Chapter 1
ONE
Oro
“You’ve got to be shitting me.”
The smell is overwhelming. I have to lift my head and stare at the ceiling just to keep from gagging.
“Carajo!” Digger doubles over laughing, smacking his own knee like a damn hyena.
“Dumb ass,” Lobo shakes his head, stepping back from the mess around me. “When I told you to find a bunny to play with, I didn’t mean that one.”
Chunky, liquor-infused vomit splashes across my shirt, pants, and boots. The woman responsible doesn’t even seem to care that she’s turned me into a walking cautionary tale. She’s still stumbling around, trying to dance like nothing happened.
I’m never going to live this down. No fucking way. Digger’s still laughing, and part of me wishes he’d have a goddamn asthma attack just so he’d shut up.
“Oye, susio!” Vado calls from the bar, lips curling as his eyes rake over me. He shudders once, points to the puddle at my feet. “You gonna clean that shit up or what?” he barks.
More scut work. Shit I thought I was done with after getting fully patched in.
I’m officially a full member of the Ponce, PR chapter of the Royal Bastards. My prospect ride felt endless. Eighteen brutal months. And even before that, when I was just a hang-around, I was already doing grunt work. I don’t know why I thought the patch would magically make all that disappear.
“I’m going,” I shout back, taking a step toward the mess. The woman I’d been trying to spend some quality time with sways toward me, her body moving to the music if you can call that flailing “dancing.”
“Papi, ven baila,” she slurs, holding out her hand. Before I can reject her, she pitches forward and I have to step back into the goddamn puddle to catch her.
“Stop. I don’t want to fucking dance.” My voice comes out harsher than I mean, but fuck it, it’s been a long night.
These parties are supposed to be a good time for the club and the hang-arounds. But tonight feels off. Like I’m being watched. Judged.
She sways again, and the mean part of me wants to just let her fall face-first into her own puke. But that’s not how we do things here. We might look like villains to outsiders, but we’ve still got our own kind of code.
“Take her to the back, clean her up,” Lobo says, jerking his chin. “Leave the door open. Last thing we need is someone claiming you were inappropriate while they’re drunk. Take one of the girls with you.” He doesn’t even look at me again, just goes back to his drink and his woman draped around him.
“Donde… vamos?” the woman mumbles as I drag her through the crowd. Thankfully, everyone gets the hell out of the way. Nobody wants a splash of this disaster on them.
A few brothers laugh as I pass. AZ stops dead in his tracks, glaring at me like I’m personally offending his sense of order. Then he turns right back around, shaking his head. Clean freak. I’m honestly surprised he didn’t throw me out on sight.
“Lisette, come with me!” I yell over the music. One of the club bunnies, curly brown hair, fake-ass smile. Works at Seda, good at making guests feel special until she’s off the clock. Then she’s got the worst attitude of anyone I’ve met.
When her eyes land on me, that fake smile drops fast.
“I need you to come with me.”
“Like hell you do,” she snaps. “Whatever you think I’m signed up for, that ain’t it.”
“Stop your shit, Lisette. I’m not trying to fuck you. I need a damn witness.”
“Witness?” She frowns, skeptical.
“I gotta clean her up. Don’t want her waking up thinking I did something to her.”
Lisette raises her brows, eyes flicking between me and the drunk woman. “Still doing the shit work, huh? Thought your prospect run was over.”
I grind my teeth. “Is that your fucking concern right now? No? Then shut it and do what I asked. If I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it.”
She rolls her eyes but follows anyway. I lead the drunk mess to the spare bathroom, a simple shower, toilet, sink. Nothing fancy, but it’s what I need.
“Ya mojada,” the woman giggles, leaning against the wall.
“Yeah, not the kind of wet I’m into,” I mutter.
“Shut your mouth.”
“Don’t talk to me—”
I crank on the shower before she can finish. Water blasts her right in the face.
“I warned you,” I say, chuckling.
She flails, sputtering as the spray hits her mouth.
“Diablo,” Lisette scoffs from behind me. “You could’ve at least let her take her clothes off first.”
“She doesn’t need to be naked to get that mess off her.”
The cold water sobers her a bit, enough for her to stumble out of the shower. Lisette grabs her and helps her out of the room, leaving me standing there alone, drenched in steam and frustration.
When I finally step out, Lisette lingers by the doorway, eyes traveling slow over me. Her lips curve into that practiced smile, the one she uses when she wants something.
“You know,” she says softly, leaning her shoulder against the frame, “you clean up pretty good, Oro. A little rough around the edges, but that’s how I like ’em.”
I don’t bother looking at her. I can feel her gaze slide down my chest, the heat of it pressing against my skin like a test. She pushes off the wall, takes a step closer. “You ever gonna let me see what’s under all that attitude?”
“Not tonight,” I answer flatly, brushing past her. I can smell her perfume, cheap and sweet, mixing with the cleaner from the bathroom. I don’t stop. I don’t look back.
Behind me, she laughs under her breath, that fake, taunting sound. “Suit yourself, papi. Don’t act like you don’t want it.”
I keep walking, not giving her the satisfaction of a reaction. I’ve got enough shit to clean up for one night.
Silence hums for a second, the kind that settles deep in your bones when the adrenaline fades.
I head to my room, grab fresh clothes, scrub myself clean. When I step back out, the bass from the reggaeton track still rattles the walls. I almost feel normal again.
Maybe I can salvage the night. Maybe find someone who’s actually conscious this time.
But something in me feels off, like my luck’s gone stale.
“Pendejo, you think you got a fucking maid around here?”
AZ’s voice cuts through the music before I even see him. He grabs my collar and drags me right back to the spot where the woman hurled earlier. The puke’s still there, gleaming under the lights.
If it were anyone else, a prospect would’ve been called to clean it. But me? Guess not.
“I was coming back to it,” I snap, my patience gone. I can feel eyes on me, brothers, hang-arounds, everyone watching like I’m still just the fucking errand boy.
No one takes me seriously.
I’m desperate to change that.
So I grab the mop, clean up the mess as fast as I can without ruining my fresh clothes.
The party roars on around me, but I can’t bring myself to join back in. The laughter, the music, it all sounds like static now.
I head back to my room and drop into the lone chair in the corner.
There’s no one I can talk to about this shit. And even if I could, I wouldn’t. You don’t complain after earning your patch. You don’t whine about respect you haven’t fully earned yet.
I’m grateful. I really am.
But being grateful doesn’t stop the burn of humiliation sitting heavy in my chest. It doesn’t quiet the voice in my head reminding me that the patch on my cut doesn’t mean shit if no one believes I deserve it.
I drag my hand down my face, stare at my reflection in the dark window.
Outside, the club laughs and drinks and fucks. Inside, I’m sitting here alone, gripping my patch like it’s the only proof I belong.
Things will get better.
They fucking have to.