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new members?  
    I’m running out of excuses to explain why I won’t apply. I can’t very tell him that I’m a police officer and that if I was ever going to join a MC, I would pick the Iron Tornadoes.  
    Dmitry would actually be a good fit for the Tornadoes. He’s about as vicious as Brian’s father. The Russian tries to compensate for his lack of hair by sporting a beard that makes him look about as mean as he really is. I observed him once in a fist fight that he’d had the courtesy to take outside, and he’d scared the shit out of me. Possibly because his favorite weapon was the folded blade.
    But no matter how much sense it would make, merging the two clubs isn’t about to happen. First because the Iron Tornadoes don’t discriminate—their members belong to all races. Second because the two MCs have some bad blood. I don’t know the origin of it, and I guess most of the members don’t either, but if a Knight ever fell in love with an Iron Tornado, we would have a Floridian version of Romeo and Juliet . We could even complicate it a bit by having a Knight fall for one of the daughters of a Latino member… then he’d be in trouble with the Tornadoes and also with his own crew for stepping on forbidden grounds.

CHAPTER EIGHT

    At ten to eleven, Slider parks his ride next to mine in front of the Central Hotel. This place is the first high-rise ever built in Point Lookout. It’s a gigantic eyesore in the midst of lovely single-family homes. The houses west of the building are in almost constant shade, but no one’s complaining too loudly because the hotel has created a shitload of new jobs for the town.
    The hotel started operating at half capacity at the end of May, and already the local bakery has had to hire two new people to keep up with the demand. In season, the bakery and all the other suppliers are likely to have to hire even more people. It’s worth a few extra hours of shade for a dozen families.  
    As we step in the place, I can’t help seeing the huge posters announcing the official grand opening party on June 15. It’ll be a huge barbecue on the beach with live music and a DJ who must be famous, given the size of the letters used to write his name. I follow Slider along a very long bar to a door marked “Staff Only.” He pushes the door open and enters as if he owns the place.  
    At a large table, a dozen people eat lunch almost silently. One of them is Mimi. Sitting across from her is Toussaint, eating a sandwich wrapped in silver foil. So much for the generosity of the hotel management. Toussaint is allowed to join Mimi on weekends.  
    The kid sees me and jumps out of his chair. “David!” He run to me, oblivious to the fact that other people are in the room.  
    They all look up from their plates. The few who were inclined to smile as Toussaint jumps in my arms to hug me frown when they notice Slider. He’s wearing his biker’s uniform and looks very badass.  
    An elderly man stands and addresses Mimi with a very clipped British accent. “Jeanne-Michelle, my dear, why don’t you entertain your gentlemen callers outside? Don’t forget that your service starts in twenty-five minutes.”
    “Thank you, sir,” Mimi answers with a clenched jaw, glaring at us. She folds her napkin and gets up.
    Slider has a half smile, probably from the “gentleman” designation. I’m ready to bet it’s been a long time, if ever, since he’s been called that. He opens the door, and Mimi passes me to follow him outside the common dining room. I gesture to Toussaint that he should go back to his seat and finish his lunch.
    Smiling at the man who’s probably the head waiter, or whatever they call their chief of staff, I ask, “You don’t mind, do you?”  
    Since I’m sitting on Mimi’s chair before he has a chance to answer, he saves face by nodding. Toussaint looks at me with an ear-to-ear grin and resumes his attack on his sandwich.  
    “How have you been?” I ask.
    He chews his