Crash (Twisted Devils MC Book 5)

four years — but he sounds as casual and unbothered about it as if he were telling me it’s supposed to rain later.
I hate his handsome face. I hate his calm voice. I hate his toned, tattooed, muscular arms and how they stir this longing inside me to know what it feels like to have them wrapped around me.
I hate him.
Even more, I hate that he’s right.
And I know he’s right not only because he’s definitely got a lot more experience in doing illegal stuff than I do, but because, the second I lay eyes on Sheriff David Cartwright’s smug face, I can see that he is itching to ruin my day. And if rumors are to be believed, it’s not just because he’s a massive prick — which really isn’t a rumor, it’s the truth — it’s because he’s been best friends with Roger ‘Dread’ Deacon, president of the Death’s Disciples MC, since grade school. Any slight against Dread’s club will come with the consequences of the full weight of the sheriff’s office. And with the size of Sheriff Cartwright’s gut, that’s some considerable weight.
“Evening, Violet,” he says, tipping his hat at me. “Looks like we’ve got quite a situation here. You mind telling me what happened?”
He barely spares a glance for my friend, Teddy, who is groaning and bleeding out on my sidewalk.
“Switchblade went after Kendra, and then he stabbed my bouncer. Then his friends shot up the place.”
“Is that all that happened? Because, from the several 9-1-1 calls my office received, it sounds like a lot more was going on up here.”
I look away from his smug face. In the contest to find out who’s a bigger asshole, it’s a tie right now between Crash and Sheriff Cartwright.
“That’s the truth, sheriff. And it’s only two sentences, but I can write it down for you if you have trouble comprehending.”
He rolls his eyes and hikes up his belt. “No, that won’t be necessary, Violet. But I think what will be necessary is that my deputies and I look around. The tip I received is that you’ve got a criminal element patronizing your bar and, from the looks of these motorcycles and these leather-wearing thugs I see hanging out in your parking lot, I’d say that tip is accurate. No, I think we will have to take a good long look at your place. Maybe even bring in a few more deputies and possibly the county forensics team. You could be closed for a long time while we conduct our investigation.”
Crash’s eyes flare. His hand makes a not-so-subtle move to the spot beneath his cut where I know he keeps his gun.
What kind of cargo is he transporting that he’d consider killing a sheriff in front of all these witnesses?
I have to get this situation under control.
“Sheriff, you’re right. You should take a look around. Why don’t we head inside so these paramedics can patch up my friend Teddy without us getting in the way?”
He hoists his belt again. No matter how many times you do that, it will not hide your gut, you asshole.
“Glad to hear some sense from you, Violet. Let’s do that.”
I lead Sheriff Cartwright inside and even hold the door open for him. He walks through without so much as a ‘thank you’ and looks around at the mess like he owns the place. There’s an expression of smug surety on his face, like he knows he’s caught me in something and he’s going to have a great time later telling Dread all about it.
Think again, sheriff.
“Can I get you a drink?”
He nods. Because being ‘on duty’ means nothing to a crooked guy like him.
“That’d be nice.”
We walk around the mess littering the middle of the bar and I do my best not to flinch at the sight — this will take ages to clean up, and the most horrible part of it will be scrubbing my friend’s blood out of the hardwood floor — and keep my focus on doing whatever it takes to get Sheriff Cartwright out of here without turning my bar into a second crime scene.
But how do you deal with the lowest of the low like Sheriff Cartwright?
I’m behind my bar and scanning my shelf for the appropriate kind of alcohol to serve to a crooked and diseased toad like the sheriff — is it Draino? — when I see my answer. I snatch up an unopened bottle, one I keep hidden in a secret spot under the bar, and I plunk it down on the bartop alongside a single highball glass.
“Pappy Van Winkle’s Private Reserve?” He says, looking at the bottle with narrow-eyed suspicion. “Never heard of it. I’ll take some scotch, if you got it.”
I bite back a sigh.
I’m about to waste this booze on a vacuous life-sucking hole like Sheriff Cartwright.
“Sheriff, I think you’d prefer this instead. Pappy Van Winkle’s Family Reserve goes for more than a thousand dollars a bottle.” Before he can answer, I open the bottle and pour a small taste in the glass. “Try it.”
His eyes are still narrowed in suspicion, but the corners of his mealy lips have quirked ever so slightly. “What are you getting at here?”
“Just taste it.”
He picks it up and drinks it so fast I want to cringe. He doesn’t keep it on his tongue, doesn’t smell it, he just picks it up and gulps.
“Tastes good. Real good.”
If he weren’t a troglodyte, he’d mention how it tastes like liquid velvet, laced with cherries and vanilla and a hint of smoke, and how it has a gentle bite like the play-kisses of a loving puppy. Instead, the best he manages is ‘good’.
“You know, maybe you’d like to sit here on this stool, pour yourself another glass of this expensive bottle, and then take the