Demon Fire (Angel Fire #3) - Marie Johnston Page 0,78
beast gleamed under the Las Vegas sun. The weather was perfect for riding. Too bad he disliked motorcycles. For a while, it’d been exciting. Then it’d been work. When he’d ridden, it had meant he was away from his family, deceiving anyone who rode with him about who he really was. After the shooting, motorcycles had become something he could freely hate.
Yet, here he was again.
Four days after Sierra had given herself up, he’d used the new black car Harlowe had gotten and gone out for a haircut. As hunks of his hair had hit the floor, the man he’d hoped to forget had re-emerged. The lack of hair made his eyes sharper, angrier. He was back to looking like he’d kill someone with his bare hands any second. He’d trimmed his beard so it was a quarter inch longer than stubble and gone to another thrift store for worn blue jeans and used T-shirts. He couldn’t look like his clothing still had their tags on.
The next stop had been the most run-down tattoo shop he could find. Harlowe had said she’d used a Sharpie the one time she’d infiltrated the club, but that was one of the rules about undercover work: commit fully. He hated the little black rose on his biceps, but he’d already checked into what it’d take to laser it off as soon as he could.
Then he’d come home to the bike Urban had procured. An Indian, from this century, and thankfully it looked like a model from the years that Boone had ridden. Gleaming black metal and a black seat with a small rip to add legitimacy. It didn’t bring back the itch to ride. But he didn’t have the urge to kick the thing over either, so whatever mental hang-ups he’d had were in the past. It was a tool to help Sierra.
Boone should’ve done a few test drives, but it was time to go to the club. It wasn’t a biker club this time. But he was undercover again. Two excruciatingly long weeks had gone by and it was time to put the next phase into action.
The tattoo labeled him as a disciple. Harlowe and Urban had assured him that most club-goers went there to flirt with the dark side and get laid, heavy on the getting laid. Boone wasn’t going that deep into character. He’d have to come up with some other reason to lurk around the club.
He tossed a leg over the seat and pushed the button. The engine purred to life, not as obnoxious as the last one he’d owned. His nerves thanked Urban.
It took a block or two before muscle memory took over and he got comfortable enough for him to relax. He eased back and roared down the street. Memories of riding through Chicago, the thunder of engines around him, flooded his mind.
Today he was alone. And he preferred it that way. He’d never thought he’d be back on a motorcycle again. Now he could see himself doing a lot again. Things that he’d not only thought he couldn’t do again, but wouldn’t. Like falling in love.
He had to save Sierra. He refused to believe that she had been dropped in his path for no reason. For so many years, he’d wondered why. What was the reason for any of it? For his wife. For his son. For the job he’d loved but that had cost him everything.
He’d never get an answer, but that shouldn’t keep him from living. From doing his part to make the world a safer place. He’d been attracted to law enforcement, had lost himself in the work. He wouldn’t make the same mistake. He wasn’t going to lose himself—or Sierra.
Riding up on the club, he studied his surroundings, cars lined along the streets close to the club. He had no issues figuring out which place was the club: the three-story building with a long line of people out front. The sign out front stood out like a lighthouse in the middle of the quiet, dark block.
He found a spot big enough for his bike one street over and took his time walking back. The end of the line was full of giggly girls half his age. Three of them took at least four selfies apiece before he reached them. When one spun around with her back to him and her phone ready to click, he glared into the screen and shook his head.
“Take one picture of me and I’ll stomp that damn thing