He had been in a terrible mood ever since Bulldog returned empty-handed the night before. Apparently Bulldog’s plan had been to abduct Samantha at knifepoint and force her to drive her car to the clubhouse. It was a decent enough idea. Not earth-shatteringly brilliant, but Venom didn’t expect brilliance from Bulldog. Just results.
Unfortunately, Bulldog had been thwarted. First by some mysterious blond asswipe wielding what Bulldog called “a well-used Beretta.” Then by the police when the sweet-assed journalist decided to make a stop at a cop shop on Wentworth.
What are you planning, you sly minx? Venom wondered.
Not that he was too concerned she could actually out him for his gunrunning business. Which, he had to believe, was what she was after, given that her little snitch inside the Black Apostles had been sniffing around and asking questions about that very thing. No, the guns were safe. They were buried beneath so many shell companies, the money routed through a dozen offshore accounts, that it’d take a genius, a forensic accountant, and someone with the clearance to view his military records to be able to connect all the dots. All things Samantha Tate and the CPD were not.
So it wasn’t the possibility of having the Basilisks’ most lucrative line of cash flow interrupted that made him grit his teeth so hard his molars creaked. It was the fact that having her sniff around for one thing could very well lead her to discover other illegal businesses the Basilisks were involved in that weren’t so airtight.
He’d gone home to his old lady, climbed naked into bed beside her, and after pulling the crotch of her panties aside and doing her the service of a quick squirt of lube, he’d screwed her long and hard. Poured his foul temper and volatile mood into her willing body, which usually worked to satiate him.
Not last night. He’d wanted Samantha. And nothing else, no one else, would do.
Curiosity had him leaning forward and moving the mouse on his computer. The monitor flickered to life, and he immediately did a Google search on her. A second later, his screen was filled with links to the articles she’d written. But it was the images of her he was most interested in.
Clicking through them, he saw neither hide nor hair of the blond guy Bulldog had mentioned. Instead, there was often the same small, dark-haired man at her side.
Venom lifted a brow. The guy was obviously important to her. A boyfriend, perhaps?
“Not the kinda man I woulda thought she’d go for,” he muttered to himself.
While handsome, the bespectacled man also seemed a little effeminate. But maybe that was how Samantha liked her men. Maybe she liked being in charge, running the show, wearing the pants in the relationship. She looked like the ball-busting sort.
Venom smiled, growing hard at the idea of giving her a taste of what it was like to be taken by a real man.
He clicked on one of the pictures, which took him to a newsy website that featured a blog post written by Samantha. After reading the first few paragraphs, he realized the dark-haired cat in all the pictures wasn’t her boyfriend but a coworker. And, according to her blog post, her best friend, even though they often competed for line space in the paper.
Boring.
He wanted something juicy. Something personal. He looked for her on Facebook. But before he could click to the social media site, the bell above the repair shop’s front door trilled its dainty-sounding tinkle.
He hated that noise. Thought it made it seem like a bunch of pussies ran the joint. But Crutch assured him that connecting a bullhorn to the front door would scare away business. And that, they couldn’t have. The repair shop was the front they used to launder most of the money they made from extortion and prostitution, which meant keeping the place in well-paying customers was a must so that the books looked good.
Venom was only a little bit scared of the nosy reporter and the Chicago police. But he lived in terror of the IRS.
After switching off his computer and exiting his office, he walked to the front of the shop to see a cop waiting on the other side of the counter. Speak of the devil.
Venom knew the newcomer was a pig not because he sported a uniform or flashed a badge, but because he wore a rumpled, off-the-rack suit and had a terrible haircut, but despite this, carried himself with a certain arrogance.
Venom had assumed he might get a visit from the police after last night’s shenanigans. Bulldog had been wearing his cut—and broadcasting his affiliation with the Basilisks—when he was confronted by the blond in the alley. But being prepared didn’t make it any easier for Venom to stomach having the law inside one of his establishments. He recognized no authority above his own, but for a while, he would be forced to act like he did.
That didn’t mean he couldn’t get in a few digs. A man had to take his fun where he could find it.
“You smell that?” He was sniffing the air when Crutch strolled into the front of the shop through the door that led to the mechanics’ bays in the back. Wearing coveralls and biker boots, Crutch wiped grease from his hand onto a blue terry-cloth rag.
“Yeah.” Crutch nodded, instantly clueing in and playing along. “What is that?”
“Pork.” Venom sneered. “Makes me wanna fry up some bacon for lunch. How ’bout you?”
“You know I love cooked pig.”
“Ha-ha.” The cop reached into his jacket pocket to pull out his credentials. “Like I’ve never heard that one before.” He placed his badge on the countertop and adjusted his suit coat over the bulge of his shoulder holster.
Venom wondered if the doughnut eater realized both bikers standing in front of him had Glocks hidden in their boots. Probably not, he decided. Or else the cop wouldn’t be playing the big, bad cock of the walk.
“My name is Detective Curtis Carver, and I need to ask you boys a few questions about a murder that happened yesterday.”
Boys. Venom wanted to make the detective eat that word. Instead, he said, “And here I thought my day was gonna be boring.” Grabbing the stool behind the counter, he casually took a seat. Crutch came to stand at his shoulder, ever the loyal sidekick.
“But before we get to that,” the detective said, “let me be clear who I’m talking to. You are…” He looked at Venom, brow raised in bored interest as if he already knew the answer to his question but was determined to wait on the reply anyway.
“Name’s Venom.”
“Ah.” Carver nodded and pulled a small notebook from his breast pocket. He flipped it open and licked his finger, thumbing back a few pages. “John George Peabody the Third.” Venom’s jaw clenched at the hated name. “Which would make you the president of the Basilisks.”
Venom wasn’t surprised by the detective’s knowledge. The Basilisks had had enough run-ins with the CPD to warrant familiarity. Luckily, few of those run-ins had resulted in jail time.
“So then you are…” The detective let his eyes run over Crutch. “Let me guess. Denis Cook, a.k.a. Crutch.”