Page 6 of Smoke

What the fuck. Of course, Danny’s death was no surprise to me. He was one of a number of casualties from the shootout that had occurred when we had tackled them for encroaching on our patch. Our people were the only ones that had the right to deal drugs in that domain. So, when the Death Valley Irish had tried to take control there, causing chaos amongst our people, we had no option but to warn them off. They didn’t heed. A fight broke out. Problem was, it was with guns, not fists.

I knew the Dunne’s. Very well. I always make a point of researching and knowing my enemies. Knowledge is power, so to speak. Declan, Sean, Billy. Not to mention the twins Cillian and Colin Dunne. Yet, I know nothing of a Logan Dunne.

I have to acknowledge that what she is saying has an element of truth, but who’s saying she hasn’t just fallen on a handful of rumors and come up with bullshit?

I throw back my head and laugh out loud.

“And who told you all this?” I ask with a snort. Slowly she takes the few steps up, one at a time, until she’s stood right in front of me. She looks me straight in the eye, the silent pause stretching longer than I like and intensifying the heightened friction between us.

“I have direct contact with the man himself.” She eventually speaks up, not a hint of deception in her words. “Paddy Dunne.”

Chapter

Four

Tenley

Smoke’s eyes damn well burn into mine while he tries to read in them if I’m telling the truth or not. I don’t lie, well, not under normal circumstances; however, I have been known to pick my words carefully in aid of bending the truth. Even my half-sister, who hates the shit out of me, spoke up for me on that subject. I stand, letting him take his fill, while I take in every detail of his face.

He looks nothing like you’d expect the president of a biker club to look. Eyes the color of melted chocolate. Thick brows and cheekbones that are both prominent yet with a softer edge to them. His bottom lip is thicker than the top but looks to have the perfect fleshiness to deliver a tasty kiss and is framed with a full stache and goatee that is well trimmed. As soon as his eyes break from mine, I watch him as he takes out a cigarette from the packet he’s retrieved from his pocket and pops it in hismouth before flicking open a zippo lighter and sparking up a flame. Once lit, he takes a deep tote from the tab, the end glowing a cherry red as he inhales. His head tips back, his eyelids merely slits as he takes comfort from the hint of nicotine that must be shooting into his bloodstream.

While he enjoys his choice of drug, I let my eyes take in the rest of him. His hair is long and fairly unruly and falls over his firm shoulders. His stature is nowhere near as bulky as my stepsister’s beau, yet still has muscle mass and a strong frame. Long, lean, muscular legs in tight-fit denim that end inside a pair of black, well-worn biker boots. I might not have the eye of a cop, but I definitely didn’t miss the outline of his rather impressive cock. One can only imagine what monster he’s packing if it’s on the slack and he’s a grower.

“Edge, take her to my office and stay with her until I get there. Don’t let her touch a thing.” His enforcer takes me by the upper arm and starts to walk me back inside. However, not before I hear Smoke, who is now talking to his Road Captain. “Get word out. Church, one hour and I want everyone there, no fucking excuses.”

The door slams shut behind us. Not that I think there was much more to hear. When I catch the eye of the redhead who’s watching from behind the bar, I shout out to her.

“Any chance of a Jameson’s?” Edge tugs a little harder to move me past the bar and towards the office. “Aw come on, isn’t that what you bikers drink or are you all JD pussies?” The corner of his mouth has a definite upturn to it, a telltale sign he’s trying his best not to smile. “Come on. Give me a break. Just one incey wincey whiskey.” I whine. “I’m thirsty and well… I’m about to be interrogated by that mean motherfucking prez or yours, so it’s the least you could do.”

“Get her a single, Ginger,” he shouts towards the bar. “Make it quick and bring it into Smokes’ office before he gets there.”

“Thank you, kind sir,” I do an awkward stumbling curtsey. It’s not easy to do while being speed-walked across a hardwood floor. “You see, I knew you weren’t all assholes.”

“You know nothing about me, so you shouldn’t judge so quickly,” he flat tones back at me. He opens the door and pushes me forward to enter first.

“Whatever, Bruce.” His eyebrows shoot high towards his hairline on hearing his given name. The sheer look of surprise on his face is epic. “Wrongly convicted of murder at seventeen, released after eighteen months. You were a little lost for quite some time weren’t you, Bruce? No wonder you were drawn to the MC lifestyle.” He shoves me into an old office chair on wheels placed at this side of the desk, then drops his hands onto the armrest, penning me in.

“Just who the fuck are you?” he bends, his face coming close to mine.

“Tenley Quinn, reporter for the Reno City Journal.” I hold my hand out to him in the limited space between us. For a second, it looks like he’s going to take it, instead he lets out a frustrated grunt. When I snatch a quick glance at his hands, I can see his knuckles are white from strangling the life out of the armrests.

“Edge,” a female voice sounds sharply from over his shoulder. I tilt my head to the side so I can see around his huge frame. It’s Ginger, the pretty redhead from the bar. “Back off, you big oaf. Give the lady some breathing space.”

He does as he’s told, and Ginger steps forward and hands me a glass containing a few cubes of ice floating in the amber liquid.

“Thank you.” I take it from her and bring it straight to my lips. I intend to sip it, but when the smooth nectar hits my taste buds, I continue to drink, letting the warmth coat my tongue and slide down my throat. “Wow, that hit the spot.” I sigh.

“You’re welcome.” Ginger replies with a gentle laugh. She turns to leave, but before she pulls the door close behind her, she adds. “Good luck.” To which Edge responds with…

“She’s gonna need it.”

While Edge stands with his back against the wall as if guarding the door, I take a good look at him. Picture this: around six foot two, razor cut hair, eyes are dark as coal. Full mouth that holds little expression. His nose gives me the impression it might have been broken once or twice due to the slight misshape of the bridge. He has a neck tattoo of two skeleton hands wrapped like claws around his throat, the wrist bones disappearing under the collar of his black loose fit t-shirt. The black leather of his cut is weathered, and the many badges, including the Enforcer and 1%, are gray with age. Arms of steel and ink. Hands the size of digging spades. I recall the dirty nails and subtle smell of motor grease from when hishands were penning me in. Working hands. The jeans he wears are baggy fit, but his thighs are thick and fill out the fabric. His boots, much like his cut, have seen better days.

But the overall package is pleasing to the eye, yet the aura he gives off is pure psychopath.

“You finished ogling me?” his deep voice snapping me away from my observation. “You’re wasting your time because I ain’t interested.”

“Ha, you wish buddy.” I blurt out. “I’m a reporter, asshole. Scrutinizing everything, being observant, is part of my job description.”

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