. Cox,” the other officer pipes in, though there isn’t enough confidence in his voice for it to be an accusation.

“Really?” Callan looks around his brothers. “Where?”

“At Saint Richard’s,” the angry cop states.

Callan wrinkles his nose. “The boarded-up church used by meth heads?”

“If you can’t explain your whereabouts, we’ll have to take you to the station.” He’s had enough of the bullshit.

“The fuck you are,” Grease rumbles. Violence simmers in the air, ranks closing around Callan. This could end fucking ugly. The last thing I need is to witness the murder of cops.

“He was with me.” I push through the brothers, coming to stand beside Callan. I bite my lip, acting the part.

“And you are?”

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