Chapter 10
Shady
Lady shuts the bedroom door between us, and I stand in her hallway with my shirt in my hand, my jeans half-buttoned, and my heart somewhere under her expensive floor.
For a second, I don’t move.
I listen to her on the other side of the door.
Not because I expect her to call me back.
Because I’m a stupid motherfucker and hope has apparently survived worse than my common sense.
Nothing.
No footsteps. No crying I can hear. No soft little curse in Spanish. No gringo, wait that would fix every bad thing I have ever done because I’m clearly living in a fantasy and should get my head checked.
I look down at my shirt.
It smells like her. Her perfume, her skin, the sex we just had, and the fight that followed it like a knife dragged across my neck.
DID LADY NYX SETTLE FOR A CRIMINAL?
Why did she think a low-life biker would be faithful?
Aren’t you an outlaw? It’s a synonym.
I laugh once under my breath. It sounds like shit.
She ain’t wrong.
That’s the part making me want to put my fucking fist through the glass wall.
I am an outlaw. A criminal with better boots and a club patch.
I have hauled things I didn’t ask about, buried things I didn’t name, and broken men in alleys behind places where rich people eat ceviche and pretend Miami is safe.
Lady knew that. Lady wanted that. Until strangers made it sound cheap and dirty in front of the whole city.
No, that ain’t fair.
She wanted me.
She didn’t ask for the mess I left behind to crawl into her career, her name, her bed, and then whisper low-life like it had proof.
I put my shirt on because leaving her tower bare-chested and furious feels like giving the cameras another meal. Then I walk out before I knock on that bedroom door and prove I ain’t learned a damn thing.
The elevator ride down is too damn quiet.
By the time I hit the lobby, my temper is running ahead of me.
Finn is posted near the glass doors pretending not to be a nervous wreck. Dusty is by the garage hall with coffee in one hand and a face that says he has already said three things he should not have.
Finn straightens. “Shady.”
“Status.”
“No movement. Nobody came up. No strange cars in the garage. Building security knows to call us first.”
Dusty opens his mouth.
I point at him. “If the next words out of you are about Lady, I will tape you to the hood of her car and let Miami traffic teach you silence.”
He closes his mouth.
Good boy.
I look up at the tower, at all that glass and money and light. Somewhere above us, she is in a robe, pissed and hurt, probably telling herself she did the right thing.
Maybe she did.
That makes me angrier.
At me.
At Carmen.
At every anonymous account with a cheap opinion and a Wi-Fi connection.
At the fact that I don’t get to fix it by breaking something.
Finn watches me carefully. “You want us to stay?”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“Until I say otherwise. Me. Not her.”
Both prospects blink.
“Damn,” Dusty says.
I stare at him.
He lifts his coffee like a shield. “Respect.”
“Respectfully, shut the fuck up.”
He nods fast.
I walk to my bike.
For half a second, I almost turn back.
Then Lady’s voice cuts through me.
You’re leaving.
Yes.
So I leave.
Vice Ink is already shaking when I roll in.
Not from war this time.
From celebration.
The old church glows under midnight neon, stained glass flashing red and blue from the bikes lined outside.
Music pounds through the open doors. Cigarette smoke rolls into the humid air.
Someone has dragged a grill into the side lot, and the smell of charred meat, whiskey, exhaust, and weed wraps around the building like a bad blessing.
Diablo got engaged.
To Darling.
In his office.
Mid-stroke, if Lady’s emoji report is accurate, which means this club has finally lost whatever tiny piece of dignity it had left.
Inside, the Saints Outlaws are celebrating like tomorrow owes them money and tonight is the last chance to spend it.
There are brothers on the bar. Club girls on laps.
Prospects running liquor like battlefield medics.
Magic is pouring tequila directly into Dune’s mouth while Tubbs counts down in Spanish and gets every number wrong.
Key Rat is on a speaker table with two phones in his hands, yelling that he is absolutely working while a brunette in leather shorts tries to lick his neck.
Disco is perched on a stand beside Darling like a feathered bodyguard with anger issues.
“?Pendejo!” he screams when I walk in.
I lift two fingers. “Good to see you too, shitbird.”
“?Pretty Lady!”
That hits.
The room doesn’t stop, but I do.
Darling sees it from across the bar. Her hand drops to the new ring on her finger. Diablo stands behind her, one arm braced on the bar, eyes already on me because the bastard misses nothing.
He looks disgustingly happy.
Still dangerous. Still president. Still the kind of man who would put a body in Biscayne Bay and be home in time to kiss his woman goodnight.
But happy.
I hate him for it for about three seconds.
Then I’m glad.
Then I hate that too.
Magic spots me and throws both arms wide. “Road captain! Come drink before your face ruins the party.”
“My face improves property value.”
“Only if the buyer likes haunted criminals.”
Wrong joke.
The room nearest us goes quiet for half a breath.
Then Magic’s smile fades.
He heard it too late.
I grab the tequila bottle from his hand. “Good thing I’m popular with degenerates.”
Then I drink.
It burns all the way down.
Perfect.
Vice appears beside me. “You good?”
“Ask me after I forget my own name.”
“That bad?”
“Worse.”
His gaze flicks toward Diablo, then back. “Lady?”
“Don’t.”
He nods.
That is why Vice is useful. He knows when not to shove a knife deeper.
A club girl I recognize from the bar slides close, Bunni, with an I. Blonde like me, blue eyes, all perfume, pink nails, and deliberate cleavage. “Shady, baby, you look like you need company.”
“No.”
Her smile falters. “You sure?”
“Unless you’re carrying a time machine, yeah.”
Magic coughs into his fist.
The girl pouts. “You used to be more fun.”
“I used to be dumber.”
“That’s arguable,” Vice mutters.
I drink again.
Another girl tries twenty minutes later. Then another. One curls her hand around my arm and tells me she can make me forget whatever woman put that look on my face.
I look down at her hand until she removes it.
“Nothing personal,” I say. “I’m in love and apparently taking it badly.”
She blinks.
Magic, who has not stopped listening because he is a messy bitch in a cut, lets out a hoot. “Put that on a greeting card.”
“Put your face in a blender.”
“That’s the spirit.”
The party gets worse.
Or better.
Hard to tell.
Someone starts a wet T-shirt contest in the side hall.
Six shuts it down, not because of morality, but because the water is getting near the electrical cords.
Dune loses a bet and has to let Disco sit on his shoulder for an entire song.
Disco bites his ear and screams in Spanish while Dune tries not to cry in front of women.
Darling laughs so hard Diablo looks at her like she hung the moon with one hand and robbed him with the other.
I drink more.
Tequila. Whiskey. Something in a mason jar that Crypt says is Cuban rum and Magic says is engine cleaner.
I don’t care. I want the sharp edges blurred.
I want Lady’s door out of my head. I want the way she looked at me when she said criminal to stop landing like she saw all the way through me and decided the city was right.
By one in the morning, Vice Ink looks like a crime scene with music.
By one-thirty, I see Alpha in the corner near the old confessionals.
Not alone.
Amour Reyes stands with him.
She is smaller in person than she looked on Alpha’s screen, or maybe the club makes everybody look breakable if they are not wearing leather. Cream blouse. Dark hair loose tonight instead of pinned. No flashy jewelry. No smile. Her hands are wrapped around a plastic cup she ain’t drinking from.
She looks too clean for Vice Ink.
Too quiet.
Too timid for a room where Magic is currently arm-wrestling a prospect while two women chant his name and Disco yells obscenities like a tiny drunk uncle.
But then one of the club girls bumps into her, spilling beer near her shoes, and Amour doesn’t flinch.
She looks down at the mess.
Then at the girl.
The girl apologizes without being asked.
Interesting.
Alpha stands beside Amour like he is trying not to stand in front of her. Failing. His whole body angles toward her, protective and fascinated. Poor bastard looks like he found a bomb shaped like a woman and decided to study the fuse with his mouth.
I drift over because I’m drunk and nosy.
“Reyes,” I say.
Amour’s eyes flick to me.
Not timid.
Nope.
Those eyes are dark and tired and full of locked doors.
“Is this the road captain everyone’s gossiping about?” she asks.
“Thought women like you stayed away from bikers,” I slur back.
“I thought bikers stayed away from women like me.”
Alpha gives me a look. “You need something?”
“From you? Never.”
“Then leave.”
I grin at Amour. “He always this charming?”
“No,” she says. “Never.”
Alpha’s jaw ticks.
Oh, he is gone.
Beautiful.
I lean closer to him. “Careful, brother. Your face is doing the thing.”
“What thing?”
“The I’m about to make a really bad choice thing and take this librarian to your bed.”
“Go drink.”
“Already did.”
“I can tell.”
Amour’s mouth almost curves. “You’re Shady.”
“Name on wanted posters. Not my taxes.”
“You’re the one Lady Nyx left clues for.”
The humor leaves me fast.
“Yeah.”
“She’s a clever girl.”
“She ain’t a girl. I’ve been there and made that mistake before. Nyx is a woman. And a menace.”
“Nice,” she says simply but seems to mean it.
“I like you a little. Don’t tell Alpha.”
Before she can reply, Magic appears behind me and slaps a hand on my shoulder hard enough to make my drink jump.
“Tattoo time.”
“No.”
“Dare.”
“No.”
“Diablo’s engaged, Darling has a ring, Alpha found some flower witch, and you’re drinking like somebody shot your dog. You need ink.”
“I have ink.”
“Not white boy ink.”