Pacino (Hellfire Daredevils MC #2)

Chapter 1

Pacino

“You know, I employ you for this very reason,” I bark into the phone as I walk along the strip mall. “I’m not what you’d call a people person. Which is exactly why I fucking hired you.”

I make sure to hold the phone on my right side to show off my scar on the left side. Most men would do what they can to hide it, but I like to make it known. Keeps people away most of the time.

And I know Scotty knows our roles in the security company. It’s no surprise to anyone who spends thirty seconds in a room with me—least of all an employee who’s worked for me for the past five years—that I’m more of a behind-the-scenes type of guy.

We’re in disagreement on whether or not I’m a good face for the company. Literally. I think the scar marring my left cheek makes me too imposing, but Scotty insists it evokes toughness.

Like the Hellfire Daredevils MC kutte I wear doesn’t shout how fucking tough I am.

In the club, I guess I’d be considered an enforcer. I’m the motherfucker called in to stand there to be imposing. To make threats, and then inevitably break faces.

Not the fucking meet-and-greet type of person.

“Sorry, Pacino, I’m sick.”

The fake cough he gives me makes me roll my eyes. “I hear Sarah in the background, asshole. And don’t you dare try to tell me she’s sick, too.”

I’d believe that even less than his bullshit acting.

Scotty’s eight years younger than me, and while he doesn’t come off as tough, he can hold his own until I make it wherever I’m needed to handle the problem.

And he’s the charming one of us. The true face of Eagle Eye Security.

The one who can convince clients to sign up with us, and then I’m the one called in when they worry he’s not strong enough to keep them safe.

I can also spot bullshit within seconds of any interaction. Another reason I’m the one called in to deal with people when they become difficult.

Which is why he should know I can tell this conversation is laced with it.

“Man, look, it’s been busy for both of us at work. At the bakery, she had graduation, and now it’s wedding season. Not to mention her classes. We haven’t seen each other for more than an hour in over three weeks. I gotta get it in, man.”

I haven’t had a girlfriend in over a decade, but I can empathize with him. While I don’t have a girl to play hooky with, I can head over to Velvet Desire and get what I need from Queenie.

We have a rule that the club doesn’t fuck the escorts, but Queenie’s the loophole. And I’m one of the three miserable assholes who get to visit her to help elevate our moods. As much as possible, anyway.

To be fair, I’m far more agreeable for about three hours after fucking Queenie. Sex is a human need, after all. And without the commitment shit to go with it, it’s even better.

And Queenie’s amazing. She knows what I need, and she’s always willing. She has a man at home—something I’ll never fucking understand—so she doesn’t get attached. There’s never a conversation about wanting more than I’m willing to give. Which is my cock and nothing more.

Because I know firsthand just how weak women make men. And I refuse to be like Zep.

He almost lost his girl, first because of the twat he calls his ex, and then to the president of our rival club. Lost puppy. That’s what he was, and Misty Reynolds and her daughter are now Zeppelin Molloy’s weaknesses.

I’ll never be that again.

“You owe me, motherfucker.”

“There’s something you should know about her boss—”

“I’m here. I’m sure I can figure it out myself.”

Opening the door to the bakery called—I shit you not—Phoebe’s Phab Pastries, I walk inside as an attractive blonde walks out with a tray of donuts and the biggest grin I’ve ever seen on such a small face.

The bakery is bright. Really fucking bright. Pretty sure she brought in a box of crayons, pulled out the yellow one, and told the paint guy that was the vibe she was going for. Because that’s exactly what she got, and it hurts my eyes.

“Hi there! We’re not open quite yet, but I can offer you a free donut. Fresh from the fryer.”

“If you’re not open yet, why is the door unlocked?”

“I’m waiting for someone. My right-hand gal’s boyfriend is supposed to be coming to talk to me about a security system. We got robbed last night.”

Lifting an eyebrow, I shake my head. She’s far too perky for this early in the morning. And for getting robbed last night. Normal people would be upset. They’d be suspicious of men who look like me walking in the door. Hell, they’d lock the fucking door.

“Scotty, uh, asked for the morning off. You got me instead.”

“Oh, you work for Scotty? He’s a good kid. Donut?”

Why the hell does it feel like she’s trying to shove food down my throat? “No, and Scotty works for me. What happened last night?”

“You own Eagle Eye Security? Scotty talks very highly about his boss. I’m Phoebe. Phoebe Phelps.”

There’s no fucking way that’s her real name.

She holds out a small hand over the counter between us, and I’m taken aback for a moment. Such a small hand for a girl as tall as she is, and I shake my head. I don’t really do physical contact.

Unless I’m hitting someone. That’s something I don’t mind. Might even say I enjoy it.

“They call me Pacino.”

“Pacino?”

God, I hate it when people don’t get the reference.

It’s like laughing at your own joke because no one else understands.

And it’s basically the same as turning on a fucking flashing neon sign above me with an arrow pointing to the part of me everyone gawks at anyway.

It’s like having to relive the worst part of my life all over again.

“You know… Al Pacino? The actor?”

Phoebe’s hazel eyes shine. “Is your name Al?”

How the fuck do I respond to that? I almost just turn and walk away. This chick is bananas.

“No, he starred in a movie called Scarface. And…” I point at the large, unmistakable scar on my left cheek and shrug.

Her pretty eyes widen, and the shine disappears. Her mouth forms a horrified O shape. “That’s horrible! What’s your real name?”

Oh, fuck me. And fuck Scotty for making me deal with her. She’s the type of woman who gets returned by kidnappers because she’s annoying as hell. Duct tape wouldn’t do a lot of good with her.

“Tucker Vega, but I go by Pacino. It’s my road name. See the leather?” I ask and point at my chest because I’m not convinced she’s all there upstairs.

“I’ll call you Tucker. Or would you prefer Tuck?”

“I’d prefer you call me Pacino.”

She shakes her head and moves around the counter with a donut to sit at a table beside me. “No, sir. That’s cruel. No, sit and eat.”

Yep, this woman is batshit crazy. Off her fucking rocker. And I doubt she’s going to let me leave this bakery without one of these donuts making it into my mouth. If I don’t eat it voluntarily, she might just shove it down my damn throat.

“Tell me what happened,” I say, taking an angry bite.

The donut just melts in my mouth, and I damn near moan. This is the best donut I’ve ever eaten, and my annoyance lessens a fraction. Woman can bake.

“Let me get you some coffee,” she says, hopping up and walking behind the counter to pour a cup.

It gives me a chance to examine her, and while I don’t have relations with anyone other than Queenie, I can appreciate a nice form. And she’s fucking gorgeous.

Lean with a cute ass. Her heart-shaped face has a smattering of freckles along her nose, and she’s the type of pretty that’s understated. The kind that doesn’t need makeup, but if she wears it, she will stun anyone and everyone around her.

The type of pretty many women hate.

She’s also the skinniest baker I’ve ever met in my life. No one this skinny should make donuts this good.

Phoebe returns to the table with a cup of coffee and another donut paired with a smile to show off her pearly whites. “Someone broke in through the back door last night. Looks like crowbar marks on the frame. Then they drilled a hole through the safe. Took our deposit.”

She’s too damn perky for this. At this point, I’m not sure which one of us needs a straitjacket more. Her for being… her, or me for being secretly happy to have another donut in front of me. I could eat these until I throw up.

“How much was taken?”

“Just over twelve thousand.”

Choking on the coffee, which is up there with some of the best I’ve ever tasted, I gape at her. “Is that for the week?”

“Oh, no, we do daily deposits.”

I’m shocked. Is she dealing whatever drugs she takes to be this damn perky this early in the morning? Does she put them in the donuts? Because fuck, I guess I’m getting high then. I’m never going to stop eating these.

“You make that in a day? And you don’t already have a security system?”

“No, that’s more than average. We had three weddings and an anniversary party yesterday.”

“Three weddings… How many people work here?”

“Just Sarah. Scotty’s girlfriend.”

Like I didn’t already know that. But she pulled off three wedding cakes and whatever the hell gets served at an anniversary party in a day with only her and one other person?

Forget the drugs, I think I need to start looking around here for a charging port.

There is no way this woman can be human. She has to be a machine.

“Why didn’t you drop it off last night? Does your bank not have nightly deposit boxes?”

Phoebe grimaces. “It gets kind of dicey at night, so we bring the money in the morning. Those who hang around looking to cause trouble tend to be asleep by then.”

Taking another drink, I nod. “Any idea who might have broken in? How they knew you keep the deposits until morning?”

“No, but I assume whoever took it needs it more than I do. It’ll be a little tight this month, but I’ll figure it out. You can always make more money, right?”

I just sit there and blink at her for a few moments. The person who stole twelve grand from her is someone who needs it more than her? And she can just make more money?

Yep, bitch be crazy.

“Okay, well, we have a few options for security to discuss…”

She may be a bona fide lunatic, but damn if the crazy woman can’t bake. And make one hell of a cup of coffee.