Sinner's Steel (Sinner's Tribe Motorcycle Club #3)(24)
“So why are there teeth marks on my seat?” Zane gestured to the leather saddle and Evie squinted. Although the light was low, the seat looked perfect to her.
“Um … well … his teeth were pretty sharp and I didn’t know how to repair the leather. I cleaned and polished it, though.”
Zane folded his arms. “My girl’s not ridin’ on rodent marks. How’s she gonna get home?”
His girl? Hadn’t he been paying attention when she told him she wasn’t looking for anyone? And what about Viper? Although the more time she spent with Zane, the less interest she had in pursuing that relationship.
Shooter shifted his weight and grimaced. “Taxi?”
Poor Shooter received a cuff to the head. Evie cringed on his behalf. She knew from biker books and television shows that prospects were given the worst jobs and the least respect during the time they were pledging to the club, but she hadn’t expected Zane to be quite so harsh.
“You want me to take her on my bike?” Shooter asked.
Alarmed at the way Zane’s hands curled into fists, Evie slid onto the pillion seat of his vivid black, Harley Night Rod Special. “This girl’s ass isn’t so precious that it can’t withstand a few teeth marks. Let’s ride.”
Zane turned his anger and outrage on her. “I’m teaching the prospect a lesson.”
“And I have a son waiting for me to pick him up.”
He glared at Shooter as he mounted his bike. “Clubhouse. One hour. And you better be standing on the drive with a repair kit in one hand and a squirrel pelt in the other. Fucking rodent disrespected my girl.”
Again with the “his girl.” But his insistence on protecting her even from hungry squirrels made her feel warm and tingly inside.
“Hold on tight, sweetheart.” He started his engine and the deep rumble vibrated through her body.
Oh, she’d hold on tight. But would she be able to let go?
SEVEN
There is no substitute for good information and a helping hand.
—SINNER’S TRIBE MOTORCYCLE REPAIR MANUAL
Zane hated the morgue.
And not because of the smell. He could handle the cloying scent of antiseptic. Even the underlying odor of death and decomposition. But what got to him was the sadness. There was never anything good waiting for the people who went through the heavy silver door leading from the waiting room to the identification area. And he would know. He’d been in the morgue too many times to identify the bodies of his brothers who had become collateral damage in the war against the Black Jacks.
This time, however, he and Jagger didn’t know if the body the police had found in an alley in the center of town was one of their own.
“You sure you guys want to see this? Like I said on the phone, he’s unrecognizable. Forensics is doing the ID through his teeth.” Deputy Sheriff Doug Benson led them into the low, brick building. Once an upright law enforcement officer, he had been brought down after a misguided attempt to save Cade’s old lady, Dawn—then Benson’s friend and love interest—from the biker world. Benson was now on the Sinner payroll, providing information and tips and the occasional assistance in exchange for keeping his body intact.
“If he’s one of ours, he deserves our respect.”
“Your call.” Benson pushed open the door to the waiting room. “One of the ambulance attendants … young guy … threw up when he saw him. Cause of death was … well, let’s just say he suffered multiple stab wounds on top of his multiple stab wounds. The patch was cut off his jacket and his tat was burned off his skin so we weren’t sure if he was a Sinner or a Jack.”
Benson cut himself off when they reached the waiting room. Four people sat on metal folding chairs in the stark, white room, faces pale and drawn as they waited to be called. No one ever cried in the waiting room; the tears always came after … when hope was gone and the world became a darker place. He’d been there. Not just after losing a brother, but after seeing Evie with Mark.
But now she was free. She might fight their attraction, but the chemistry was still there. He had felt her tremble against him, heard her sigh when he kissed her … So why had she pushed him away? If anyone had a right to be wary, it was him. After all, he had gone back for her. Just like he promised.
He would find out tonight. If she wasn’t home, he would find her. Although he had decided to go by his real name in the MC—executive board members were given the choice of using their road name or first name—he had come by his road name, Tracker, for his uncanny ability to find anyone, anywhere. Evie wouldn’t stay off his radar for long.
“Zane? You coming?” Benson ran a hand through his dark hair, and Zane followed the deputy’s lanky body, clothed in regulation police blue, into the chiller.
The large sterile room, a mix of white cabinets and steel counters, examination tables and fluorescent lights, smelled strongly of disinfectant, but even the sharp scent could not mask the sickly sweet stench of death.
The pathologist, a thin, nervous dude with a receding hairline, who had been on the Sinner payroll for years, wasted no time. He pulled open one of the steel drawers that lined the east wall. “You know him?”
Zane startled at the body, covered in a thin white sheet. Unrecognizable didn’t even begin to describe the swollen, battered face, but the arms and hands were remarkably unscathed, save for the long, thin scar on his right hand between two fingers. Familiar. “Turn him over.”