Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
DEUCE
An hour later, I enter the main room of The End.
I can’t ignore the looks from my brothers even though they think they’re being discreet.
Usually, I’m here before them, and it’s the middle of the afternoon.
Usually, I’m barking orders and overseeing the job.
Usually, I don’t have a fuckin’ headache like I downed a fifth of vodka.
I immediately return to what I was working on yesterday. Spackling and sanding the back hallway. Manual labor grounds me, and, in a way, rebuilding The End is like rebuilding my life. The End was left to die, but it survived somehow. Just like me.
Prison not only took years of my life, it gave me time to focus on the broken parts of my life.
A childhood no one should’ve survived. Actions from adults that made no sense.
Then, as I got older, the suffocating anger that would surface when I least expected it.
A raging storm that lived within me, just under the surface, ready to break free at the slightest provocation.
The prison shrink talked about accountability, but for me, it was all about survival.
“You all right?” Ace asks.
“Of course.”
“You’ve been acting kinda weird all day.”
I pick up the trowel and slap more spackle on the wall. “Got shit to do.”
“Yeah, but usually you’re up everybody’s ass wanting to know what we’re doin’ and when we’re gonna be done.”
“So, because I’m not being a pain in the ass, you think something’s wrong?”
“Exactly.”
I shake my head. “Get the fuck back to work.”
He cuffs me on the shoulder. “Ahhh, that’s more like it.”
Fuckin’ Ace could always read me better than anybody else, or he was the only one who had the balls to confront me.
Back in the day, he’d call me out on my bullshit and even questioned me about the DEA bitch.
Of course, at the time, the rest of us just thought she was a hot piece of ass, but Ace saw something I obviously missed.
Either way, from now on, it’s business as usual, and I would stay far the fuck away from Miss Cinzia Marino. A woman I have no business thinking about. A woman who could send my life straight to hell.
SAMMIE
My hands shake as I reread the text.
Viper: You better find that flash drive and hand it over, or your father suffers big-time.
I ignored Viper’s messages yesterday and hoped he got the hint, but of course he didn’t. I’m still staring at the message when suddenly more little bubbles appear.
Viper: If you don’t give me that flash drive, I’ll burn that whole fuckin’ bar to the ground.
Sammie: Then neither one of us will get it.
Viper: Don’t be a wiseass, ‘cause I got contacts up at Rikers who would think nothing of shoving a rusty shiv in your old man’s gut until he’s begging for mercy.
My stomach heaves, and for a second, I think I’m going to be sick. Viper’s vicious reach extends throughout the Tri-State area and beyond. Him carrying out his threat would be as easy as making a phone call.
Sammie: What makes you think there even is a flash drive?
Viper: ‘Cause your old man threatened me with it before he went in.
Probably thinking , like I did that I could use it as leverage against Viper. Unfortunately, we both underestimated Viper’s wrath.
Sammie: I told you I haven’t found it.
Viper: Then I suggest you start looking harder. Or maybe you don’t care what happens to your deadbeat old man.
As much as I hate to admit it, Viper’s words hit me hard. Would my father win “Father of the Year”? Absolutely not, but he was never mean or violent. He was almost Peter Pan-like in his outlook on life and people.
He was the worst businessman on earth, leaving all the responsibilities to my mother.
He wasn’t home much, but when he was . .
. he gave the best hugs, the best presents at Christmas even if it put him in debt, and he always said I was his greatest accomplishment.
So even though I shouldn’t, I do care about what happens to my father.
Sammie: No, please. I’ll find it.
Viper: I’m not fuckin’ around. You got 24 hrs. or your old man is dead.
I startle at the knock on the door, and for a split second, I fear it might be Viper. I lay the phone on the sink, grab my robe off the hook on the back of the door, and shrug it on, tying the sash tightly.
“Who is it?” I grip the doorknob way tighter than necessary.
“Me.” Deuce’s one word fills me with relief, then amps me up in another way. I unlock the door, then yank it open since it’s still not on its hinges correctly. I gaze up at him because, just like last night in my bare feet, I realize how tall he is as he towers over me.
“I was just taking a shower.” Unnecessary information since I’m sure my dripping wet hair and robe give it away.
He takes in my fuzzy robe, then focuses back on my eyes. “They delivered the garbage disposal, but Fist wants you to take a look. He’s having trouble getting it under the sink.”
“Tell him I’ll be right down.” I push the door, and he slams his palm against the wood.
“This door ain’t closing right.”
“Yes, I know. Someone felt the need to boot it in last night.”
“Always the smart ass.”
Second time in less than five minutes a man said that to me.
Deuce examines the wooden frame and the hinges. “I’ll get some tools and fix it later.”
“Fine.” I try to close it again, and he opens his mouth but doesn’t say anything. “Are we done here?”
“Yeah, we’re done.”
I close the door, jiggle it into place, then lean against it, listening as his heavy boots fade away.
DEUCE
I clomp down the stairs, pissed off and irritated. Pissed off at her comment about being done. ‘Cause I know what the fuck she really meant. Then irritated that it bothers me so much.
I push at my cock ‘cause, of course, the damn thing reacted to her smelling so sweet like citrus with a hint of vanilla. She’d obviously just come out of the shower ‘cause her wet hair fell in soft curls over that fuckin’ fuzzy robe.
If she just came out of the shower, she was probably buck-ass naked underneath too.
Shit!
I have to get this woman out of my head, and the only way to get over someone is to get under someone.
Tonight, we're heading to the Royal Flush to have another sit-down with Jack, the manager. He’d contacted me during the week saying the reality company was ready to make a deal.
The guy sounded desperate to get out, so we didn’t waste any time in making our move.
After we settled up with him, I'd find myself a nice willing woman to drain my cock dry. Leaving nothing for my dark-haired beauty with the wild curly hair.
Yup, that’s the plan.
Later that night, we pull into the lot of the Royal Flush. I almost forgot the looks we got when we’re all together. Tatted guys straddling rumbling Harleys, all over six feet, draped in leather and denim, giving off a fuck you, bad-ass attitude.
Red neon flickers over the door with cards flashing a royal flush. Not too original. The bass from inside rattles the sidewalk every time the door opens.
The doorman straightens the second he sees us. Apparently Jack must’ve told him we’re gonna be the new owners.
Kings colors still carry weight. Especially in places like this.
“Deuce,” he says, stepping aside fast. “Good to see you again.”
I don’t answer. I don’t slow down. The door opens wide, and we all troop in except Speed and Shady, who’re keeping watch over The End.
Inside, it’s dark and sticky and loud enough to drown out thought. Gold poles. Cracked leather booths. Women moving from customer to customer, acting like it’s the best job in the world.
We get looks in here too. Guys nod to us, women stare as whispers ripple through the crowd.
“Kings,” someone breathes.
We head to the front of the stage, and a group of guys fall over themselves to give up their booth. Yeah, the Kings are fuckin’ back.
Ace grins like he’s home. A couple of the guys fan out, already pulling cash, already on the hunt. Kick back and forget the back-breaking work we’ve all put in the last few weeks.
A stripper struts down the stairs of the stage and walks straight toward me. Long legs. Glittered skin. Eyes that know exactly how this works.
“Welcome back,” she purrs, fingers brushing my arm like she’s testing the temperature.
Another flanks my other side, pressing a drink into my hand before I ask for it. Whiskey. No ice. Like they remember.
I tip it back. Burn. Good. Not enough to forget Sammie’s untamed hair twisting around my fingers. Not yet.
They circle closer. Laughter. Touches that don’t mean anything. A hand on my chest. A mouth near my ear. “You looking to forget something, baby?”
I don’t answer because all I can see is Sammie’s face being stubborn. When she looks at me like she’s daring me to disappoint her or throwing out wiseass remarks daring me for a comeback.
I drink again. Harder. Music amps up, and two more girls take the stage.
Jack appears from the back, sweat slicking his collar like he’s counting the days till he never has to come back to this shit-hole.
“Drinks on the house,” he says quickly. “Girls too. Whatever you need.”
Ace laughs. “Looks like they’re praying we take this place back.”
I nudge the women away and nod toward the back of the club. “Business first.”
Jack nods, and Ace and I follow him to his office.
He closes the door, which mutes the din from the club.
He goes behind his desk and motions to the two chairs facing him, but Ace and I remain standing.
This is either gonna go the Kings’ way or not, and we don’t need to sit and make small talk first.
Jack fiddles with a pen on his desk, then meets our gaze. “I talked to TriState Reality, and they’re willing to take your offer.”
Ace and I nod, then wait.
“As you know, there is another party interested in this property, but they’ve proven to be very unreliable and somewhat harsh and brutal.”
Good description of the Dogs.
“They actually expected us to hand it over for a very minimal price, and when TriState rejected their offer, they set fire to the dumpsters out back.”
Sounds like the Dogs. Even back in the day, they loved to torch shit.
“Some guys are just bat-shit crazy when they don’t get their way,” Ace adds with his trademark grin, and Jack pauses for a minute, probably trying to figure out if Ace is warning him too.
Jack opens a folder and shuffles some papers on his desk, then turns the folder toward us. Typical contracts of sale. We may be outlaw bikers, but over the years, we’ve owned quite a few businesses, including two other strip clubs, so we know how this works.
I read through most of the things we already discussed, nod at Ace and sign my name on the dotted line.
When I’m done, Jack scoops up the papers and shoves them back in the folder like he’s afraid I’ll change my mind.
He sticks out his hand and we shake. “You’ve made a very sound investment, gentlemen.”
“What we’ve done is buy a shit-hole of a strip club that, in time, is gonna make us a fuck-ton of money.”