Page 57 of Claimed By the Deputies

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TASSIA

It takes some effort, but I manage to keep my game face on through coffee and breakfast with the guys before we head out. Billy Jade’s death has triggered another murder investigation, but this time, we’re looking at who may have wanted to keep him from talking.

While Mitch and Tyler follow up on secondary leads, I join Lucas on a short trip to the Silver Stallions MC’s club house, Lucky’s Bar, just half-a-mile outside of town. My anxiety peaks at the sight of so many Harley Davidson motorcycles as soon as we pull up.

“Gah, I can almost smell the leather and cheap whiskey from here,” I mutter, taking in as many details as I can before getting out of Lucas’s SUV.

“Don’t worry, as long as I’m with you, nothing is going to happen,” Lucas calmly reassures me.

“I want to believe you, I really do, but somebody killed Billy Jade right under our noses.”

“You don’t have to remind me. I’ll never live that down.”

“I’m sorry.”

He gives my hand a gentle squeeze. “Nothing to apologize for, Tassia. It’s a difficult situation for everyone. But we will get to the truth, sooner or later.”

“I’ve got your back, boss,” I reply with a cool grin. “Though maybe it’s time you let me carry a gun of my own.”

“You’re joking.”

“You could deputize me.”

“Have you ever fired a weapon before?”

“No. I’m a fast learner, though.”

He knows I’m half-joking though I wouldn’t say no to a few tutorials on the matter. Guns have never really been my thing. Every time I saw Trevor’s, it made me nervous.

“Just follow my lead, Tassia. These are dangerous men, and they love to intimidate.”

“Roger that, boss.”

“Damn, I like how that word sounds coming out of your lovely mouth,” he quips.

“Sheriff, I swear…”

He chuckles, then puts his serious face back on. “Come on.”

I follow him up the front steps and into the bar. As soon as we go in, the atmosphere shifts. I stick to Lucas’s side and let his imposing frame set the tone as he looks around.

It’s still early in the day, so the place isn’t packed yet. I count a dozen Silver Stallion club members, some standing, some sitting, all of them watching us with hostile eyes.

“A little too early for whiskey in my opinion, but hey, who am I to judge,” I mumble, watching as one prospect pours a dash of whiskey into his coffee mug.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” Lucas says, loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Morning, Sheriff,” the bartender replies with a flat smile. He’s club-affiliated based on the insignia tattoo on his bony forearm, though he isn’t wearing any of the Silver Stallion patches on his denim vest. “How can I be of assistance?”

“I need to talk to Dexter,” Lucas says.

Dexter Wright, the president of the Silver Stallions Motorcycle Club, rises from his barstool and walks towards us. The two burly men he was talking to stay behind, but their eyes remained fixed on us.

“Sheriff Riggs. What brings you back here?” Dexter asks.

“It’s been a minute, hasn’t it?”

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