Page 84 of Filthy Devil

A few moments later, we’re back on the road. James is curled against my back, her arms wrapped around me, and I swear to fuck I feel like I could climb a goddamn mountain right now.

Pulling the bike into the parking lot, I climb off, then help James off as well, keeping her hand in mine as we move toward the restaurant. I clock the car instantly but don’t say anything to James.

That motherfucker in the suit is here. He didn’t follow us. I would have noticed a car on that deserted road we took, but he’s here, and I have a feeling that our meeting is going to happen sooner rather than later.

I wish I could send James away. I don’t want her to be involved in this shit for a minute longer than she has to be. But in this life, in this world, we don’t always get to choose that kind of shit.

JAMES

The momentwe walk into the restaurant, I know there is an issue. Something is wrong. Nash’s body stiffens, and he doesn’t relax. Not when the hostess greets us, not when she guides us to our table, and not when she hands us our menus and walks away.

I open my mouth to ask him what’s wrong when a shadow appears over us. Slowly, I turn my head, tilting it back as I look up at the reason Nash’s entire demeanor changes.

The man in the suit stands next to our table. I don’t say a single word to him, not that I think he wants me to say anything, because he isn’t even looking at me. His focus is on Nash and only Nash.

“May I?” he asks.

Nash shifts in his seat, trying to keep a calm persona, but I can tell he’s slightly rattled. He wasn’t expecting to see this man here. We were going to have dinner together, and this was definitely not anticipated.

Sucking in a breath, I hold it for a moment, then let it out slowly when Nash tells him to go ahead and sit down. A few moments later, a waiter appears to take our drink orders. The silence continues until drinks are brought to the table.

I ordered a water, the suit a glass of red wine, and Nash, his normal Crown. I sit quietly and wait for the men to say whatever it is they have on their minds.

Well, really, whatever this suit has on his mind because Nash is pretty clear with what he wants, and that’s nothing to do with this asshole.

“I was supposed to see you walk through the door, and I thought this would be a better situation. A little less formal, a little more relaxed.”

Nash snorts but doesn’t say anything, and my gaze flicks between them as I wait for whatever it is that’s going to go down.

“Our organizations have worked peacefully together on and off for years, Nashville. I am just hoping to continue that,” the suit says.

Nash leans back in his chair, his gaze cutting to the suit, but the look on his face is clearly not a happy one.

“How long you been part of your organization?” Nash asks.

The suit clears his throat, and he places his forearms on the table. I can tell he’s going to say something that Nash isn’t going to like. I can’t imagine he’d say much that Nash would like anyway.

“Long enough,” the suit murmurs.

“What’s your name, Suit?” Nash asks.

“Gil,” he murmurs.

Nash chuckles. “Fuck, your parents seriously hated you.”

He snorts. “No shit. Named after my grandfather.”

“Gil,” Nash begins. “How long have you been with the Southern Mafia?”

Gil clears his throat. He places his palms on the table and then leans forward. His gaze searches Nash’s, then he flicks his attention to me for just a moment before he focuses back on Nash.

“Since the day I was born.”

Nash chuckles. “Good answer, son. But you have to know that just because we’ve had a long-standing relationship with the Southern Mafia, it doesn’t mean we want to continue that. I don’t. Neither does my son.”

I hold my breath for a moment, then let it out slowly as they continue. I don’t want to be here at the table with them. I don’t want to listen to this conversation. I would rather be at home watching trash television.

“You may not want it, which you have made abundantly clear. However,” he begins, “we’re the original members, and we like working with the Dark Horse MC.”

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