Page 50 of StoryTeller's Tale

“I want Knuckles dead.”

Slugger barks a laugh. “You’re not fuckin’ alone in that.”

“Keep an eye out for him, Legend, yeah?” Prez suggests. Then to me, he adds, “We’re not going out hunting, but I don’t mind nabbing him if he comes close. Until then, we’ve got far greater fish we need to fry.

“What about Sheri?” Slugger asks while shooting me a look.

Legend shrugs. “Back home from what we can tell.”

So she’s getting on with her life while ignoring the fucking huge hole she left in mine.

“One interesting thing,” Legend drawls lazily, but deceptively so that he catches my interest. “I got into the hospital records. Cops followed the procedures, but Sheri? Well, she refused to comply. Specifically, she refused the rape kit.”

Chaz breathes out but doesn’t have to say anything.

I was a SEAL. My DNA is in a database. If Sheri hadn’t thought of that, then I could have been arrested and all that she and the others had gone through would have been blamed on my club.

Perhaps she hadn’t completely forgotten me.

Whatever, she’d come to my rescue once again.

CHAPTERSEVENTEEN

STORYTELLER

TWO MONTHS LATER…

Reluctantly, I’ve come to accept having a base in one club rather than being out roaming the roads. It wasn’t an easy adjustment to make, but I tried not to take my changed status out on my brothers, having realised that Prez was right. Knuckles would be out for my blood. One sight of me and he’d shoot first.

Not that I’m in hiding. I’m in plain sight, but I have brothers around me and am not as vulnerable as I would have been out alone on the road.

I try to enjoy the positives—the new mattress and bed for a start—club women on tap. But while Brandy, CeCe and Brea are fun to be with, there is no emotional connection, which means going back more than a few times soon gets repetitive and boring. Even the town girls coming for our parties hold little appeal.

Strange really. Mindless sex had never bothered me in the past, but that was before I met Sheri.

Maybe it was because I’d just had her the once, and not in the most ideal of circumstances, but she’s still fucking with my head. When I’m with a whore, it’s her face my eyes see, her gasps which reach my ears, and her body my hands and dick feel. But they can never replicate her taste or soft skin, nor the thought that I’d been the first man to touch her.

And the first, and only, time in my life I’d gone ungloved. Maybe that was what had made it so special and why she’s still haunting my mind. Whatever the reason, in the past eight weeks, no one else has measured up.

I’d offered to bring her into my life.

She’d not given me a chance.

But what did we know of each other? I knew her taste in books, that her body was enough to tempt me even after time had gone by, but I know nothing of her likes or dislikes. Likewise, to her, I’m a total stranger.

I try to convince myself that parting as we had was for the best. A relationship between us wouldn’t have worked. But it doesn’t stop me thinking about her, nor, in the dead of the night, using the memories of her to fuel my hand fisting my cock.

The gun deliveries over the border on behalf of the cartel had gone without a hitch, thanks to my planning, the smoothing of many palms, and more than a little good luck. Prez had appreciated my input, his gratefulness being double sided, as it made him more determined he didn’t want to part with me now.

Regaining that nomad patch doesn’t seem likely.

I’m hunkering on the ground, fixing my bike, when Legend walks into the garage. I glance up when I see the motorcycle boots and recognise the owner.

“Yo, Bro.” Pulling myself up, I take a rag out of my pocket and wipe my dirty hands on it. “What can I do for you?”

He hands me a tablet he’s holding. I give a glance at his face, then look down. Squinting my eyes, I see a grainy figure on a motorcycle, but am hard pushed to make an identification. I pass it back, raising an eyebrow.

“Knuckles,” he tells me. Then taps the picture. “And this photo was taken in Austin.”

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