19. Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Seventeen
Ginger
My fingers twisted together in my lap, nails digging half-moons into my palms as I tried to keep my breathing steady. The clubhouse hummed around me with the usual energy, but I might as well have been underwater for all I heard. KiKi was in trouble. And in this world, trouble never stayed small.
The corner table had become my refuge—dark enough to disappear into when needed, positioned perfectly to see both the main entrance and the hallway leading to the back rooms. Right now, that strategic position felt like a burden. I'd watched three prospects carry in cases of whiskey, the club girls flutter in and out like territorial birds, and at least five members head toward the chapel for what wasn't supposed to be meeting night. Something was happening, and that made KiKi's situation even more dangerous.
I pulled my phone from my pocket, checking it for the tenth time in as many minutes. Nothing. My last text to her— You okay? —sat unanswered.
Movement caught my eye—two broad figures cutting through the crowded room with purpose. Bronx and Reno. My chest tightened. The way they moved—direct, gazes locked on me—told me they had noticed something was off.
I straightened, wiping my damp palms against my jeans. These men noticed everything. It's what kept them alive. And right now, their full attention was trained on me.
Bronx reached the table first, his frame casting a shadow over me as he slid into the chair opposite. The leather of his cut creaked as he leaned forward, forearms on the table. His gaze searched my face.
"What's wrong?" he asked, voice pitched low enough that it wouldn't carry beyond our table.
Reno stepped beside me, one hand coming to rest on the back of my chair. Not touching me, but close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from him. A silent sentinel. Protection and warning wrapped in one.
"Nothing," I said, the lie so transparent I couldn't even commit to it. My voice cracked on the second syllable.
Bronx's eyebrow lifted slightly—a movement so subtle you'd miss it if you weren't looking for it. But I'd learned to read these men, at least a little. That eyebrow meant he knew I was bullshitting him and wasn't going to waste time calling me on it.
"Try again," he said.
I swallowed, glancing around the room. Two prospects were playing pool, their laughter too loud, too forced. A group of members huddled near the bar, heads bent in conversation. Two club girls perched on barstools, watching the room like hawks. Too many eyes. Too many ears.
"I—" My voice faltered. "It's probably nothing."
Reno's fingers brushed against my shoulder, a touch so light it could have been my imagination. "Ginger," he said, my name carrying a warning. "We don't do this dance."
He was right. In their world, hesitation got people hurt. Information was currency, and right now, I was hoarding what might be valuable coins.
"It's KiKi," I finally whispered. "I think she's in trouble."
The energy between the two men shifted instantly. I felt it like the way the air feels just before lightning strikes.
Bronx's fingers tapped once, twice on the table. "What kind?"
"The Vegas kind.”
Reno's hand tightened on my chair. "When?"
"I went with her to see Vegas. She had something to confess. Then Vegas kicked me out, and she hasn’t been back out here. It’s been an hour or more."
Bronx's eyes flicked to the crowded room, then back to me. His jaw worked, muscles flexing beneath the dark stubble. "Not here," he said.
I nodded, relief and new tension warring inside me.
"Upstairs," Reno said, his voice a rumble close to my ear.
I stood, my legs shakier than I'd expected. Reno's hand found the small of my back, steadying me without making it obvious to anyone watching.
Bronx rose, towering over me. "Don't look like we're heading to a funeral."
I forced my shoulders to relax, tried to arrange my face into something less panic-stricken. Reno's hand pressed a fraction harder against my back.
"Better," he murmured.
We moved through the crowded room, Bronx leading, me in the middle, Reno guarding the rear. The noise of the main room faded as we approached the staircase. One of the prospects stepped forward as if to speak to Bronx. One look had him stepping back, gaze dropping to the floor.
That's when I saw him—Detroit, emerging from the hallway that led to the back. Our eyes met for just a heartbeat, and something cold slithered down my spine. His mouth curved into what might have been a smile if it hadn't been so empty of humor.
Reno must have felt me stiffen because his hand pressed more firmly against my back, urging me forward. I stumbled on the first step, and Bronx's hand shot out, catching my elbow.
"Easy," he said.
I nodded, not trusting my voice. Detroit's gaze followed us as we ascended the stairs, his gaze a physical weight I could feel between my shoulder blades. My heart hammered against my ribs, too fast, too hard.
The second floor hallway stretched before us. Reno guided me toward our suite, his hand never leaving my back.
Bronx pushed the door open, gesturing for me to enter first. I stepped into the dimly lit room. The door closed behind us with a soft click that sounded final somehow, like the period at the end of a sentence.
Now, in this private space I would have to lay out KiKi's secrets. The weight of that responsibility pressed down on me, making it hard to breathe.
"Sit," Bronx said, nodding toward the couch.
I sank onto it, suddenly exhausted. The adrenaline that had kept me wired was beginning to ebb, leaving behind a bone-deep fatigue. Reno settled beside me.
Bronx remained standing, arms crossed over his chest. "Tell us everything," he said. "From the beginning."
I took a deep breath and prepared to betray my best friend's confidence to save her life.
"Take your time," Reno said, his voice gentler than most people ever got to hear. "But tell us everything."
I looked down at my hands, trying to find the right words.
"KiKi lied when she said she didn’t know who the baby’s father was. She’s pretty sure it’s Vegas’, and Detroit overheard her telling me.”
“Shit,” Bronx muttered.
“He forced her to go tell Vegas, and I went with her. I don’t think he took it well, but he threw me out. I texted KiKi to see if she was okay, but she hasn’t read the message much less answered. I’m scared. What if Vegas is so furious he hurts her?” I swallowed hard. “Is that something I need to worry about? Would he really do something like that? Detroit made it sound like Vegas wouldn’t hesitate to hurt her, or even kill her.”
The silence that followed felt thick enough to touch. I forced myself to look up. Bronx's expression hadn't changed, but something in his eyes had—a sharpening, like a predator catching a scent.
"In the past, yeah. Vegas has been known to kill a girl or two. Always for lying to him or betraying the club. And KiKi lied by telling him she didn’t know who the baby’s father was. That’s definitely not good.”
“But the fact it’s his…” Reno paused. “It could go either way. He’s older now. Whether you believe it or not, he’s mellowed since those early days. I don’t think he’d hurt her, but he’s definitely going to be pissed.”
My stomach twisted at their words. I'd been right to worry. I stared at them, trying to read past their controlled expressions.
"Could he..." I couldn't finish the sentence, the words sticking in my throat like broken glass.
Bronx moved closer. "Vegas isn't stupid. He won't do anything that would bring heat down on the club."
"But KiKi isn't club," I whispered, the realization hitting me like a physical blow. "She's just a club girl. She's dispensable."
Reno's arm slid around my shoulders, pulling me against him. His leather cut was cool against my feverish skin. I could smell the road on him—asphalt, wind, and something darker, more primal.
"She's carrying his kid," he said, his voice a low rumble I could feel through his chest. "That changes things."
"Does it?" I turned to face him, our faces inches apart. "Or does it make it worse? What if he doesn't want the baby? What if he thinks she trapped him?"
Bronx sighed, the sound heavy with something I couldn't name. He lowered himself onto the coffee table across from us, knees nearly touching mine. The leather of his cut creaked as he leaned forward.
"Ginger, listen to me. This isn't your problem to fix."
I felt my jaw tighten. "She's my friend."
"And she's a grown woman who made her choices," Bronx countered, his voice gentle but firm. "Vegas and KiKi will work this out between them."
"And if they don't?" The words escaped before I could stop them.
Bronx's expression hardened slightly. "Then that's still not your business."
The bluntness of his words stung, even though I knew he was right. In this world, getting involved in someone else's drama was a good way to end up as collateral damage.
"I can't just—" I started, but Reno's fingers tightened on my shoulder.
"Yes, you can," he said. "And you will."
I searched his face, looking for some crack in his resolve, some way to make him understand what it felt like to sit here, helpless, while KiKi might be in danger. But his expression remained unyielding.
"Detroit threatened her," I said, a last desperate attempt. "He practically dragged her to Vegas."
"Detroit's an asshole," Bronx said matter-of-factly. "But he's loyal to Vegas. If Vegas thinks the baby is his, Detroit won't touch her."
I let that sink in, trying to find comfort in it. The logic made sense, but logic didn't always apply in this world of violence and testosterone.
Reno pulled me closer, his warmth seeping through my clothes. I inhaled deeply, his scent giving me comfort. His hand traced slow circles on my back, the gentle motion at odds with the hard lines of his body.
"Kitten," Bronx said, his voice dropping to that honey-gravel tone that made my insides melt despite my worry. "KiKi's been in this life longer than you. She knows how to handle herself."
I wanted to believe him. Needed to believe him. But the image of Vegas’ cold eyes kept flashing in my mind.
"What if she doesn't come back?" I whispered against Reno's chest.
His heartbeat thrummed steady under my ear. "She will."
"But if she doesn't—"
"Then we'll deal with it," Bronx cut in, his hand finding my knee. His thumb traced lazy patterns there, the heat of his touch burning through my jeans. "But not before we need to."
The room fell silent except for our breathing. My eyes burned with unshed tears, but I refused to let them fall. Crying wouldn't help KiKi. Nothing I could do would help her right now.
The realization hit me like a physical blow. I was powerless here. In this world of alpha men, I had no standing to intervene. The knowledge settled in my stomach like a stone.
"I hate this," I admitted, my voice barely audible.
Reno's chest rumbled with what might have been a chuckle. "Welcome to the life, Ginger. Nobody said it was pretty."
"I know that," I said, pulling back to look at him. His eyes were dark, unreadable. "But she's pregnant. Doesn't that count for something?"
Bronx's hand slid higher on my thigh, a gesture meant to comfort rather than arouse, though my body didn't seem to understand the distinction.
"It counts for everything," he said. "Vegas isn't a monster, Ginger. He's a businessman. A killer when he needs to be, yeah, but not stupid."
"A baby could be a good thing," Reno added, his breath warm against my temple. "Continues the bloodline. Like I said, Vegas is getting older. An heir might appeal to him."
I hadn't considered that angle. In my panic, I'd only seen the worst possibilities. But what if they were right? What if Vegas, after his initial anger, embraced the idea of fatherhood?
"So she might be okay?" I asked, hating how small my voice sounded.
Bronx's lips curved into a half-smile. "More than okay. If that baby is Vegas’, KiKi just secured herself a position few club girls ever achieve."
“I have a feeling she’ll be his old lady before this is over,” Reno said. “So stop worrying so much.”
I nodded and closed my eyes, hoping they were right.