Page 9 of Viper
Holton calls an end to Church, and Killer vaults out of his chair, moving to clap Bullseye and Justice on the shoulders.
“Let’s get those patches sewn on, boys. And a drink.”
They let him steer them out, everyone else trailing as I stay seated with Holton. As the doors close on the last of them, he turns to me.
“Nelson still making noises about retiring?”
“Yeah. But noises are all they are. I don’t know how serious he is.”
“His boy will be our new lawyer if he goes, right?”
“Yeah. Lewis Nelson. I’ve had Nan look into him. He looks good. Studied at Stanford. Came back here to join his daddy’s practice.”
“What’s his record look like?”
“Decent win rate. I don’t think Nelson would step aside until he feels his son is ready. He’s not about to throw his kid to the wolves.”
Holton smirks at my assessment, nodding as he drums his fingers on the table thoughtfully.
“Have Nan keep tabs on his record. If he makes any major legal blunders, I want to know.”
“On it, Prez.”
Sighing, Holton hauls himself to his feet, starting to the door. As I stand, he turns back and eyeballs me.
“You think we’re making a mistake with Joey’s sister?”
“Not at all, Prez.”
He nods, walking out of the room, the doors swinging shut behind him, leaving me alone in the silent room. Of course we’re not making a mistake with Naomi. The clubhouse is the best place for her. That way, I can keep an eye on her and make sure no one is taking advantage.
Chapter 4
NAOMI
What the hell do you wear to look after a bunch of babies? I stare at my closet. Mama had a very strong opinion on what “young ladies” should wear – pretty much anything Joey would never be seen dead in. But I don’t think it’s practical to crawl around the ground with kids in a pencil skirt.
Opening my workout drawer, I pick a pair of ankle-length yoga pants and a loose T-shirt. Mama would be horrified about me leaving the house in these – what if someonesawme – but they seem perfect for the work I’ll be doing.
I shuck my cotton pajamas, dress in my “child-minding appropriate” clothes, and shove an additional pair in a rucksack. Just in case a kid spits up on me or something. Always be prepared and all that.
Tugging my hair into a ponytail, I sling my bag over my shoulder and slowly walk onto the porch like a condemned man walking to an electric chair.
He said to wait for him here and be ready by eight-thirty. It’s almost half past eight, and another bonus for this outfit is it is a lot more appropriate than my funeral dress for riding on the back of a motorcycle.
My knees feel weak at the thought. That ride was the most terrifying of my life. Maybe I can make up an excuse and get a cab instead. I’m about to hide inside when a motorcycle's roar alerts me that I am too late.
His bike pulls into the empty driveway, and he lifts his sunglasses on top of his windblown blond hair. Hell. Was he that good-looking the other night? I don’t remember him being so…yummy looking.
I’m frozen on the porch, staring at the gleaming motorcycle he is astride, my mouth dry. Not even his good looks are enough to distract me from the fact that I have to climb on that deathtrap.
“Get on, Peaches,” he calls, the order clear in his tone. I wrench my eyes to meet his, and he jerks his head in acome heregesture.
Swallowing, I drag my feet down the porch stairs and across the threadbare grass, hesitating when I reach him.
“Best get it done today, Peaches,” he rumbles. Yep. Right.
Taking a deep breath, I place a steadying hand on his shoulder, slipping my leg over the bike and seating myself on the small seat behind him.