“Hey, gorgeous,” he drawled. “Long time, no see.”

“Daniel,” she repeated, dumbfounded. “Wow, you look…different.”

She ran her eyes up and down his body once more, pausing on his waistline where a police badge was clipped to his belt.

“You’re a cop?” she asked, glancing back up at his face.

He grinned. “Chief,” he said proudly.

Ellie’s eyes widened. Daniel Mooresville, the biggest dork that ever was, was not only drop-dead gorgeous but the Miles City chief of police?

“Congratulations,” she murmured, smiling up at him, although still shocked.

“Same to you,” he said. “I heard you’re teaching now?”

Ellie grimaced.

“Sort of,” she muttered. “It’s a long story.”

Daniel gestured toward Hank’s. “I just so happen to have great listening skills,” he said. “I could lend an ear, maybe buy you a drink?”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Aren’t you on the clock?”

Daniel’s grin only grew. “Ellie, I’m the chief.”

What did that mean?

Ellie shook her head. “I don’t want to tie you up,” she said. “I’m sure you have more important things to be doing.”

Laughing, Daniel opened the door to the bar and made a sweeping motion with his free hand. “Ellie Tate, I’ve had a crush on you since fifth grade and I’d be honored if I could buy you a drink.”

Wow. Gorgeous and polite. And the chief of police. Had she hit the lottery?

Shaking her head and smiling, she walked past Daniel and into the bar. As the door slammed shut behind them, Hank looked up from behind the bar. He looked exactly as she remembered him—old, bald, and fat.

“Why, if it isn’t Ellie Tate!” he said, grinning. “Girl, how long’s it been since I’ve seen that pretty face of yours?” He pointed to the barstool directly in front of him. “Sit down right there and let me fix you something, sweetheart!”

As Daniel pulled out the barstool for her, she thought that maybe coming back home wasn’t the worst decision she’d ever made.

• • •

Feeling uncomfortable, anxious, and more than ready to get out of the big, swanky house he was currently in, Dirty began tapping his feet on the plush beige carpet beneath his booted feet.

His dirty, booted feet. On the very, very clean carpet.

Feeling his stomach start to churn, he shifted on the equally clean, equally plush, very, very white sofa he was seated on.

Dirty hated rich motherfuckers. He hated their big houses filled with rooms too pristine to feel at home in. He hated their fancy clothes, useless elaborate trappings that made him feel like stripping his own self naked. But most of all, he hated their disapproving eyes.

Yeah, he knew what they saw. He was tall, lanky, firm but not overly muscled; he didn’t eat nearly enough to pack on any extra weight, and considering all the workouts he put himself through, the only shit left inside of him to burn was booze and muscle.

His dark brown hair was long and greasy, so greasy at times it clumped together. His face was heavily bearded by the same dark brown hair that had grown in so thick, his actual features weren’t easily distinguishable. He liked it that way. No one could see him, what he really looked like, and who he used to be.

A tiny shudder rippled through him. He couldn’t be in this house, and he couldn’t be around people like these people. He couldn’t, not without unwanted memories flooding him, making him feel disgusting, used, and…dirty.

Dirty. He was dirty. He was filthy, both inside and out. He was a hollowed-out, rotted piece of shit who should have quit breathing a long time ago yet, for some stupid fucking reason, Deuce wouldn’t let him.

“I believe the price is acceptable,” Pamela Mooresville said, her tone every bit as hoity as everything else about her. Turning slightly in her armchair, she turned from Deuce to her husband, Mayor Norman Mooresville. “Don’t you agree, dear?”

Mooresville couldn’t have been that much older than him, Dirty guessed. He’d just turned thirty-eight and this asshole had to be in his midforties. But from the looks of it, the good life hadn’t been all that good to Mr. Mayor, with his gut trying to pop through his dress shirt, his chin not doubled but tripled, and his receding hairline that was unfortunately also graying.

All that Grey Poupon and caviar, Dirty surmised, that and a whole lot of being waited on his entire life.

“Price?” Mick laughed, stroking his long black-and-gray beard. “You fuckers gotta pretty everything up, don’t ya? Why not just call it what it fuckin’ is? A goddamn payoff.”

“A fat fuckin’ bitch,” Tap said as he pulled a cigarette from behind his ear and brought it to his lips. Lighting the cigarette, he inhaled deeply and blew the smoke out slowly. “Is still a fat fuckin’ bitch,” he continued. “No matter which way you’re lookin’ at her.”

“We don’t smoke in here,” Pamela said slowly, eyeing first Tap, then Bucket, then him, all with distaste.

Tap grinned around his next drag. “That so?” he murmured and let the cigarette drop to the carpet. Pamela shot to her feet with a gasp at the same time the toe of Tap’s boot came down over the lit tobacco and he twisted his ankle first right, then left, grinding the cigarette out.

“You disgusting, filthy gang of—”

“Pamela!” The mayor was on his feet faster than Dirty thought was possible for such a fat fuck, and grabbed hold of his wife’s arm.

Subsequently Deuce, Mick, and Bucket had all shot to their feet as well. Dirty followed suit, more than ready to get the fuck out of this awful place.

“We’re done here,” Deuce growled, his hard eyes narrowed on the mayor. “You’ll have half the cash, all clean, on Tuesday. Shipment’s due in town on Wednesday. If I don’t have your boys in blue on board, all you’ll be seein’ of the second half of that money is the brand new shovel I’ll be buyin’ to bury your fat ass. You feel me?”

“Could just feed ’im to the dogs, Prez,” Bucket drawled. “Wouldn’t have to feed ’em for a whole fuckin’ month after that.”

Dirty rolled his eyes. Bucket was full of shit; the club didn’t have any dogs.

The mayor lifted a shaking hand to wipe the sweat that had beaded across his brow.

“Y-yes,” he mumbled. “Of course, everything will go as planned and everyone will be on board. You can count on my son and his men.”

Dirty’s upper lip curled. Daniel Mooresville was the Miles City chief of police who hadn’t just grown up the son of a wealthy and corrupt pair of assholes, but he loved to harass the Horsemen, already knowing full well the dirty business they were all swimming in, knowing he was just as involved, hell, half the town was involved. Yet the fucker still loved to test the boundaries with everything from parking citations and speeding tickets to building code violations at the clubhouse, just to see how much Deuce would tolerate before blowing a gasket.

He was a first-class motherfucker who thought his badge could protect him, his badge and his wealthy, influential parents.

And Deuce let him think so despite it not being true. The Horsemen were dangerous enough on their own, but ever since Deuce had brought Eva back to Montana with him all those years back, the Horsemen had been working side by side with the Silver Demons, and the Demons weren’t just nationwide, they were worldwide. Preacher had more power and connections than the goddamn president of the United States.

One by one the Horsemen headed past the royal couple and out into the hall. As Dirty passed Pamela, his gut seized and he skirted as far around her as he could get without walking into a wall. He didn’t breathe again until they’d finally stepped outside where Jase and Ivy were sitting on the front steps, Ivy playing a game on her cell phone and Jase staring off into the distance. Brother never spoke anymore. Not since Dorothy had woken up from getting shot and didn’t remember him, didn’t want anything to do with him. All he did was eat, sleep, and booze it up. Heavy on the booze.

A hand came down hard on his shoulder and he jumped, but caught himself before he took off running. Looking over, he found Deuce standing beside him, looking straight ahead. Dirty let out a relieved sigh.

“Brother,” Deuce said quietly, so not to alert anyone else to his words. “You need to be ridin’ pavement? Just say the word.”

No. He was fine. He just…he couldn’t…he needed…

“Yeah. I do.”

With another slap to his shoulder, Deuce headed down the steps, scooping Ivy up as he went. Together, all six of them straddled their bikes and headed off the mayor’s long stretch of property. But when his brothers turned right, headed back toward the clubhouse, he went left, toward the mountains.

His brothers were used to him disappearing; he was often alone, liked it that way. He couldn’t be cooped up, couldn’t sit still for very long, couldn’t spend too much time with himself or his memories.

Deuce knew. Deuce was the only one who knew anything about his past, and not even Deuce knew the half of it. And what he did know, he only knew because he’d seen it firsthand, had for some reason decided to turn down the dimly lit Manhattan alleyway where Dirty had been bent over a pile of stacked shipping crates, forcefully taking it in the ass.

He’d been fifteen years old. A foster home runaway who lived off the streets stealing what he could, selling it to whoever would buy it. It wasn’t an easy life, but even being homeless had been better than the life he’d run from.

Until one day he wasn’t strong enough to fight a guy off him.

That’s how Deuce found him. Badly beaten, bent over a stack of shipping crates, his pants around his ankles, crying out in pain, begging to be released while some dirty motherfucker ass-raped him.