CHAPTER ONE
One Week Later
“Did you see that defensive line? Like a goddamn brick wall. Best I’ve seen from the Seminoles in years.”
I nod, wiping down the bar top as Dale launches into another play-by-play breakdown of yesterday’s game. He’s been nursing the same beer for the past hour, more interested in reliving Florida State’s victory than actually drinking.
“That final quarter, though,” I say, tossing the rag over my shoulder as I lean back against the backbar, crossing my feet at the ankles. “Nearly gave me a heart attack.”
Dale laughs, his weathered face crinkling around the eyes. “Thought my old ticker was gonna give out right there in my living room. Wife wasn’t too happy about the coffee table I knocked over when they scored that last touchdown.” The game was a nail biter until that play.
The bell over the door chimes, and I glance up, my body tensing reflexively before relaxing.
Melanie Porter.
I watch her every move as she saunters in like she owns the joint. Hips swaying seductively in the tight pencil skirt that hugs her every curve. Blonde hair piled high on her head, and her makeup is flawless, even in the unforgiving afternoon light spilling through the windows.
Our eyes lock, and she smiles a slow, knowing smile that I know from experience means trouble.
The kind of trouble I’ve invited into my bed more times than I should have.
“Hey, handsome,” she purrs, sliding onto the barstool across from me, crossing her arms over her ample chest. The movement is deliberate, calculated to draw my attention. “Been a while.”
Dale takes one look at Mel, drains his beer, and mumbles something about needing to get home to his misses.
My lips turn up and I shake my head.
Horny bastard’s probably going home to bang his wife after getting a good look at Mel. She’s a looker.
“What can I get you?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“Dirty martini.” She leans forward, giving me an unobstructed view of her cleavage. “Extra dirty.”
I can’t help the smirk that crosses my face as I reach for the vodka.
Extra dirty.
Yeah, I bet she wants it that way. Last time she was in my bed, she was begging for more as I paddled her ass a beautiful, bright red. Her wrists secured above her head, face pressed into the mattress as she writhed beneath me, surrendering control completely.
“You never called,” she says, watching me mix her drink. “I thought we had a good thing going.”
I flash her my most disarming smile, the one that’s gotten me out of trouble since high school. “Been busy, darlin’.”
What I don’t say is that I had to scrape her off a month ago when she started talking about wanting to meet my children and making me dinner at her place. Started hinting at things I’m never going to give her—or anyone else, for that matter. Things like commitment, a future, love.
I don’t do relationships. Not after what happened ten years ago when I caught my pregnant ex-wife riding some asshole in our bed.
Not after I nearly beat the man to death with my bare hands.
Not after spending five years in a six-by-eight cell, missing the birth of my daughter and half of my son’s childhood.
“I’ve missed you,” Melanie says, her voice dropping to a whisper as I slide the martini across the bar. Her fingers brush mine intentionally. “Thought about you just last night, actually. When I was alone in my bed...”
My dick stirs, interested in a play-by-play despite my better judgment. It’s been weeks since I’ve had a woman beneath me, weeks of handling business and being a father and running this bar. Maybe one more night wouldn’t hurt. Fuck her senseless and make it crystal clear this is the last time.
She takes a delicate sip of her martini, her eyes never leaving mine. Then, slowly, deliberately, she licks her lips, catching a drop of alcohol with the tip of her tongue.
“Come by the clubhouse in a couple of hours,” I hear myself saying before I can think better of it. “Three o’clock.”
Her face lights up with victory as she downs her drink in one go, a move that tells me she was planning this all along. She slides a fifty across the bar—too much for the one drink, but I don’t correct her.
“I’ll be there,” she promises, standing and smoothing her skirt. “Don’t keep me waiting.”
I watch her walk away, her ass swaying hypnotically in that tight skirt. An ass I plan on marking one more time before sending her on her way for good.
“Boss!” Cindy, one of the waitresses, calls from across the room. “Phone call in the office.”
I wave her off. “Take a message.”
“It’s Bash,” she adds, her voice tinged with concern. “Says he needs to talk to you right now.”
My shoulders tense. Bash doesn’t call during the day unless there’s a problem. As the manager of Pretty Kitties, the strip club the Kings of Anarchy MC owns on the edge of town, he runs shit without needing his hand held every step of the way. If he’s calling, it’s serious.
“I’ll take it in the office,” I tell Cindy. Turning to Joe, the bartender who just clocked in, I add, “Watch the bar.”
The office in the back of Eagle’s is small but functional—a desk, a filing cabinet, and a safe bolted to the floor that holds more cash than the government needs to know about. I close the door behind me and pick up the phone.
“Yeah?”
“We’ve got a plumbing problem at the club. Need you to come over ASAP.”
My brows pull together in confusion. “Plumbing? Call Bane. He deals with that shit.” My brother handles the day-to-day maintenance issues with our businesses on top of managing Paradise Pawn and Loan.
I’m about to hang up when Bash’s voice comes through more insistently.
“You’re not hearing me, boss. We have a plumbing problem.”
The emphasis on “plumbing” triggers something in my brain, and suddenly the lightbulb flips on. “Plumbing” is code for Houston, we have a big fucking problem.
“Fuck,” I breathe. “I’m on my way.”
I roar across town to Pretty Kitties on my Fat Boy as a thousand and one questions blaze through my mind. The parking lot is empty when I pull up, which is unusual for a Monday, but the handwritten sign taped to the door explains why. “CLOSED FOR PLUMBING ISSUES.”
Yeah, plumbing issues. Right.
Gator is leaning against the brick wall next to the entrance, his arms crossed over his massive chest, a ball cap pulled low to hide his eyes.
My enforcer is built like a fucking tank, all muscle and intimidation.
If he’s on door duty this early, whatever’s happening inside is more serious than I thought.
I cut the engine and swing my leg over the bike, taking my time removing my brain bucket.
“Boss,” Gator nods as I approach, his Cajun accent thick with tension.
“What am I walking into?” I ask, keeping my voice low as I approach.
His mouth is set in a grim line. “You ain’t gonna believe it.”
He pushes the door open, and I step into the club.
It’s jarring seeing Pretty Kitties with all the house lights up.
What’s normally a dimly lit den of fantasy and sin is revealed for what it really is—worn carpet, scratched tables, and the lingering smell of cheap perfume and spilled beer.
The place loses all its magic in the light of day.
Bash emerges from the back, his usually stoic face tight with worry, and my stomach knots.
Adrian “Bash” Forester is a force of fucking nature.
Ex-marine and always-badass. The man doesn’t waver.
And he doesn’t worry about shit. As our Sergeant at Arms, he’s seen shit that would make most men piss themselves, and he never breaks a sweat.
But looking at him now…. Whatever’s going on has him shook, and that’s not a good sign.
“This way,” he says, jerking his head toward the back.
As we walk through the main floor, I notice Cyber, our tech guy, sweeping the room with one of his doohickey devices. Journey is on the other side doing the same.
The fuck? I raise a brow at Bash.
He shakes his head and raises a finger to his lips.
Why the fuck are they looking for bugs?
“Fuck.” I run a hand over my face. Now I know this shit is gonna be bad.
Bash doesn’t respond. Instead, he turns and leads me down the hallway toward the private lap dance rooms. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end as I follow behind him. The air starts to feel heavy, and I get the impression this is just the calm before the storm.
Growing up in this small beach town just outside Mexico Beach, lord knows I’ve seen my fair share of them.
Bash pulls up short outside the last door. With his hand on the handle, he glances over his shoulder at me. “Found it like this about an hour ago when I came to do inventory.”
He shoves the door open and steps back, allowing me to go in first.
“The suspense is killin’ me, bro—” The words die on my lips when I cross the threshold. I freeze on the spot, eyes shooting open wide as I take in the scene.
What. The. Absolute. Fuck. Is. This shit?
I lace my fingers together on top of my head and puff out my cheeks as my eyes dart around the room.
No fucking way I’m seeing what I think I’m seeing. I look back at Bash and see his expression that I’m pretty sure matches the one on my own face.
Bash’s eyes meet mine, and he nods.
Fuck me, this is real.
I turn back to the nightmare in front of me.
Our greedy Mayor, Tom Camden, is slumped over on the crushed black velvet sofa.
Mayor Camden’s been a regular at The Pretty Kitties since he started taking our fucking money to look the other way with some of our less-than-legal business ventures.
Good ol’ Tom reaped all the rewards that came with doing business with my club.
That included VIP treatment from his favorite Kitties.