Nixx
The tattoo shop disappeared in my mirrors just as Havoc climbed out of his truck.
I caught the movement automatically. Years of training had turned scanning mirrors, windows, and reflections into muscle memory long before I ever landed in New Mexico. The man’s boots hit the pavement, Kinsley slipped out behind him carrying drinks, and together they disappeared through the front door.
I snorted as I rolled through the next intersection.
For a biker, I never actually saw the bastard on a bike.
Every time I ran into him, he was climbing out of that truck like somebody had personally outlawed motorcycles.
The thought followed me halfway back to Middle Town, carrying with it the familiar amusement that came every time I remembered his actual name.
Donald.
Jesus Christ.
The man had
