“My club can protect you from Stanley Morter,” I said. “The sheriff, on the other hand, will serve you to him on a silver platter in exchange for an envelope of cash.”
“Did your club protect your brother?” she whispered.
I ignored the direct hit to my heart and took a deep breath. “My brother was in a situation he should never have been in, and he was ambushed. That won’t happen to you, Rowan. You’ll be covered at all times.”
“This is crazy. Why does Stanley think I have his father’s money and how would killing me benefit him?”
“I don’t know, but I can find out, if you trust me and do exactly as I say.”
“Why?” she asked.
“Why what?”
“Why do you care? Why not just take the money and…?”
“Kill you?” I asked. “Because I’m not a hitman.”
“Stanley Morter apparently thinks you are,” she replied.
“Yeah, but what do you think?”
I held my breath as Rowan studied my face. “I think I’ll check to see if any of your friends need a refill.”
I wrapped my hand gently around her arm as she moved past me. “I promise, I… uh, my club and I can get to the bottom of this and keep you safe.” Sliding my thumb over the inside of her elbow, I felt her shiver. “But you gotta keep the sheriff out of this.”
She studied me for a few tense seconds.
“Trust me,” I begged.
She closed her eyes for a brief second, then nodded, and I followed her back to the dining room.
“Everything okay?” Sheriff Sanders asked as we stepped back into the dining room.
“Oh, yeah. No problem, Sheriff. I had Scooby help me with the… ah… what I needed help with,” Rowan said, nervously.
If this was her best poker face, then I was now firmly convinced she’d been telling me the truth about everything. I needed to figure out exactly what the fuck was going on around here, pronto.
Rowan
The next morning, I opened the diner door to find Scooby waiting for me just outside. “What are you doing out in the cold?” I admonished.
“I was waiting in my truck until I saw you flip the lights on.” He smirked. “But it’s nice to know you care.”
“Don’t get too excited. I have a habit of bringing in strays from the cold. Dusty says I have a terminal case of bleeding heart’s disease.”
“I hope it’s not contagious,” he said, with a smirk.
I waved him in, biting the inside of my cheek as he shrugged off his leather jacket. Today he wore a tight long-sleeved Henley under a leather vest with a giant patch on the back of it that read, “PRIMAL HOWLERS MC,” dark jeans, motorcycle boots. And the man wore thick rimmed glasses.
Lord on high, glasses.
Bend me over, he was like some badass, biker Clark Kent. Or maybe more like Superman, only without the sissy silk cape.
“How long have you been waiting for me to open up?” I asked.
“Well, the sign says, six a.m., so I suspect I was waiting for you to open up some time around six a.m.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Well, since it’s only five-twenty-two and we’re not running an early bird special, just how long have you been out here?”