Page 4 of Roughstock
Warhol, the club’s Secretary, ran a private investigator business that made him—and by default, the club—good money but sometimes had him away from the club for weeks on end. He was a quiet brother who loved Miller High Life beer and Lucky Strike cigarettes and had a penchant for the club girls. They loved him for his gentlemanly manners and the soft way he was with them. But I’ve seen him pissed and let me just say this—he is an artist with knives, hence the name Warhol.
Pulling up to his small building near The Journey Museum, I killed the engine and swung by leg over the machine todismount. There was a yellow VW Beetle parked in front of the door when I walked inside, and as I entered the lobby, I saw a young girl sitting across from Warhol’s desk. She had a tissue in her hand as she nodded at something he said, and a moment later, they both stood.
“I know it’s difficult, but this is the best thing that could’ve happened to you. It doesn’t seem like it now, but one day, you’ll look back on this and wonder how you ever shed one tear for that man,” Warhol said as he escorted her to the door.
“Thank you for everything,” she returned as he opened the door and she walked past him.
He watched through the glass until she backed out of the parking space, then he acknowledged my presence. “What’s shakin’?”
“I was just up visiting Pops when I had an idea, or part of an idea, and I need you to fill in the blanks.”
He gave me a quizzical look as he walked back to his desk and sat down. Reaching into the drawer, he pulled out two glasses and a bottle of whiskey. Pouring us each two fingers, he slid a glass across the desk as I took the seat the young girl just vacated. Leaning back, I kicked my foot over the other knee and took a sip of the whiskey.
“I’ll help with whatever I can, you know that. So, tell me what you’re thinking and let’s get this figured out.”
“Last year at the rally, we had a few clubs from down south come to the clubhouse to party.” He nodded his remembrance, so I kept going. “My cousin, Adam, came up with some of the Death Hounds from Portstill, and he brought his ol’ lady, Rose, who was friends with the Sinners Revenge MC from Birmingham.”
“They were some straight shooters, both clubs, but that still doesn’t tell me what you’re needing, Roughstock,” Warhol said, and I could tell he was frustrated about something other than me. My guess was the tears from the young girl.
“The night we had the bonfire, just before the end of the rally, there were some brothers from one of those clubs bragging about some friend who could hack anything. Is this ringing any bells with you?”
He leaned forward, suddenly interested, and I could see the wheels spinning in his head. Warhol had been a patched member for over a decade, and some parts of his past were still murky, but one thing was certain. He was probably one of the smartest men I’d ever met, with the ability to pull obscure conversations and moments up with near clarity.
“I know exactly who it was, but they’re not who you’re looking for. Adam and I were cutting the shit when he let it slip who the man behind the curtain was, so to speak, when it came to hacking and tracking. Call your family and tell them you need Devlin Callahan of Callahan Cyber Security.”
We’d been trying to get into Pops’s cell phone since we got it from the police. They’d kept it from their investigation and were unable to unlock it. After a year, they returned it, along with his bloody clothes and wallet. I thought I would be able to get the phone company to unlock it, but they refused, even with Pops being dead. I tried everything I could, but I was no closer to seeing where he’d been the few months prior to his death.
I stood and reached my fist out to Warhol. He bumped it with his before I turned and walked out of his small office. Neither of us was much for words, and saying goodbye to someonewho would be eating dinner in the same room with me that night seemed stupid. Getting back onto my bike, I pulled my cell phone out and sent Adam a message.
He lived in Portstill, Tennessee, and was a patched member of the Death Hounds MC. His father, Pops’s younger brother, was gunned down when Adam was a baby, and he was raised by our aunt, Gladys. My father had been serving overseas in the Air Force and came home when he found out.
Pops told me once that he would have been a patched brother with the Death Hounds if it hadn’t been for his enlistment. But after his brother’s death, Pops wanted nothing to do with them, so he prospected the Royal Bastards here in Rapid City and the rest was history. The new Death Hounds club was nothing like what I’d heard the old one was, and Adam and his brothers seemed to be thriving.
Me:I need to borrow your safe cracker in regard to Nitro.
I kicked the engine over and walked the bike out of the space before pulling out of the lot and onto the road. Traffic wasn’t too heavy as I maneuvered the streets of Rapid, enjoying the warmish air while it was here. The weather could change on a dime here, and the winters could be brutal or moderate, depending on whether Mother Nature was being a bitch that week or not.
I felt my phone vibrate in my cut, so I rocketed through a yellow light and found a place to pull over.
Adam:Devlin will be calling you. Be straight, tell him everything, and let him work. He’ll take good care of you since you’re family.
Me:I appreciate you.
Adam:I want Nitro to be avenged too and Devlin will give you everything he can find.
Slipping my phone back into my cut, I hit the throttle and headed back to the ranch. I needed to meet with the ranch boss and make sure we’re clear on what needed to be done, then I was heading over to the clubhouse to speak with Phantom, my VP, and Comet, the club’s Treasurer. If I was going to get help from this friend of Adam’s, I wanted to pay him.
The Royal Bastards owed no man a debt.
Even if that debt led to the man who killed Pops.
Chapter 2
Cheyenne
Iwas sitting on the front porch, reading another boring chapter of my biology textbook when I heard the faint sound of chrome pipes rolling closer to the house. The driveway was over a mile and a half long, so it took a minute for the bike to appear in the distance. Standing, I leaned against the post at the top of the stairs and watched as Trent drove closer.
He was so damn sexy on his bike, and I couldn’t help but smile as he pulled up to the front of the steps leading to the house and killed the engine. Swinging his leg over the back, he stood tall from the chromed-out machine before he walked up the stairs to me. His hazel eyes tracked up by body as he got to the next to the top step, allowing us to be eye to eye.
