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coldly as he shook his head. “We’re safe here. Surely you’re not suggesting I hide anything from my brothers?”
    Kink laughed as he continued to work on a Harley.
    “It’s not like that,” I replied icily. “I’m not trying to get you into bed. You do realize I’m an attorney? That means if I say it’s personal, I mean I could be disbarred for not adhering to client-attorney privilege. Is it sinking in now?”
    Cillian stopped working on a custom design and strode over to us. “Trey, why don’t you take Ms. Hughes inside and use your room to talk to her. If it’s as important as she says, go ahead and take a break. Hell, take all the time you need.”
    His blue eyes stared at me intently before he walked away.
    Trey glared my way before turning on his heel and walking toward the clubhouse. I caught up with him quickly until we were side-by-side. He didn’t say anything as he directed me up a set of stairs and down the hall. The place had been recently remodeled and it looked clean, sterile, and roomy enough to withstand a long-term lockdown should it happen.
    Finally, he stopped at a door, pulled out a set of keys and opened it. Looking back at me, he walked inside but held it open so I could follow him in before he shut the door behind us.
    Trey’s private quarters were clean and orderly to the point of obsession. His bed was made with classic military precision and there weren’t any clothes or shoes thrown about the room. He simply had a king-sized bed, fancy desk with a comfortable leather office chair, and a fifteen-inch MacBook Pro. I turned around and also viewed an oak drawer set with a thirty-six inch flat screen television, Blu-ray player, and speakers to amp the sound.
    “Why don’t you sit on the bed and tell me what this is about?” he demanded loudly, snapping me out of my thoughts.
    I’d judged this man all wrong. From the way he worked on motorcycles to his brilliance as a computer hacker, I assumed he’d be like most men I’d known my whole life. Grown up boys who were dirty, bathed when they remembered to, and weren’t great with housekeeping. This guy was the complete opposite - it made him an utter enigma.
    I cleared my throat as I sat down on his perfect bed. I felt bad about rumpling the down comforter but he didn’t seem to mind as he sat next to me, completely calm and quiet. He crossed his arms against firm pecs that were clearly visible through his tight, white t-shirt. His stance, obviously defensive, almost hostile, bothered me more than I cared to admit.
    Why was he being so dismissive toward me? Had I done something wrong? I’d always assumed we were friendly, and although he was part of the Saints MC, I didn’t resent him for leaving the Bastards. I assumed it was something personal and never asked my father about it; not that he would have told me anyway. He’d have merely grunted, “Club business—nothing for you to worry your pretty little head about.”
    As if I wasn’t an attorney who served both clubs—just like my partner—and like we were civvies, completely unaware with what the clubs were doing. Hell, we’d use the law firm as a money-laundering front, setting up accounts everywhere from Switzerland to the Cayman Islands for the clubs, the Mafia, and the cartel. They certainly weren’t sending clean money to any of those places when large-scale transfers were involved.
    I felt like we were still looked upon as children or old ladies—nothing was our business until someone got into legal trouble and then it was our business to get them out of it. The contradictory sons of bitches were all alike. Women weren’t good for anything but screwing and having babies until they really needed us; then we were supposed to go above and beyond the call of duty to make them happy.
    Fucking bikers.
    Fuck the motherfucking MC, and all their stupid fucking codes and rules, and club motherfucking business.
    “I know Killer told us to take all the time we needed but