“No matter how late?”
He huffs out a laugh. “Yes, Gwen.”
“Good.” I slide my hand out from under his and search for Winchester.
The sergeant at arms stands apart from the fray, a pillar of calm in a storm of panic and police tape. His eyes are sharp as he assesses the scene. They dart from cop to cop, reading them like a biker reads the road.
“Winchester,” I call out, my voice slicing through the murmur of uneasy bikers.
He turns, his gaze locking onto mine. There’s a flicker of surprise that he quickly masks beneath a stoic façade.
“Got a minute?” I ask, jerking my head toward the edge of the chaos.
He nods once, an almost imperceptible dip of his chin, and we move away from prying ears.
“Here’s the deal,” I start without a preamble. “Highway wants me to borrow your car and leave.”
Winchester’s jaw sets hard, his distrust for the badges around us almost tangible. I read caution in the lines of his face and see it in the way he gives nothing away.
“My car?”
“Yep. He seems to think law enforcement is going to keep you lot here for hours, but I’m just a journalist who saw nothing, so I should be let go.”
Winchester raises an eyebrow. “You saw nothing?”
“Well, that’s what they think.” I hold up my camera.
He smirks. “It’s a fucking mess. Are you going to theclubhouse?”
“Highway said to go home.”
With a quick shake of his head, he says, “No. You’re going to get those pictures printed and then come back to the clubhouse.”
A tall, good-looking man with dirty-blond hair approaches us, blood dripping from his arm. “Winchester,” he says by way of greeting, then fixes me with an intense stare.
“Ghost, this is Gwen. She’s a reporter. Ghost is visiting from Iowa.”
“Ahh, Lucy said there were other chapters here today. You’re a long way from home,” I say, meeting his piercing blue eyes.
He nods, his gaze shifting around. “Yeah, I thought the sun and sand would be good for me, but this? Nah, this is bad.”
“It is,” agrees Winchester with a nod. He points to Ghost’s arm. “You got hit?”
“Just a graze.” Ghost flexes his arm to inspect the wound, and I’m struck by how rugged and masculine he is.
“You should get it looked at. You don’t want an infection,” I say.
The two men exchange a glance before Ghost smiles at me. “I think I’ll live.” His eyes shift to the police cruisers in the distance. “How long before you think they’ll let us leave?”
“Those with warrants will get pulled in, but the sooner we give them statements, the sooner we’ll be out of here,” replies Winchester.
“I’ve no desire to tangle with the law. One stint in jail is enough for me. Where’s Creed?” Ghost asks.
Winchester looks around and shrugs. “No idea.”
“You don’t know? Oh, shit. Sorry.”
Winchester straightens up. “Don’t know what?”
