Betrayals (Cainsville Book 4) Read Free

Cainsville apartment. We left the clubhouse at one. I was on the back of Ricky’s bike, enjoying the buzz from three shots of Scotch and the vibrations from the Harley’s motor, my fingers slipping around Ricky and up his thighs, his chuckle rippling through me.
    He pointed to the countryside whipping past and then at the road ahead. Asking if I wanted to pull over or keep going. I tapped his leg, which meant it was up to him. He gunned the bike and then moved my hand further down his thigh. In other words, if I was okay with not stopping for sex right away, he’d take a little more of what I’d started.
    I smiled, my hand sliding to his crotch, rubbing as he accelerated—
    He hit the brakes so fast I lurched, and his hand moved to my leg, steadying me and squeezing in apology. Then I saw what he had—a dark car with its lights off, almost hidden in a tree-shrouded drive.
    Ricky would have noticed if it’d been here when we drove in. He was the son of a biker gang leader. He was also a member of that gang. The future leader of that gang. He did not miss anything so near his clubhouse. Sure enough, as we drew near, the car pitched forward. Then lights flashed … and Ricky relaxed.
    I had to smile at that. In his world, if someone was lying in wait on an empty country road, he
hoped
it was the police.
    He pulled to the shoulder and I hopped off the bike, removing my helmet as he did the same. He put up the kickstand and had his ID waiting before the cops even got out of the car.
    They were plainclothes officers, which suggested detectives, as did the unmarked car. I reached into my pocket, fingers hitting buttons on my phone.
    The senior partner took Ricky’s ID without a word. He examined it and then said, “Had anything to drink tonight,
Richard
?” twisting the name, suggesting he knew full well that wasn’t what Ricky went by.
    “A beer at eight when we arrived at the clubhouse. Another at about eleven-thirty. I don’t think I finished that one, but you’re welcome to test me.”
    Ricky was right about the drinks. His father, Don, had strict rules about drinking and driving, mainly because it gave the cops one more reason to hassle them. Ricky kept further under his limit, even if it meant resorting to tricks like exchanging a half bottle of beer for a fresh one so the guys wouldn’t rib him.
    “And you?” The officer shone his flashlight full in my face.
    Ricky tensed, but he only said, “She’s a passenger, so her blood alcohol doesn’t matter. Yes, she’s been drinking. Three shots of Scotch since about eleven-thirty, which puts her over the legal limit.”
    “That’s dangerous, on the back of a bike.”
    “She hangs on tight.”
    I managed not to crack a smile at that and said, “I’m nowhere near the level for public intoxication.”
    “We’ll call an officer to drive you home. We’re going to need to speak to your ‘date’ down at the station.”
    “She’s my girlfriend, not my hookup,” Ricky said. “As for leaving …” He glanced at me and I stepped forward, my hand extended.
    “Olivia Taylor-Jones. I work for Gabriel Walsh, legal representative for Mr. Gallagher.”
    “Did you say Taylor …?”
    “Yes.
That
Olivia Taylor-Jones. Formerly Eden Larsen. You mentioned questioning. May I ask what it is in regards to?”
    The detective pulled himself up to his full height, which fell below mine. I’m only five-eight, but my boots added extra inches.
    “Are you a lawyer?” he asked.
    “No,” his heretofore-silent younger partner said. “She’s a private investigator who works for Walsh. She has a master’s degree from Yale. English major, I think. But she got her PI license recently.”
    The lead gave him a look, and the younger one mumbled, “It was in the papers.”
    “He’s correct,” I said. “Unless you have a warrant to arrest Ricky, any questioning you need to do can be done at our office … after Mr. Walsh arrives.”
    “We don’t need—”
    “Gabriel?” I