Chapter Four
Larkin pushed through the heavy double doors of the Bastard Kings clubhouse, her boots striking the worn floorboards with purpose.
The main room stretched wide around her, filled with the scent of oil, leather, and spilled beer.
Men in leather cuts glanced up from their drinks, their eyes narrowing at the sight of the journalist who had already stirred up more trouble than most of them wanted.
She ignored the stares and scanned the crowd until her gaze landed on Jackson.
He stood near the bar, one hand wrapped around a bottle of whiskey, his broad frame relaxed but alert. The moment their eyes met, something shifted in the air between them. Jackson set the bottle down slowly, his blue eyes tracking every step she took toward him.
"We need to talk," Larkin said, her voice low but steady. "I found something."
Jackson studied her face for a long moment, then jerked his chin toward the stairs. "My place. Upstairs. Less ears."
She followed him without argument. The stairs creaked under their weight, and the noise from the main floor faded as they climbed.
At the top, Jackson unlocked a door and pushed it open, revealing a small apartment above the bar.
The space was simple, masculine, with a worn leather couch, a scarred wooden table, and a single window that looked out over the street.
Jackson crossed to a cabinet and pulled out two glasses. He poured a finger of whiskey into each one, then handed her a glass without asking if she wanted it. Larkin took it, their fingers brushing for a brief second that sent heat up her arm.
"Tell me what you found," he said, settling onto the arm of the couch.
Larkin pulled a folded piece of paper from her jacket pocket and smoothed it flat on the table.
"Campaign donations. Whitaker's been funneling money through a shell company called Northridge Holdings.
That same company shows up in the Vipers' financial records.
It's a front. They're laundering the money from the thefts. "
Jackson leaned forward, his jaw tight as he studied the numbers. "Son of a bitch. This is what we needed."
"There's more," Larkin said. She took a sip of the whiskey, the burn sliding down her throat. "I traced the ownership back. Whitaker's name is buried three layers deep, but it's there. If this gets out, his whole operation crumbles."
Jackson set his glass down and rubbed a hand over his beard. "You've been digging deep. Deeper than I told you to go."
"I don't take orders from you," she said, but her voice lacked the usual bite. She looked at him over the rim of her glass. "Not outside of certain situations."
The corner of his mouth twitched, almost a smile. He stood and walked to the window, staring out at the street below. "My old man ran with a rival crew back when I was a kid. They sold us out during a turf war. Got my mother killed. I learned early that trust is a luxury men like me can't afford."
Larkin watched his shoulders, the way tension lived in every line of his body. "I got blacklisted from my last paper because I wouldn't kill a story about a city councilman taking bribes. They told me to choose between my career and the truth. I chose the truth."
"That why you're here?" Jackson asked, turning to face her. "Chasing redemption?"
"I'm here because Silverlake deserves better than men like Whitaker," Larkin said. "And because I can't stand the thought of people getting hurt while I sit on my hands."
Jackson studied her for a long moment. The respect in his eyes was new, and it made something warm settle in her chest. "You keep surprising me, darlin'."
"Good," she said. "I like keeping you on your toes."
He poured them both another drink, then nodded toward the pool table that took up most of one wall. "You play?"
"Enough to know the rules," Larkin said.
"Let's make it interesting," Jackson said, chalking a cue. "Winner gets what they want. Information from you. Compliance from me."
Larkin raised an eyebrow. "Compliance?"
"You heard me." His voice dropped lower, the command already threading through it. "Rack 'em."
She broke the rack with a sharp crack, the balls scattering across the green felt.
Jackson watched her line up her first shot, his gaze tracking the way her body bent over the table.
She sank two stripes before missing, and he stepped forward to take his turn.
Each shot felt charged, the room shrinking with every ball that dropped into a pocket.
When it was her turn again, Jackson moved behind her as she leaned over the table. "Your stance is off," he said quietly. His chest pressed against her back, his hand covering hers on the cue. "Let me show you."
Larkin stayed perfectly still, her breath catching as his body aligned with hers. His hand guided the cue forward, and the ball rolled straight into the corner pocket. She could feel the heat of him, the solid weight of his chest, the way his breath stirred the curls at her temple.
"Good girl," he murmured against her ear. "Now try it again."
She straightened slowly, her heart hammering against her ribs. The air between them crackled with something electric and dangerous. Jackson didn't step back. His hand lingered at her hip, thumb brushing the bare skin where her shirt had ridden up.
"Jackson," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Yeah?"
"This game is getting out of hand."
"That's the point." His fingers tightened, just enough to make her pulse jump. "You still want to play?"
Before she could answer, his phone rang, the sound cutting through the tension like a blade. Jackson cursed and pulled it from his pocket. "Ryder. What's going on?"
Larkin watched his face change as he listened. The easy heat drained away, replaced by cold focus.
"Another one?" Jackson said. "Where?" He listened for another second, then ended the call. "We got trouble. A store on the south side just got hit. Ryder's already headed there."
Larkin grabbed her jacket. "I'm coming with you."
Jackson paused at the door, his hand on the knob. "Stay close. And don't do anything stupid."
She nodded, and they headed downstairs together.
The main room had changed in the time they'd been upstairs.
Sinner stood near the bar with Annabelle, his hand resting on her stomach while a slow grin spread across his face.
"Seven months," he said loud enough for the room to hear. "We're having a kid."
The brothers erupted into cheers and backslaps. Annabelle laughed, her cheeks flushed, one hand covering Sinner's where it rested over the small swell already showing beneath her blouse.
Ryder pushed through the front doors a moment later, his face tight. "Haven's pregnant too," he announced, voice rough with something between pride and worry. "Due around the same time. She just found out this morning."
More cheers filled the room, but Jackson didn't join them. He grabbed his leather cut from the back of a chair and shrugged it on, the weight of it settling over his shoulders like armor. "We ride in five. Ryder, you're with me. Stryker, you and the prospects keep an eye on the women."
Larkin followed him outside, the night air cool against her skin. Jackson swung a leg over his bike and waited for her to climb on behind him. Her arms wrapped around his waist as the engine roared to life, the vibration traveling straight through her body.
As they pulled away from the clubhouse, the lights of Silverlake blurred past them.
Larkin's cheek pressed against Jackson's back, and she felt the steady beat of his heart beneath her palm.
The almost-moment upstairs lingered between them, unfinished and waiting.
The streets stretched dark ahead, and the promise of what had nearly happened hung in the air like smoke, thick and impossible to ignore.