1. Ozzie
1
OZZIE
Sixteen years later…
My father would be the first one to tell you he was a piece of shit. He wasn’t a good guy, and if anybody was gonna win the Worst Dad of the Year award, it’d be him. He’d be taking home the trophy for Worst Husband Ever too.
But if there was one thing he knew, it was money. And he was right when he said there wasn’t a thing on this earth that money couldn’t buy.
No friends? Money. No girl? Money. Cops on your ass? Bribe them… with money.
Paper is the universal language. Everybody speaks it; everybody damn sure takes it.
I pull out a wad of cash from a pocket in my cargo pants and shove it into the hands of the bouncer at the entrance of the club.
“That should be my cover charge,” I say. “Here for the tournament.”
The bouncer is the brawny type, biceps for days that he’s squeezed into a crewneck t-shirt two sizes too small. He flicks through the stack of Ben Franks and then motions his head for me to pass.
If I didn’t have to participate in tonight’s tournament to finish my debt, I’d probably be somewhere else in Houston.
Turns out, there’s one thing money can’t outright buy you, and that’s the freedom from Asa Boone’s blackmail.
The so-called debt isn’t a monetary debt at all. It’s more like secret keeping, covering up my presence altogether. Boone’s fully aware that I was never supposed to get mixed up in his tournaments in the first place, and he holds it over my head every chance he gets.
I’ve got two options: play in his tournament and help him rack up more money, or risk word getting back to the Steel Kings. One of their own has been associating with the Asa Boone himself, underground criminal kingpin.
No friend or ally to the MC. Possibly even an enemy at times, considering Boone’s been rumored to have ties with the Road Rebels.
It’s enough to make anybody question loyalties.
I cross through the entrance, walking into a short hall that’s cloaked in darkness.
The Déjà Vu Gentleman’s Club is not the nicest accommodation for adult entertainment around. But who’s allowed in depends on what activity’s planned for the night. If the place is being used as advertised—a club for naked chicks to gyrate for dollar bills—or if it’s being used for more nefarious activities.
Tonight happens to be one of those nights for the latter.
I didn’t drive five hours from Pulsboro to Houston for nothing. What else was I supposed to do on a weekend where everybody else is either booed up with their old lady or caught up in other personal shit? Who was I supposed to hang out with?
Johnny fucking Flanagan and his greasy hair?
I’d eat a cup of nails before I’d ever spend a night at the Steel Saloon dealing with his sourpuss ass.
It just so happened that Asa Boone’s infamous underground poker tournament was this weekend and I had reason to go and pay off this last debt. Play in one last tournament and rack up some more cash for him and then we’re supposed to be done. He’s supposed to back the fuck off and forget a Steel King was ever involved in his sketchy underground network.
A drunken, drugged mistake I made during one of my worst benders and have regretted ever since.
But beyond the tournament in Houston, I happened to be free for a weekend of partying and getting my dick wet.
Why not when I’ve got the cash, the time and no old lady waiting for me at home?
The club floor opens up before me, bathed in neon-red light and a sea of tables and chairs. In the center of the room is the stage where girls with some of the most amazing racks I’ve ever seen writhe to the music blasting from the speakers.
I’m greeted at the door by a blonde with a skirt so short, her ass cheeks hang out. She’s got lips that look like they’ve been pumped full of filler and a soft, baby voice that’s barely audible over the thumping music.
“Hey, handsome,” she coos. “Can I get you a drink?”
“Only if you come with it.”
She giggles, then says, “Go on and have a seat, cutie. I’ll be back with a bottle.”
She spins around and prances off knowing I’ll take a look at her ass.
I do. Without an ounce of shame.
Since the tournament won’t begin for another hour, I approach one of the empty tables and pull out a chair to sit down.
If some of the other Steel Kings found out what I’m up to, they’d shake their heads. Silver would be forced to question my loyalties. Mace would call me a dumbass, while Cash would point out it’s not worth the trouble. Ghost would shrug his shoulders and tell me it’s my funeral.
But it doesn’t matter what anybody else thinks. Sometimes you need to self-destruct for a few days.
Besides, Houston’s always had some of the hottest fucking women in the country and it’s been two months since Hope dumped my ass. Time to get some.
I’ve already booked a suite at the Fairmont Hotel in downtown Houston and I’ve got enough room in the jacuzzi to fit at least five.
A few minutes into sitting down, I’m already eyeballing several girls that I wouldn’t mind bringing back with me.
My tastes have always varied—women as tall as Amazons to the shorties that are easy to scoop up and throw around. Thin to curvy to big asses or small tits. White, Black, Brown, candy fucking striped. It doesn’t matter to me so long as the chick has something that catches my eye.
The ones currently on the stage whip themselves around the pole like it’s an Olympic sport. They do all sorts of gymnastics: side spins, back flips, front splits. Tricks I’ve never seen before but that earn mountains of dollar bills tossed their way.
My head sways along to the hypnotic beat as I’m glued to the performance on stage. I don’t even notice when the server who greeted me at the door returns with the bottle she promised.
“Here you go, handsome,” she says, setting down a bottle of whiskey and two shot glasses. “Let me know if there’s anything else you?—”
“You’re not having a drink with me?” I ask, grabbing her by the wrist. I grin and cock a brow at her. “Don’t tell me you’ll get in trouble. Who do I gotta bribe to get you a break?”
She giggles, glancing around as if checking for a manager, then obliges. Sliding into the chair next to mine, she says, “I’m Sugar.”
“Where’s Spice?” I ask.
Her penciled brows draw close. “Who’s that?”
“Uh, never mind.” I clear my throat and reach for the bottle and shot glasses. “I’m surprised the place’s not more packed. There’s usually a bigger crowd for Boone’s tournaments.”
Her face dims slightly. “Oh. You’re here for the tournament?”
“Yeah. That a problem?”
“Um, I don’t think I’m supposed to say. Enjoy your drink.”
“Hang on, Sugar. You said?—”
“I have customers,” she squeaks, popping to her feet. Her ass cheeks bounce under the short flap that’s her miniskirt as she strides off.
“Lips and ass shots,” I mutter under my breath. I redirect my attention back to the stage, but all the pole tricks in the world can’t distract me from what just happened.
Why would Sugar care if I’m asking about Boone’s tournament? It’s an underground poker ring, but it’s hardly a secret if I mentioned it by name…
I uncap the bottle of White Oak and fill both shot glasses with whiskey. Double the fun for me.
Another half hour passes with more girls coming out to dance. I’m still watching the stage, but I’ve moved onto observing other things too, like how empty the club floor is and how the manager has stepped out from the back to yell at one of the bouncers.
I sit up in my chair, my fingers still curled around my empty shot glass. I’ve only had three so far, which is nothing for somebody like me.
The manager jabs his finger into the bouncer’s chest, the veins in his temple throbbing. What the fuck’s got his panties in a bunch?
My Spidey senses tingle. I can feel it in the air. Something’s off. Something’s brewing.
Half rising out of my chair, I debate if I want to hang around and find out. Violence tends to be a fun pastime, and I’m never one to turn down a little chaos.
But this feels different. It feels like there’s a whole chapter of the story I’m missing.
Before I can make up my mind, my attention’s drawn toward the front of the dance floor. Up by the stage, a giant man in sunglasses and a shock of white hair has arrived with his crew. It takes me another blink in the neon-red lighting to realize who he is.
Asa Boone, entrepreneur in the light of day. Criminal kingpin come dark.
He takes his seat, front row at the stage. His men shuffle around him and claim the spots on his left and right.
The potential fuckery I’ve sensed slowly begins to fade. If Boone’s here, then that means the tournament’s taking place after all.
Apparently, it’s just a smaller crowd this round.
I’m about to sit back down when a server approaches him and his men. But not the server from earlier who had called me handsome and had lips like a baboon’s ass.
This server’s dressed in the same scantily clad outfit with a tight crop top that shows nipples through the thin fabric and a miniskirt that’s so short it’s nonexistent. Her tall, lean body looks fucking fantastic in the getup as my eyes scan her long legs and flick up toward the rest of her.
Nice tits that aren’t too small but not too big either, stopping at a handful.
Smooth skin that’s dark brown and decorated with sparkly body glitter.
Bubblegum-pink hair that’s eye catching and different but fits the vibe of the strip club.
And a familiar face that I’ve definitely seen before.
FBI Agent Zoe Strauss?!