Page 29 of Roses Are Dead
I checked to see it was disconnected before deleting the call from Bear’s history.
“Wait, what are you doing?”
He grabbed the phone right after I hit delete.
“You deleted the number?”
Skinner chuckled. “I’d have done the same thing.”
“Stay out of this,” Bear grumbled. Then he turned on me. “Why is Carl at your friend’s house?”
“Beth is Carl’s sister.”
Neither of them were shocked by that. Maybe I’d underestimated them?
“Let me guess, you already did a deep search on Carl.”
The guilty glances they sent each other was enough of an answer. Noted, these bikers had collective intelligence.
“What is Carl to you, anyway?”
Skinner asked the right question. “A means to an end. And I’m guessing there’s no love lost between you two and him, either. And that announcing my plans isn’t going to get me killed, right?”
“What end, and what means?” Bear was quick to put his hand on his knife sheath.
“The end is getting what I want. The means seems to have changed in the last hour. Carl wants me to suffer at your hands. But you two don’t look like idiots who just do what other people want.” I made certain to appeal to their pride.
Funny, this time it was Bear giving me the scrutinizing look, not Skinner. He looked like a man who had experience with women using him for something. He proved me right. “Nice try. We’re going to do what we’re going to do, Carl or not.”
I shook my head. That kind of thinking would walk them right into any trap Carl set for them. “You are going to regret thinking like that.”
“Who are you to tell us what to think?” Skinner stood up, laptop in hand. “Bear, good fucking luck with this one. She might be able to recite your rules, but she ain’t going to listen to them.” He shot me a look and said, “Not unless it serves her end game, that is.”
He left in a huff, taking my laptop with him.
Bear stretched his legs out from the rolling stool he’d perched on. He balanced there with easy grace. In fact, as I looked around, he’d probably spent much of his lifetime on a stool just like that. “This is your shop?”
“I said that. You forgot that part?”
“My understanding of motorcycle gangs is that?—”
“Buzz. Club. Not gang.” His heavy boots hit the floor with a thud.
Club my ass. I let my eyes drop to his gun holster. “My understanding of motorcycle… clubs… is that property is co-owned.”
“Where’d you hear that bullshit?”
“Books.” And movies.
He had the nerve to laugh. “Books ain’t going to teach you jack shit about our club.” He sobered and looked me dead in the eye. “Life as you know it, it’s over. You’re going to live in my life for a month. That means, my world’s rules apply.”
“You told me the rules.”
“Naw, I told you my rules. The club has more. Number one is respect. Respect the club. Respect the brothers. And most importantly, respect the symbols.”
“Symbols?”
Bear scowled, apparently not used to teaching. “The patch. The coats… the vests, the bikes. Unless you’re asked to touch, don’t.”
