Graveyards & Greed (Las Vegas House of Spades #2)

1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Sylvie

Two Months Prior

I took a deep, shuddering breath, then pushed my chest out and shoved open the grimy black door to Titties Bar in North Las Vegas. A few bikers turned to leer at me in my skimpy halter dress, heavy makeup, and big brunette wig. A temporary snake and rose tattoo on my shoulder completed my new look.

The stench of stale beer and sweaty, unwashed bodies mingled with the acrid smell of cigarette and marijuana smoke. A thick haze hung in the air, and I wondered if it was possible to get hotboxed from all the second-hand smoke.

Neon signs buzzed on the walls, casting a lurid glow against the mostly middle-aged, overweight bikers who occasionally catcalled the topless dancers. This place made nasty dive bars look like quaint little coffee shops.

I chomped on my gum and dodged a few groping hands as I scanned the smoky room, my eyes sweeping past leather-clad bikers and bored, mostly naked women gyrating on the small stage.

“Lookin’ for some cock to suck, sweet cheeks?” I glanced up to see a red-nosed, smelly biker with a paunch that spilled over his belt like soft dough.

“That’s a real temptin’ offer, but I’m looking for Eightball. He owes me back child support,” I whined in a nasally, obnoxious tone, my gaze still scanning the crowd.

The biker stared at me, then snorted. “I didn’t know that mean little punk had a kid. Good luck, honey. How’d he get a hot snatch like you, anyway?”

Hot snatch? Who talked like that? My lips wanted to curl in disgust. “Aw, aren’t you sweet?” I patted his cheek roughly and stepped around him as I searched for Samuel “Eightball” LeBaron. Chances were good he was here somewhere. The little fucktwit belonged to the OutKast motorcycle club, and I’d been told he couldn't resist cheap liquor, recreational drugs, or bargain blowjobs. If that was true, this was certainly his kind of place.

It was late August, and a heat wave held Sin City by the throat. I didn’t have a bra on under my dress so beads of sweat slid straight down my back. As I continued to search through the haze, my eyes snagged on a man leaning against the bar who didn’t belong.

His muscular frame and expensive suit contrasted starkly with all the black leather and dirty denim around him.

It took me a second, but I recognized Drakos Creed as one of the partners at Fowler, Underwood, Creed, and… something that started with a K. Their acronym spelled out FUCK, which I had to admit was a funny name for a law firm.

Vague rumors floated around about FUCK, Legal being more like an organized crime syndicate than a law firm. Salacious stories also circulated about the partners rotating through women like underwear, and frequenting strip and sex clubs. The rumor mill in Las Vegas was as overblown and fake as the Strip, so I believed about ten percent of what I heard, but there were a lot of stories about those guys.

The gorgeous attorney looked to be in his early thirties with thick black hair and a sharp, angular face. He had day-old stubble that saved him from being too pretty for this shithole. His eyes were fixed on a point across the bar, and I followed his gaze to where a thin, stringy-haired biker sat at a high-top table in the corner. My hands clenched when I noticed Eightball LeBaron sitting next to the biker, both wearing their OutKast leather cuts. He stared at one of the younger dancers as he took a shot of tequila. Rage and bone-deep loathing flashed through me. It was dangerous and reckless to come here alone, but I’d run out of ideas and time.

Sometimes people just needed to die. Balling my fists, I fought the urge to walk over, pull out my gun, and shoot the evil bastard in the face. I’d strapped a small pistol to the inside of my thigh and tucked a syringe of fentanyl-laced morphine in my skirt pocket. The person who sold it to me assured me if I could get it into his bloodstream, it’d get the job done. The gun grip chafed against my crotch as I straightened to get a better look, but I ignored it.

I’d been hunting Eightball since getting a frantic phone call from Trina Lopez about her granddaughter, Camilla, just over a week ago. Watching the fucker now, he reminded me of a cockroach scurrying out from under the sink in the middle of the night to copulate and steal crumbs before he scurried back.

Drakos Creed also stared at LeBaron and his biker friend. Fuck. I didn’t want some slick lawyer who was here slumming to screw up my already sketchy plans. But as I continued to observe, I realized Drakos was also staking out one or both of the bikers, and I wondered why.

Tossing back the rest of his drink, the overdressed man set his glass down on the bar. He was braver than me. The only thing I’d be ordering from this place was something that came in a bottle or can, and I still planned to wipe the lip off before drinking.

Eightball continued to watch the dancer, then slid off his stool and walked over to the stage. He snapped his fingers and pointed at the poor girl. Her gaze darted around as if she wanted to either run or ignore him, but she stopped dancing and hesitantly made her way over. Even with the dark eye makeup and skimpy G-string, she looked scared and barely legal.

He grabbed the back of her bleached hair, pulled her head back, and bent to talk in her ear. Her eyes went teary as she listened, then slowly nodded. When Eightball let her go, she sank to her knees on the sticky, dirty floor as he took his dick out.

Acid burned in my stomach, and I turned away to hide my loathing. A few minutes later, Eightball’s ass tightened, and his head fell back as he came down her throat. Then he used the girl’s hair to wipe off his cock, shoved her face away with the palm of his hand, and zipped up his pants. When he pulled out a goddamned twenty-dollar bill and threw it at her chest, I knew I was going to kill the little prick tonight.

As I edged closer, he grinned and sauntered back over to his biker friend, his inebriated laughter sounding like nails scratching across glass.

Drakos approached the men while I ordered a bottle of light beer from the older, heavily tattooed bartender. Slapping a five-dollar bill on the bar, I took my beer and sat at the table right behind Eightball to eavesdrop as I pretended to play on my phone.

“Interesting bar,” I heard Drakos drawl, sliding into a seat at their table. “Are you regulars here?”

Eightball’s friend grunted, not looking up. “Who the fuck’s askin’?”

Drakos leaned in, ignoring the man’s rudeness. “That beauty parked outside in the alley… the 1960s Harley Electra Glide. Is that yours?"

The biker’s chest puffed out with pride, and his squinty eyes flicked toward Drakos for a few seconds before returning to study one of the dancers. “Might be.”

“Nice ride. I've got a few vintage bikes myself. Where’d you get it?”

“A friend,” the man mumbled, finally giving Drakos a sidelong glance. "Who the hell are you, anyway?"

“Jack Napier. I collect classic motorcycles. They say every bike has a soul. Do you feel it when you ride that bike?”

"You're fuckin’ crazy,” the man muttered, taking a drink.

LeBaron rolled his eyes and stuck his thumb drunkenly toward his friend. “I’m Eightball, and this here’s Grunge. He’s a prick even when he isn’t drunk. How about you buy us a round, then he’ll talk to you?”

Drakos nodded to the bartender, and two Bud Lights with shots of tequila hit the bar. ”Who owns the bike?” Drakos asked in a light, conversational tone. But his eyes were sharp.

“Me,” Grunge bragged. Drakos nodded, pretending to watch the stage.

I mentally shook my head. This Drakos guy looked completely out of place, but no one messed with him. I was out of place here too, but at least I’d tried to blend in. My curiosity pricked as I watched them. What was he after? They talked for a few minutes, and I slid off my stool, my black, lace-up boots sticking to the floor. I’d decided to leave the heels at home in case I needed to make a run for it. Plastering a vapidly stupid expression on my face, I turned to Eightball.

“Hey, I’m lookin’ for some product. I hear you're the guy to talk to.”

Eightball's hard eyes raked over me with unapologetic lewdness, zeroing in on my unfettered breasts.

“What exactly you lookin’ for?” he asked, his lips curling up in a suggestive grin.

Bile climbed my throat, but I swallowed it down. “A little bump. Can you hook me up, big guy?” I let one of my dimples flash briefly as bait. Eightball leaned closer, his breath reeking of stale tobacco, beer, and onions. Drakos glanced over, his eyes quickly scanning me.

“Sure, honey. Let’s take this outside.”

Drakos stood and set his glass on the table. “Let's go look at the bike while you’re out there. You can give her what she came for, and Grunge and I can negotiate a price.” As they talked, I realized with a start that Drakos Creed was more than a handsome attorney slumming it for the night. He was on the hunt too, and we’d somehow become unwilling partners.

Eightball smirked and slugged back the rest of his tequila, then gestured toward the back door just off the restrooms. “Yeah, let’s take this to the alley.” He rubbed against me as he walked by, and I grinned wide. But the smile slipped when he and Grunge walked past.

Following these three men into the dark alley behind Titties was a colossal lapse in judgment, but I itched to make Eightball pay for all the pain and damage he’d caused, and Drakos piqued my curiosity.

Besides, Eightball was wasted and Grunge wasn’t too far behind. The bar's neon lights flickered, casting a sordid glow over the scene as we headed to the back door.

I felt the small syringe in my pocket and palmed it. “Abandon hope all ye who enter here,” I murmured absently as we walked into the alley.

Setting my thumb on the plunger, I got ready to pull it out and slide it into Eightball’s neck, when a firm hand clasped my arm.

I startled and looked up at Drakos Creed. The man could move quietly. He shook his head and squeezed my arm, then let go. The message was clear—he wanted me to wait. His intense blue eyes locked on mine, and I relaxed under his grip and gave a small nod.

Releasing the vial, I masked my irritation with a fake grin. I’d been relying on Eightball being drunk enough not to feel the needle slide in, but it was a crapshoot. I’d also let my hatred get away from me. If Drakos suspected what I was up to and decided to expose me, I’d be in a world of hurt.

“I didn't catch your name.” Drakos’s piercing blue gaze pinned mine. “I’m always curious about women who can quote Dante.”

"Oh, was that Dante?” I shook his hand off and pulled a little Dum Dum sucker out of my other pocket, unwrapped it, and popped it between my bright red lips. “I’m Harley Quinn. Should I call you the Joker, then?”

Drakos grinned, his white teeth gleaming against the dim light. The name he’d given the bikers was the Joker’s name in The Dark Knight . He now knew I wasn’t some dumb cokehead.

“Fine. I’ll call you Lollipop—for now.” He eyed my mouth, and I crunched down on the sucker.

As we stepped further into the back alley, Eightball scowled at us, probably wondering why we were talking. A classic Harley Davidson sat in the alley not far from the back door. Heat still rose from the asphalt, and sweat gathered under my breasts. The stink of sour, hot garbage wafted from the dumpster close to the exit, and even at this time of night, the dry, hot air made it hard to breathe.

Drakos turned to Eightball. “Before you start with her, I want to discuss the bike.”

Eightball nodded toward Grunge impatiently. “Talk to him.”

Drakos eyed the bike critically. “Do you have the key?”

Grunge pulled it out. “Yeah. I told you it was mine.”

I turned to Eightball and clasped my hands together. “So? Can you sell me some blow?”

A slow, mean grin spread over his face. “Yeah, bitch. I’ll give you something to blow.”

Grunge snorted behind us as my heart started to pound, but not from fear. Pretending his insinuation went over my head, I nodded enthusiastically. I figured Drakos was the most dangerous man out here, but for whatever reason, I didn’t think he’d harm me.

Eightball gave me a thorough eye fucking while Drakos asked Grunge something about the bike.

“You want your coke before or after you blow me?”

I twirled a lock of hair. It felt synthetic and brittle. “I never said I’d blow anyone.”

Eightball chuckled, a grating sound that echoed off the walls. "You bein’ a cock tease now? You bitches are all the same. You want the product but don’t want to put out.”

“I said I wanted to buy a bump. I didn’t agree to blow you, your friend, or this stiff in a suit here.” I caught Drakos' gaze, trying to decipher what his plan was.

“Listen,” Drakos interjected smoothly. “I’m interested in something bigger than her fix and a blowjob. Are you going to sell the bike or not?”

Grunge crossed his arms. “The bike is mine, I’m not fuckin’ sellin’ it.”

But Eightball squinted at Drakos. “What would you give me for it?”

“I think you’d be surprised.”

“How much is that? It doesn’t have a title.”

Drakos still wore his suit jacket and silk tie, and there wasn’t a dark hair out of place. “That’s fine, I can get my own paperwork. I want the bike.”

“It’s going to be expensive,” Eightball mused, scratching his chin.

Drakos grinned and inclined his head. “I’m aware.”

I wanna keep it,” Grunge whined.

“Shut your fuckin’ mouth,” Eightball muttered.

A burst of adrenaline shot through me as Grunge turned to Eightball, and they started arguing in earnest.

Drakos leaned in and murmured, "Stay back.” I could feel his breath on my neck.

“Sure.” There was no way I’d be staying back.

Eightball finally turned to Drakos as he dug into his pocket. “You and Grunge come to an agreement on price while this bitch gets high, then takes it up her ass as payment.”

I knew what this piece of shit had done to Camilla, and I suddenly couldn’t keep up the pretense anymore. “Yeah, that’s not going to happen, you fucking child rapist.” I dropped the whiny, high tone, my cold voice echoing off the brick walls.

The alley was a dead end, and the only light came from a flickering bulb above the dumpster. His reflexes were probably hampered by all the tequila and whatever else he’d ingested that night, and he tilted his head as if trying to process the change in me.

Drakos straightened and turned toward Grunge, his eyes glinting. “This shouldn’t take long.”

I didn’t think he was talking to me, but I answered anyway. “Okay.”

Eightball’s hindbrain must have sensed the danger. He straightened and faced me. “If you wanna walk out of this alley alive, get on your hands and knees. Now.”

Before I could reply, Drakos struck Grunge. He moved with lazy grace, even in his suit. A swift, straightforward jab to Grunge’s nose sent him staggering back. The oddly satisfying sound of cartilage crunching filled my ears.

I turned back in time to see Eightball go after something at the small of his back, and I instinctively brought my leg up and gave him a punch kick to his knee. He staggered, but he stayed on his feet.

The kick made him raving mad, though. Bellowing, he lunged at me, getting a good grip on my arm before I could evade him. I wrenched away, but he’d dug his fingernails into my skin, giving me a few nasty gashes as I yanked free.

My edgy combat boots weren’t just a fashion statement. I flowed into a fighting stance and breathed out. When he came at me again, I kicked out and slammed my steel toe into his crotch. He froze, then fell back against the wall as I stepped forward, grabbed his head, and slammed it against the brick with a thud that resonated through my bones as he crumpled to the ground, gasping in pain. Pulling the syringe out of my tiny pocket, I fumbled to remove the needle cap.

“Fucking hell.” Letting out a long breath to get my nerves under control, I situated the syringe in my fingers, then bent over Eightball and stabbed him deep in the neck, plunging the deadly concoction into his system.

“This is for Camilla. I hope it burns like fucking acid in your veins, and you suffer before you die,” I croaked out, then stood back. He jerked as it hit his system, his eyes wide and scared before they rolled back in his head. When he went limp and stopped breathing, I turned only to find Drakos standing right behind me, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “So. You’re not here for a bump then.”