He stilled. My trembling body squeezed around his immobile form. My eyes fluttered open and snagged on his. Hard glass, impenetrable. Not windows to the soul. Opaque barriers.
His hands released their grip on me, and he slid away. He sat back on the sofa, his gaze averted. A slicing ache replaced the fullness.
Shit. Shit. What just happened?
I wasn’t sure, but it was as if a switch had been turned off. An alarm had sounded, and he was on edge, upset even.
I sat up, pulling my skirt down and lifting my top over my bare chest. “Bone?”
The barrier had seeped from his eyes and hardened down his face. The ridge of his dark brows was tight, giving him a forbidding severity. The playfulness, the raw sensuality were gone.
“Boner, did I—”
“It’s nothing.” He wiped at the edge of his mouth with his thumb and planted a kiss on my forehead. “I should go. I’ve got a run tomorrow to the chapter in North Dakota anyway. Got an early start.”
He rose from the sofa, kernels of popcorn tumbling down his leg. “I’ll be spending the night up there. I’ll call you.” He brushed my cheek with his hand as he headed for the front door.
“Boner, wait—” I followed him.
His long strides and heavy footfalls pounded out an unmistakable beat—reject, retreat, get me the fuck out of here.
He left.
I locked the door after him and peeked through the side curtain. He didn’t glance up at the house as he swung on his bike. He took off, and his powerful engine droned right through my shaky heart, leaving only acrid fumes behind.
“WHAT THE FUCK?”
The case was empty. It was gone.
Dig’s Python .357 was missing.
The cherry wood case with the glass top I’d picked out myself was splayed out like a plundered treasure chest in a corner of the meeting room where a number of knives, skull sculptures, local awards, framed photos, and other club memorabilia were on display.
“We had the Howl last night, and people were roaming everywhere,” muttered Kicker. “Could’ve been anybody.”
I’d been at our North Dakota chapter the past two days, and I’d stayed an extra night. I hadn’t wanted to be back here for the Full Moon Howl, as we’d tagged the party years ago. After the last time I’d seen Jill, I’d needed…fuck, I wasn’t sure what I’d needed. But a club party was no answer.
My heart thundered against my ribs at the sight of the empty case.
It was exactly that—a treasure plundered.
Dig’s favorite gun since he’d first won it in a knife fight with a drunk cocksucker on a winter run to Daytona in the early ‘90s.
The gun he’d used to kill Jill’s kidnapper.
The gun Grace had used to shoot his killer.
Fucking gone.
After his death, that gun had become a symbol of the man who’d dedicated his life and energy to the One-Eyed Jacks, who’d striven to move the club forward and make it strong.
My eyes darted to a photo of us hanging on the wall. Dig and me and Wreck exhausted on the side of a highway after Jump had wiped out on the way to Idaho. Another one of Dig flashing the finger, his face full of cocky bravado, as he sped off on his ’67 Panhead.
Sour bile rose in the back of my throat.
That gun was fucking sacred, holy.
I gnashed my teeth. “Who the fuck took it?”
“Someone who’s got balls. Someone who knows how to hit where it hurts when he wants to make a point,” rose Kicker’s voice behind me.
“How the hell—?” My voice roared, and I reined it in. “How did this happen?”
Here, in our meeting room, where our traditions were observed and celebrated, our decisions made, secrets shared, and ambitions forged. Here, under the witness of photographs of our chapter’s members, past and present. Here, under our very roof, under our fucking noses.
“I don’t know, man,” Kicker muttered.
“You’d better work on changing that answer. This door’s always locked during a party,” I said.
“Well, yeah.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
Kicker shifted his weight. “Jump was in here.”
“’Course he was. He’s the goddamn prez.”
“I mean, with women. Alicia’s been gone for over a week now, visiting family in Texas.”
I rubbed a hand across my chin.
“I’m not sayin’ that—”
“I get it. Contact all our pawnshop buddies—and I mean, all of them—and not by email. Get them on the phone, personally, and put them on the lookout for the Python. This includes all our other friends in the gun trade—on and off the grid.”
“Right. On it.”
“Hey, you finally back?” Butler stood in the open doorway, his jawline a harsh, blunt edge. “What the hell is going on?”
“Somebody stole Dig’s Python. Broke the case.”
“What the fuck?” He strode into the room, filling it with a wave of emotion. “Anything else gone?”
“So far, no,” I replied.