Who Do You Love (Rock Royalty Book 7) by Christie Ridgway

back.
    “They don’t care about your brain.”
    Nor did women give a hoot about Spence’s lineage—which was as blue blood as one could get in California. Eamon’s partner came from old L.A. money.
    “At least that’s what you’ve always said,” he continued. “The true draw is your big dick, right?”
    Spence nodded. “Well, there is that.” He said it like the truth wearied him.
    “Asshole,” Eamon muttered, but he had to grin.
    “That’s what I like to see!” Spence elbowed his side. “A little levity. You’ve been a dull and dreary dog recently.”
    Ever since the break-up with Cami Colson.
    Shit . An image of her bloomed in his brain. The accusation in her eyes at the motorcycle show, the antipathy in her brother’s. Payne would have told her by now who Eamon was and would have warned her off—because a man like him wouldn’t want his little sister even peripherally involved with a MC.
    But it was more serious than that.
    He forked his free hand through his hair. “Fucking Wick.” His cousin Rick Rooney had dubbed himself that nickname as a child, and it had stuck.
    “He’s a screw-up,” Spence agreed.
    When Irish had decreed the Unrulies wind down their involvement in the opiates business—prescription pills and heroin—Eamon had been starting college and busy with his own life. Living on campus, he’d rarely spent any time at the clubhouse because his mother didn’t like it and she’d wanted to ensure that his tuition and expense money was untainted by any MC criminal business.
    Frankly, he hadn’t been interested in drawing lines or neat boxes like that.
    But when the newspaper plastered drug busts from around the county on the front page, he’d worried about his father and his MC family, and he’d applauded Irish’s decree from afar. Though not a geographical distance, a dorm room filled with books, empty beer bottles, and new friends who thought a club meant tennis racquets and rounds of golf had seemed like a different continent.
    Eamon couldn’t say his was a moral stance at the time—though older and wiser he saw how those drugs ruined people’s lives—he’d only been concerned about loved ones being behind bars.
    So yeah, he’d been glad for the change. It had taken some years, but the club had stopped trafficking.
    Not all of its members, however. Because recently Wick—claiming to be acting for the entire MC and with their full approval—had gotten involved in a scheme with some guys in another club to smuggle into the country and distribute “V,” a new strain of human growth hormone. You could buy the regular shit from the zillions of anti-aging medical practices in L.A. But V was a brand-new formulation purported to offer faster, better, more long-lasting results. Of course the beauty- and performance-obsessed celebrities created an instant and avid client base. No amount of money was too much to pay.
    Then his hapless—foolish, reckless, idiot—cousin had been arrested.
    One guy, caught red-handed, wearing his Unruly Assassins colors. It had taken some persuasion on Eamon and Spence’s part to convince the authorities that Wick, despite the patch, had acted outside of his club. But with the cooperation of another.
    Now the Feds were offering him a deal if he’d rat out the others in on his scheme.
    The Savage Sons.
    Eamon brought his beer to his mouth, then drew it away again. “Suze saw some of the Sons at the rodeo grounds when we were there over the weekend.”
    Spence straightened. “Anybody say anything? Anybody say anything to you or send a message of any kind?”
    He was already shaking his head. “I didn’t catch sight of a single one. Suze made herself scarce.”
    “Good. It’s been quiet since their little sit down with you, right?”
    “That charming encounter.”
    Five of the members of the Savage Sons had cornered Eamon in the back parking lot of his favorite coffee place right before it closed at 9 p.m. They’d wanted him to deliver a