Page 14 of StoryTeller's Tale

“You think we should?” While I don’t like the thought of what the Dominators could be doing to a woman in their hands, I hadn’t thought as far as actually doing anything about it.

Cupping his chin in one hand, Legend gives a long sigh. “It would bring us into a war.”

“We’re already at war.” I scoff.

“We have the odd skirmish,” he refutes. “But interfering in the Dominators’ business would be seen as outright hostility.”

He’s right. I stand, use what unoccupied space there is in his office to pace, though two steps and back is about all there’s room for. Apart from me and Legend, no one else has a clue about what has happened to Sheri. They don’t even know where to start to look.

I could ditch the book and go about my life as if nothing happened. Doing anything else could involve my club in something too dangerous to contemplate. Yeah, that’s what I should do. But… The image of those sparkling eyes comes into my mind, and I know I hate the thought of them dimming.

But what to do? Go to the cops? I don’t trust any pig to be able to find their asshole even with a map, let alone a missing girl. And the Dominators’ connection means local cops will probably want to involve the feds, especially being as she’s been taken over state lines. They’ll probably take time getting a team together, and if I’m right, Sheri hasn’t got that long. They might not even listen to me. Me being who I am, they might even view my info with distrust. The feud between the Soulz and Dominators is well known.

Even so, the thought of leaving Sheri to her fate without doing anything makes my gut roll. I rake my hands through my hair.

“Fuck it.” I suddenly round on Legend. “I’ve got to do something, Brother.”

His eyebrow rises. “You listening to yourself? You proposing to single-handedly take the Dominators on?”

I shrug. I haven’t gotten so far as putting together a plan.

He sighs. “You can’t go alone. You’ll have to bring it to the table.” At my dismissive gesture, his eyes narrow. “Or have you been nomad so long, you’ve forgotten how this shit works?”

“I fuckin’ remember,” I snarl, again brushing my long hair back with my hands. Church isn’t until Friday, and it’s only Monday now. Four days and fuck knows where Sheri might be taken, or what might be happening to her. Already it might be too late to prevent the worst. Sheri hasn’t got four days. Fuck, she might not even have four hours. I make my decision. “Gonna go see Chaz.”

“Good luck with that,” Legend remarks.

It’s not just luck that I need. I need a fucking miracle. The Dominators are a club similar in size to the Wretched Soulz, and while we’re sworn enemies, we tend to avoid direct confrontation. In the past, when tempers have run high, a clash between the two clubs has attracted law enforcement’s attention, with the result that those members who didn’t die were rounded up and sent to the penitentiary.

If a Dominator comes into our territory, or we enter theirs, that biker is fair game. When I ride through, I’m careful not to display my colours.

Like any huge club, it’s made up of separate members, not all of whom are assholes. I had a drink once with one in a neutral territory bar. He was much like any of my brothers, our conversation revolving around bikes. But had his chapter and mine met each other en masse, it would have been a bloodbath.

Going head-to-head with them is a decision Chaz won’t make lightly, if he agrees at all. He could well decide finding Sheri is none of our business, certainly not enough to risk the club. As I walk through the clubhouse, trying to locate him, I’m having difficulty explaining my desire to rescue her to myself, let alone to him or anyone else. I’ve never met the fucking woman, so why do I feel this need to save her?

Shitface is wiping down the bar. I pause to ask him, “Seen Prez?”

He jerks his head to the left. “Think he’s doing some work on his car.”

The garage was my next destination, a fair bet if he wasn’t in his office, which I’ve already established he is not. I head that way, still undecided how best to approach him.

Delaying the conversation, I go stand under the raised ramp, looking up to the underside of Prez’s first love after his bike, a beautifully restored Ford Mustang convertible from the 1960s. Even from this view, it’s a work of art.

“Problems?” I ask, knowing the way to Prez’s heart.

Wiping his hands on an already dirty rag, he confides, “Was. Isn’t now.”

Well, that tells me heaps. “Got a moment, Prez? I need to run something by you.”

His eyes narrow as he turns his head to face me. “Yeah? Am I going to want to hear it?”

I grimace. “Probably not.”

He throws down the rag, lowers his car, then parks it in its place out in the parking lot. When he’s happy it’s situated, he comes back to where I’ve been waiting.

Gesturing back to the clubhouse, he suggests, “Let’s take this to my office.”

On the way, we grab a couple of beers from Shitface, then only moments later, I’m sitting opposite him sat behind his desk. He takes a long swallow from his bottle, then wipes his mouth as he places it down.

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