Page 37 of Mensa's Match

Dontrell’s face filled with outrage. “No, but the other bartender shooting at that asshole last night didn’t do me anyfuckin’ good. Hell, it’s probably why they burned my place down.”

Mensa’s mouth opened, but he kept himself from responding in anger. After a deep breath, he asked, “How long have they been pressuring you?”

“That shit don’t matter.”

Mensa squared his shoulders. “Two detectives came for me and Whitney, and for some fucked-up reason they asked plenty of questions about last night’s fire – as if we had something to do with it. If you give a damn about ‘Houston,’ then tell me, how long has the Corrupt Chrome MC been after you to pay them for ‘protection’?”

Under any other circumstances, Dontrell’s overly-dramatic confused look would have been comical. “Thought you couldn’t stand her?”

He stared at Dontrell. “Just because I don’t like someone doesn’t mean I want to see arson pinned on them. I’m not a complete heathen.”

With a finger pointed at him, Dontrell nodded. “Damn right, you’re an incomplete heathen. Figured you or one of those other boys woulda been watching my place.”

Mensa’s brows furrowed and he turned his head a touch. “You thought the Riot would be there? Why? The confrontation happened at Twisted Talons. How could we know that your restaurant would be targeted?”

Dontrell tipped his head back and to the side as if Mensa had lost his mind. “You brought at least five of those boys to the Pass Road location. I figured that was the only reason those assholes held off so long. They knew I was in with you Riot motherfuckers.”

Mensa took a deep breath. “We aren’t motherfuckers, and you aren’t ‘in with us’. Back to the issue – how long have they been after you for money?”

Now Dontrell inhaled sharply through his nose. “About a year now.”

Mensa’s eyes narrowed. “Fuck, man. They’ve only been in town for roughly a year. You mean to tell me they’ve been after you for protection money since they got here?”

Dontrell’s head reared back. “What was I supposed to do?”

Mensa blew out a breath and turned his head sharply to the side. “Fuck.”

“You can say that again. Now, what’s goin’ on with Houston? She’s good people, and it takes a lot for me to say that, since I pegged her for being a cop from the moment she walked in my restaurant.”

His jaw clenched. “I don’t know yet. We were questioned separately about the fire. You got any camera feeds or some sort of security service?”

Hardness had settled over Dontrell’s features at Mensa’s explanation. His tone reflected the same. “You damn right I got a security service. I called them earlier, but I’ll call again and ask for a copy of the feed.”

Mensa nodded. “Appreciate it.”

Dontrell gave him a chin lift. “You need a gyro?”

For the first time in twenty-four hours, Mensa smiled at the thought of food. “You bet I do.”

After a ninety-minute nap in his bed at the clubhouse, Mensa couldn’t stop thinking about Whitney.

No, he couldn’t stop thinking about what questions Fortner asked her. It wasn’t like he could demand that from Monica Wright. Perhaps he could have, but it wouldn’t have been right.

For that matter, he couldn’t beat back the thought that she was being set up for something. What that could be, he didn’t know.

Maybe everyone was right… he was paranoid after all.

Calling Whitney would put his mind at ease, but he had promised himself he would never use the number Finn had programmed into his phone months ago. Hell, he still didn’t know why he hadn’t deleted it the first chance he had.

With a self-loathing groan, he pulled out his cell, found her contact, and called.

“Hello?” she answered on the fourth ring, her voice full of trepidation.

“It’s Mensa. You at home?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“They find your car?”

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