Page 68 of Burned in Stone
“Mr. Hall.” He laces his fingers. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”
I glance around at the shithole surroundings—paint flaking off the walls and two dead wasps stuck in a puddle on the windowsill. I make sure to land my gaze back on Gabriel’s face, so he knows I’ve measured exactly how little I care. “Not like you left me a lot of options. The invite could’ve used a little less assault and battery, but hey, I’m always happy to drop by when you need to feel big and important. What, you run out of ex-wives to gaslight for the evening?”
Behind me, one of the cops grunts. I’m not sure if it’s meant to be a laugh or a threat, but I keep my attention on Gabriel. All of it.
He stands, moving around the crappy desk. “You know, Cam. Can I call you Cam? This tough act of yours is going to get old fast. So let’s skip the part where you pretend to be a martyr and get straight to the facts.” He gestures, and one of his lackeys cracks open a beat-up laptop. The screen flickers to life, spilling pale blue over the trailer’s dingy interior.
Gabriel turns the laptop toward me. Security footage from outside Devil’s, time stamped earlier tonight when Mercy and I first arrived.
“Recognize this?” he asks.
“That’s me and Mercy arriving at work. Riveting footage.”
He clicks to the next image. It’s grainy, but shows someone in a hoodie approaching us. My memory clicks—some guy asking for the time, thanking me, shaking my hand. Seemed harmless enough.
“This man is a known dealer. Multiple priors for distribution.”
“Never seen him before in my life.”
“Really? Because here you are shaking hands with him. Classic exchange.”
I laugh. “The guy asked for the time. I told him. That’s it.”
“Witnesses saw him palm something to you during that handshake.”
“What witnesses? Your imaginary friends?”
Another click. Security footage of me at my bike after the guy left, putting my riding gloves and jacket in the saddlebags.
“And here’s you stashing what he gave you in your saddlebags.”
“I’m putting my gloves away.”
“Really?” Gabriel reaches into a box and pulls out an evidence bag with what looks like multiple baggies of cocaine. “Because when we searched your bike tonight, we found this.”
“Bullshit. That wasn’t in my bike.”
“It was in your saddlebags. Right where you put it after the handoff.”
“You literally just pulled that bag out of a box you had this whole time—how did it get in there, Gabriel? A portal? This isall bullshit. You’ve got nothing. Otherwise, we’d be at the station instead of inside this murder shack.”
Gabriel’s jaw tightens. “You’re in charge of the MC’s finances, aren’t you? That’s why they call you Cash—because you know how to move money.”
I examine my fingernails. “They call me Cash because I’m devastatingly handsome and rich in personality.”
“We know about the books. The double accounting. How you launder money through the bar.”
“The only thing getting laundered at Devil’s is bar towels. Though Kya does make a mean dirty martini if you’re interested.”
He slams his hand on the desk. “This isn’t a joke! You’re looking at fifteen to twenty for possession with intent to distribute.”
“For something you made up? Good luck with that.”
“Prove it.”
“Don’t have to. You have to prove I put it there. And since I didn’t...” I shrug.
Gabriel circles around behind me. “You know what your problem is? You think you’re untouchable because you’ve got Stone and the MC behind you.”
