Surprising Bones (Steel Sinners MC #6)

1. Eden

CHAPTER ONE

EDEN

Every morning starts the same. A checklist of little and necessary victories.

I get in ten minutes ahead of schedule, not out of ambition but survival.

First thing I do is line up the files on my desk, sliding the most urgent to the left, then shuffling the utter bullshit to the right.

I swipe a brittle leaf from the dying plant by my monitor and mist it with a shot of water from the little sprayer I keep under my desk, willing it not to give up yet.

The man himself enters on a vapor trail of expensive aftershave, his lips compressed in a white line. “Eden,” he says, already exasperated, “am I interrupting your tea ceremony or whatever it is you do every morning?”

I resist the urge to tell him I’m an adult who just likes order. “Just prepping for the forecast call. What’s up?”

He tosses a manila folder onto my desk like it’s a live grenade. “You’ll have to work late tonight. I need you to accompany me to an off-site meeting.”

“Didn’t see anything on the calendar—” Fuck me with a stick. I’d rather have toothpicks shoved under my fingernails than accompany this jerk anywhere.

“It isn’t on the calendar.” He leans over, lowering his voice as if I’m about to learn state secrets. “This is… delicate, Eden. I need you to accompany me without giving me the third degree.” Yeah, right. Like that’s going to happen in this lifetime.

I open my mouth to argue, but he shocks the fudge out of me when he sits on the edge of my desk and winks at me.

Ick. Yuck. It takes every ounce of self-control I possess to keep from gagging.

“We’re going to Elysium.” He puffs out his chest like I should fall on the floor and kiss his feet over this great “opportunity.” I have to dig my nails into my palms to center myself before I mouth off and lose my job.

I take a deep breath, attempting to center myself.

I need this job. I need this job. I repeat on a constant loop.

That and I’d never find another job in this city that pays as well.

The only downside? I’m starting to believe my boss might be a crook.

I’ve been looking for another job for weeks, but so far, I haven’t found a thing.

“Elysium?” I can’t keep the shock hidden.

The ultra-exclusive, invite-only casino run by a biker gang?

How in the world did Hender-slime manage an invite?

I can already see this shit is way above my pay grade.

Self-preservation overrides natural curiosity.

The less I know, the better. Plausible deniability is my goal in life right now.

He grins and rubs his hands together. “That’s right. I have a confidential business meeting there this evening. A very important meeting, and I need to arrive with the appropriate arm candy.” I give myself a headache resisting the urge to roll my eyes at him.

Does Mr. Hender-slime really think I’m stupid enough to fall for this bullshit?

He makes a see-saw motion with his hand. “Lose the jacket. Maybe let your hair down a little. Don’t look so… secretarial. You get me?”

I grit my teeth. “Mr. Henderson, I’m your personal assistant. Not an escort.”

“Don’t be so difficult, Eden. You won’t go anywhere with that attitude.

” I bite my tongue so hard I almost taste blood.

“I’ll let you have a half-day of vacation tomorrow to make up for the late evening.

” He wiggles his eyebrows at me. Ick. This man is two seconds away from getting a stapler thrown at his surgically enhanced head, but sadly, that would just mean more work for me cleaning up the mess.

I have bills to pay, and I like being able to afford groceries, so I just nod and pretend I’m honored to be paraded around like a piece of meat.

“Whatever you say, Mr. Henderson,” I mutter. If I have to escort my boss to this meeting, I’ll make the best of it. I’ve heard around town that Elysium has the best drinks and a fancy Michelin-starred restaurant, so I’ll make sure to put Mr. Hender-slime’s expense account to good use tonight.

His eyes flick over me. Absolutely no attempt at subtlety. I watch his brain process my skirt length and practical flats and silently bet he’s about to make a “suggestion.”

“We’ll leave here at 5:15 sharp.” He’s already halfway out my door in a cloud of dime-store cologne and smugness. “Don’t embarrass me.”

Yeah, wouldn’t want to do anything to diminish your massive manhood in front of the biker mafia, I think. But outwardly, I just say, “Got it.”

As soon as he’s gone, I drop my forehead to the desk and groan. Why do I put up with my sleazy boss from hell? Oh, yeah. This gig pays a lot better than stocking shelves at the Corner Mart. Two more years, and I’ll have enough saved to move on to my next phase of life—college.

The rest of the day passes in a blur of bullshit emails and increasingly desperate attempts to find a loophole that gets me out of tonight. No dice.

By 4:30, I’m counting the seconds ‘til the end of the workday and dreading the night ahead in equal measure. The thought of being Henderson’s “arm candy” at an organized crime-run casino makes my stomach churn.

But sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do.

Luckily, I have a hidden arsenal of clothes I stored in my bottom desk drawer just in case of an emergency like tonight.

I pull out my little black dress and give it a shake to hopefully remove as many wrinkles as possible.

On the way to freshen up, I swing by the break room to gulp down a protein bar and a can of soda to give me a little caffeine boost. Then I head down to the third floor, which is mostly deserted at this time of day, to find an empty restroom.

Now, it’s time for the real battle. Operation Don’t Embarrass Henderson’s Delicate Ego begins with me staring down my reflection in the fluorescent-lit mirror, lipstick in one hand and a brush in the other.

I lose the jacket and let my hair down. I’m tempted to pull my hair up into a matronly bun and really give the bikers who run the casino a thrill, but I actually like being able to pay my rent.

So, I fluff up my hair and brush it into a fairly reasonable style.

Then I pull on my slightly wrinkled black dress that I haven’t worn in like, forever.

Damn. I need to lay off my Saturday morning donuts.

I pull it off and try to stretch it several times, but the darn thing just snaps back into place.

Fudge. Oh well, Mr. Hender-slime wanted arm candy, so that’s what he’s going to get.

My triple-Ds definitely look a little bit like a Mounds bar stuffed under the stretchy spandex.

I put on the finishing touches and rush out, making it to the lobby at 5:15 on the dot. Henderson appears in a suit that probably costs more than my yearly rent, but it still looks like shit on him. I guess expensive fabric can only hide so much.

“There she is!” he booms into the phone. “My secret weapon. We’re on our way.” He hangs up and herds me through the doors, his hand just grazing my back in a way that’s meant to be paternal but instead triggers every fight-or-flight response I possess.

Instead of an Uber, it’s a black Mercedes idling by the curb. Henderson hustles me in, climbs in after, and the driver peels away like we’re late for a meeting with the Queen.

I fold my hands in my lap and watch as we leave the relative civilization of the corporate corridor for the neon graveyard on the edge of downtown.

Elysium rises from the cracked asphalt like a forgotten god with columns of blinking LEDs, all-caps signage, and fountains spewing what I hope is just water.

Henderson tugs at his cuffs. “Listen, Eden. These guys—very sharp, very direct. Don’t get rattled if they say something… off-color. It’s how they do business. Don’t take it personally.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I say, then immediately regret opening my mouth.

He misreads the sarcasm as gratitude. “That’s my girl. Let me do the talking. You just smile, look attentive. You know how to do that, right?”

I stare at him. “I took theater in college.” But I doubt even an Oscar winner could pull this off.

He barks a laugh, delighted. “See? I knew you were the right choice for this.”

The Mercedes pulls up to the entrance, and a valet in a black jacket opens my door.

I step out and instantly feel the place staring me down.

The whole damn building is wrapped in so much secrecy you’d think it was a CIA black site, not a freaking casino.

There’s no flashing neon sign out front, just a couple of blood-red columns and some weird flickering LEDs that look more like a threat than a welcome.

One blink and you’d miss it, which is clearly the point.

Henderson acts like he’s royalty. He flashes this plain black card at the muscular guy guarding the door with the word “NO” written all over his face.

The giant takes the card and slides it under a black light.

Elysium’s logo appears. Island, palm tree, the whole paradise motif.

Subtle, but it screams money and danger.

Inside, my heels hit crimson carpet, and it’s like getting kicked in the face by every bad decision in Vegas at once.

The ground floor is packed with writhing bodies, pounding music, and club girls in barely-there outfits.

The air smells like expensive perfume, whiskey, and sin.

The bar glows a deep, hellish red. Booths are black leather.

Even the walls look like they could swallow you whole.

Upstairs is the casino. No tourists, no cameras, just high-stakes players surrounded by MC muscle, and a tension so thick you’d need a machete to cut through it. If you’re not on the list, you’re invisible. If you are, your secrets stay secret.

Holy shit. I don’t belong here. And neither does my dipshit boss.