by Joanna Wylde
What exactly did a pierced dick look like, anyway? And how would it feel inside?
I shivered.
Kimber finally got Ava settled and came back outside, jumping into the water with me.
“So, have you started job hunting yet?” she asked.
“Not yet,” I replied. “Ruger wants to see if there’s something I can do with the club. I’m on the fence about that. Not sure I want to get involved.”
“Well, if your goal is to make good money, the best place to work is The Line.”
“The strip club?” I asked, widening my eyes. Everyone knew about The Line, of course, but I’d never been there.
“Yup. Totally paid for my degree that way,” she replied, leaning back into the water to wet her hair. I gaped as she came back up.
“You worked at a strip club? Stripping? Seriously?”
Kimber laughed.
“No, I worked there valet parking,” she replied, rolling her eyes. “Yes, I stripped. Made really good money, too. I only had to work two nights a week. It kicked ass.”
“But wasn’t that kind of … icky?” I asked, intrigued. She shrugged.
“Define ‘icky,’” she replied. “I mean, sometimes it was really fun. I liked dancing on the stage and all the flirting. The lap dances weren’t quite as much fun, especially if the guys were old or something. But they aren’t allowed to touch you. At least, not unless you go back into the VIP rooms. All kinds of things happen back there—but only stuff you decide to let happen. Nobody forces you to do anything.”
I turned this information over in my brain, stunned.
“So did you?” I asked, knowing it was rude but completely incapable of not asking.
“What?”
“Go back in the VIP rooms?” I asked, unable to help myself. She giggled.
“Yeah, I did,” she replied. “You don’t have to, but that’s where you earn the most money. Security keeps a pretty close eye on things. It’s not dangerous or anything.”
I stared at her. She stared back, smirking.
“Wow,” I said finally. “I didn’t know that.”
“What? Are you going to get all judgy on me?” she asked. “Fuck that. I’m not ashamed. Ryan knows all about it, too. That’s where I met him.”
“And it didn’t bother him?” I asked, even more startled.
“It would be pretty damned hypocritical if it did,” she said, laughing. “First time he came in, he paid for me all night, and I gotta tell you, we had a damned fine time in that little room all by ourselves … I swear, I fell for him on the spot. He didn’t like the idea of sharing me with any other guys, so I quit the next day. I didn’t want to fuck things up between us, you know?”
“Wow,” I said. “I know I keep saying that, but I’m just trying to wrap my head around this. I hate to be too nosy, but how much were you making?”
She leaned over and whispered in my ear.
“Holy shit!”
“No kidding, right?” she asked. “Now, I worked hard at it, took it seriously. And I didn’t get into drugs. A lot of the girls blow their money on drugs and stupid shit. But the smart ones? They save their cash and retire early. I covered our wedding, our honeymoon, and the down payment on this house. Ava’s got a college fund started, too.”
“Damn,” I murmured. “That’s amazing.”
Kimber laughed.
“Well, it’s not a long-term career,” she said. “But think about it. A regular job keeps you away from Noah forty hours a week, at least. Maybe more. You start stripping, you’re only away from him two nights a week. What’s better? A mom with a lily-white reputation, or one who’s actually around to take care of her kid?”
“Hell of a good point,” I answered, bemused.
“No shit,” she replied. “And consider this—you start making good money, you’ll have your own place in no time. I don’t care how nice Ruger’s house is. So long as he’s living there, you’re up shit creek.”
Hard to argue with that.
PORTLAND, OREGON
RUGER
“I’ve never seen a town with so many damned strip clubs,” Picnic muttered, sipping his beer. Ruger glanced over at his club president and shrugged. It was Wednesday afternoon, but they’d only been awake for a couple hours.
Last night Ruger had found a hot little blonde who’d done her best to make him forget all about his new roommate. Unfortunately, he’d fucked himself over by pretending she was Sophie the entire time he’d pounded her slick pussy.
He wasn’t a hundred percent sure, but he might’ve called Soph’s name when he came.
Shit, he needed to get a handle on this … But there was just something about the thought of her in his house, all available and at his mercy. It was too much power.
Ruger had never been one of the good guys.
He took a long, deep breath. This was a business trip, so time to pull his head out of his ass. He glanced over to the stage, where a nearly naked woman gyrated lifelessly around the pole. She could’ve been cleaning toilets for all the enthusiasm she showed.
“Too bad they’re more interested in quantity than quality,” Ruger said, nodding toward the stage. “Fire her ass, she worked at The Line.”
Deke gave a snort of laughter. Ruger glanced at him, noting the humor didn’t reach the Portland president’s eyes. Man was dead inside, so far as he could tell. He’d heard that Deke was national’s first choice for enforcement, and he had no trouble believing it. The former marine could probably pull off a hit in his sleep.
Good guy to have at your back in a fight.
“You bastards have it easy up there in Idaho,” Deke said. “Fuckin’ monopoly, so all the talent has to compete to work for you. We got more strip clubs here than anywhere else in the damned country, or so I hear. Market’s saturated, and that means owners gotta take what they can get. Some of these places barely break even. Crazy-ass shit.”
Ruger glanced around the room with new interest. Aside from their table, there couldn’t have been more than six customers total. No, make that seven. Some lucky bastard was getting a hand job back in the far corner.
“So it’s always this empty?” he asked. “That’s fucked up. No wonder she isn’t trying. Why bother?”
“Can’t dance for shit, but at least she gives a hell of a blow job,” Deke responded. “Try her out later if you like. Any of the girls, for that matter.”
Deke glanced over at their waitress, jerking his chin toward their drinks. She carried over a tray of refills, smiling nervously. Ruger eyed her, considering Deke’s offer. The girl wore a black leather bustier, a short, tight skirt, and black fishnets. Long, reddish-brown hair, sort of like Sophie’s. And there his cock went again, getting all hard.
Yeah, this good-guy bullshit wasn’t his gig at all.
Damn, but he’d wanted Soph in his bed a long time. Every inch of her hot little body was burned in his brain, starting that first night he’d seen her screwing Zach in his apartment, which officially classified him as one sick fuck. She’d been sixteen years old and scared shitless, and what’d his response been?
He’d jacked off in the damned shower while she hunted for her panties in his living room. Panties she’d never found, by the way, which he fucking well knew because he still had them. Pink and lacy, innocent as hell, and enough to get his ass thrown into jail back in those days.
Then he’d gone and really fucked things up four years ago, fucked them up so bad her entire life exploded. Not entirely his fault, but he still regretted how he’d handled Zach. Should’ve killed the cocksucker when he had the chance. Even with all his guilt and regret, though, one thing hadn’t changed.
He still jacked off to those panties sometimes.
“Where the fuck is Hunter?” he asked irritably.
Deke narrowed his eyes.
“Like I give a shit?” he answered. “I’m not on board with this. We don’t talk to Jacks. We hurt them. That’s how it’s done—there’s a system.”
Toke, one of the younger Portland guys, nodded in agreement, his face grim. He’d insisted on being part of this meet. Gracie was his old lady these days. Between him and Deke, they were sitting on a fucking powder keg …
“We’re talking to this one,” Picnic said, his voice soft but unyielding. At forty-two, he was the oldest man at the table. He and Deke might have equal rank, but Pic had been around a long time, and when he spoke, men listened. Ruger knew he’d been talked about for national president, but the man wasn’t interested. “Something’s going on. I want to hear what this asshole has to say about it.”
“Fuckin’ simple,” Deke replied. “Little bastards are movin’ in on our territory. You know it, I know it. This shit needs to end.”
Pic shook his head and leaned forward, pale blue eyes intense.
“Doesn’t make sense, brother,” he said. “Four guys living in a house in Portland … Two of them going to fucking school here, like they’re citizens or something. Nomads. You seen them pull a goddamn thing these past nine months?”
Deke sighed, and shook his head.
“Like I said, doesn’t add up,” Pic continued. “We know they’re our enemies. They know it, too. So why the fuck would they be here? Death wish?”
“Setting us up,” Ruger suggested. “Trying to get us to relax? Either that or a mind fuck.”
“Your situation in Seattle, they give you any shit about it?” Pic asked him, although Ruger knew he had the answer already.
“Nope,” he replied. “Fuckwad was theirs to punish, no problem with that. Made our lives easier. Damned civil about it, too.”
“Exactly, and you ever know a Devil’s Jack to be polite?” Picnic continued. “Fuck, didn’t think they knew how. These guys are young—different—and none of us has ever seen them before this year. Roseburg boys say there’ve been dustups in northern Cali. Something’s happening in that club, and for once I think it might not be about screwing us over.”
Deke slammed down a shot, then leaned back, arms crossed, face grim.
“They don’t change,” Toke muttered. “Doesn’t matter what games they’re playing, doesn’t matter who’s in charge, none of it. They’re Jacks and they belong in the ground. Period. Every day they’re livin’ in my town, it eats at me. I want to end it.”
“You got one-track minds, both of you,” Horse said, pulling up a chair to join them. “I swear, we’re goin’ in fuckin’ circles here. Slide just texted. Jacks are in the parking lot. Just the two of ’em, no sign of anyone else. Don’t do anything crazy until we finish talking, okay?”
Toke nodded, eyes narrowed.
Shit, Ruger thought. They shouldn’t have let him come along. Man hated the Devil’s Jacks, and with good reason, but he was like a damned grenade without a pin.
The door opened, bright sunlight framing two figures Ruger recognized. Hunter and Skid—the same bastards who’d come up to collect their former brother in Seattle the weekend before. Both were big, although Hunter was the taller of the two. He was young, probably no more than twenty-four or twenty-five. Nomad, so he didn’t have a home chapter. No official status, but the man carried himself with instinctive authority.
If the Jacks had a serious power-shift in progress, Ruger would bet a thousand bucks Hunter was at the center of it.
The music changed and a new girl strutted out onto the stage. Ms. Personality hopped on down, but she didn’t bother coming over to their table trying to sell lap dances. She might not be enthusiastic about her job, but apparently she wasn’t entirely stupid.
None of them stood as the Jacks approached. Ruger kicked a chair over to Hunter, who caught it with a smile that was anything but friendly. He flipped it backward, straddling it casually. Skid dropped down next to him.
“You ready to talk?” Hunter asked, looking between the men. “I’m Hunter, by the way. With the Devil’s Jacks. Motorcycle club, may have heard of us? This is Skid.”
Deke’s eyes narrowed, and Ruger had to bite back a grin. He wasn’t sure yet if Hunter was an idiot or not, but the kid had balls of fuckin’ brass.
“Picnic,” the Coeur d’Alene president said. “My brothers Deke, Horse, Toke, and Ruger. Deke’s the president here in Portland. Gotta say, he’s a little hurt you haven’t dropped by to introduce yourselves before now. You might not know this, but Portland belongs to the Reapers.”
Hunter held up his hands, palms forward.
“No problems there,” he said. “My rocker says Nomad, not trying to claim Oregon. Your town, your rules.”
“You’re breathing our air,” Deke said, his voice cold. “Generally we charge for that. I think we discussed this with one of your boys last winter. Stayed with us for nearly a week, if I remember right.”
Skid’s eyes narrowed, but he kept his mouth shut. Hunter shrugged.
“These things happen. We get shit’s not good between the Jacks and the Reapers,” he said, his tone mild. “But we’re here today because you helped us out. Been wantin’ to meet up for a while now. This opened the door. We wanted to offer our thanks and talk to you about a truce. Asshole you handed over up in Seattle—he was a problem for us. Serious problem, more than you realize. Now the problem’s gone. We appreciate the gesture, that’s all.”
“Really?” Deke asked. “Because we’ve got some problems, too. You truly appreciate the favor, we could use some help resolving those. You get me?”
Hunter’s eyes darkened.
“Yeah, I get you,” he replied. “That was a bad business—”
“No, that was my niece,” Deke said, slamming his hand down on the table. “Cute kid. Never gonna have kids of her own, though, what with the way your boys ripped her up from the inside out. Spent a year on a fuckin’ psych ward. Still scared to leave her house.”
Toke grunted, pulling out his knife and laying it on the table. Hunter leaned forward, his face every bit as intense as Deke’s. He ignored the knife.
“That problem’s been solved,” he said. “We offered proof.”
“Proof wasn’t good enough,” Deke replied. “Dead is easy. They needed to suffer, and I needed to be the one making them suffer. You stole that from me.”
Hunter glanced at his friend, then nodded to the waitress, gesturing for her to come over. She approached their group cautiously, clearly reading the tension.
“Another round for the table,” Hunter told her. She scuttled off, and silence fell. The girl returned with the drinks, and Hunter picked up his beer, sipping it thoughtfully. Ruger joined him, wondering how this would play out. He’d stand by Deke and Toke—still his brothers, right or wrong—but attacking some kid who’d had nothing to do with the incident wouldn’t accomplish much. Finally, Skid spoke.
“Things are changing with the Jacks,” he said. “Lot of things in play. What happened to your niece? There’s no excuse for that and no way we’re trying to say it was okay. None of us were down with it, and we took care of the men involved. Only two were our brothers. The rest were hangarounds, and all of them are gone now.”
“We should’ve brought them to you,” Hunter added. “We get that now. At the time, we just took care of business, because your girl was the last straw in a much bigger, much uglier situation, so wrap your head around that. Figured we’d minimize your risk and haul out our own garbage. I can’t travel back and fix what happened to her. Can’t give you a shot at them, either. It’s done. What I can do is try to move forward, make sure it never happens again. We’re tired of this.”
“Tired of what?” Picnic asked, his eyes narrowing.
“Tired of putting time and energy into fighting Reapers when we should be focused on more important things.”
“Funny, you weren’t feeling all peaceful last December,” Horse put in. “My woman was in danger. I don’t appreciate assholes like yourselves threatening my property.”
Hunter sighed and leaned back in his chair, rubbing the bridge of his nose between his fingers.
“Times change,” he said finally.
“We all know that. Some of our guys, they’re a little slow, clinging to the past. That was their play, and it was a fuckin’ stupid one. But most of my brothers and me, we’re looking to the future. Fighting you is a waste of time and energy. Used to be we were in the minority on that one. Now we’re not, so I’m opening the door. This wasn’t an easy meeting to arrange, but we all put down our guns and came here today. That’s a start.”
“I didn’t put down my gun,” Deke rumbled.
Hunter smiled, shaking his head.
“Jesus, you’re a hardass,” he told Deke. “Respect. But seein’ as I’m still alive right now, I think my point stands. We’re talking, not shooting. Gotta be a record.”
“That’s your play?” Picnic asked, openly skeptical. “You had some kind of revolution back home, so now you’re here tryin’ to make peace? Lemme guess, you think we should all just hug and make up, maybe swap some recipes, organize a potluck?”
Hunter laughed, his body language so relaxed it was almost insulting. Didn’t he realize they could take him in a heartbeat?
Yeah, Ruger decided. He knew it.
He just didn’t care, and a man who’d stopped caring was dangerous as fuck.
“Cut the shit,” Ruger said suddenly. “What do you want?”
Hunter leaned forward and met his eyes, voice serious.
“I’m here because we’ve been losing territory and influence for years, and it’s getting worse. We got boys coming up from the south, out of L.A., and they’re looking to expand. We need to be fighting them, but we’re fighting you instead. So far as I can tell, we’re doing it out of habit like a bunch of damned monkeys who can’t figure out something better to do,” he added.
“Swattin’ flies isn’t habit, it’s housekeeping,” Deke rumbled. “Same with killin’ Jacks.”
Hunter shook his head.
“Tell me this,” he said. “Your niece, that was some bad shit. But before her, Reapers killed three of our guys in Redding. Two of those guys had kids. You remember that?”
“Assuming it happened—which for the record, I don’t acknowledge—it’s probably because they attacked our guys the night before,” Picnic said. “Preemptive self-defense.”
