Dirty Aces MC: Box Set #1

by Hart, Lane

  The bartender, a squinty-eyed girl named Ronnie, spends about ten minutes training me on taking drink orders, filling them, and where to put the money once the customer pays since they deal solely in cash. That means it’ll be easier than I thought to skim a little right off the top without anyone the wiser.

  There aren’t many gamblers on the boat tonight, but the ones I do serve are generous tippers. I’ve made a hundred bucks before the sun fully sets, which is way more than I usually make in an entire night at the diner.

  I’ve just finished making the rounds and am taking a breather at the bar when a new man comes waltzing into the game room from a side entrance, looking like my very own personal Jesus with his wavy brown hair that brushes his shoulders. In jeans and a leather vest identical to Fiasco’s, it becomes immediately clear that the guy is also a member of the Dirty Aces. After a notable hush falls over the room, everyone pausing in the middle of their card game or dice to turn and look at him, I start to think that this man isn’t just any member of the MC but very likely their president.

  After someone presses the imaginary play button and everybody goes back to what they were doing before his majesty entered, I whisper to Anika, the only other waitress who works weeknights, “Who is that?”

  “Don’t even think about it,” she responds while chomping extra hard on her chewing gum. “Malcolm’s a unicorn.”

  “A what?” I ask.

  “A unicorn. Sure, he’s pretty to look at and the most powerful man in town, but there’s no chance in hell that you’ll ever get to ride him. Seriously, the best thing you can do is pretend he’s imaginary and go on with your life.”

  Wow. I knew Anika wasn’t too thrilled about me dipping into her and the bartender’s tips or whatever, but still, that’s no reason to go full-on bitch so fast.

  “Oh. Don’t take it personally,” she says with a wave of her hand, having apparently read my shocked face correctly. “Malcolm doesn’t know we, his employees, exist, no matter how hard you flirt with him or try to get in his jeans. Believe me, I’ve tried and so has everyone else.”

  “Everyone else?” I ask.

  “Oh yeah. On the weekends, we have another bartender and three other waitresses. Then there’s the three girls who work at the pool hall. So, that’s what, ten women counting me? Yeah, at least ten current employees of the Dirty Aces who have all tried and been shot down by Malcolm.”

  “He’s turned down everyone?”

  “Everyone,” she says, blowing a small pink bubble and popping it. “There’s a pool going if you want to throw in twenty bucks; but honestly, it’ll just be a waste of money. It’s up to eight hundred dollars, so thirty-two women have tried and failed to get their hands on Malcolm’s dick.”

  “Wow,” I mutter, unsure if that’s just sad for the pathetic women or impressive that a man that hot has that kind of restraint. “Is he gay?” I whisper.

  “No way to know for sure, of course, but I don’t think so,” Anika replies with a grin. “I’ve seen him checking me out before.”

  “Good for you, I guess. Thanks for the heads-up,” I tell her.

  “No problem,” she says before she struts off to make the rounds on her customers.

  After she’s gone, I watch the ridiculously sexy man, who I can apparently never have, take a seat on one of the stools at the bar and plop down a stack of papers, placing his phone on top of them. He looks angry as he shoves his fingers roughly through the front of his thick locks to push them out of his face, huffing as if they intentionally hung in front of his eyes to piss him off. His thick, tattooed biceps flex with the movement, drawing my eye to them. I wouldn’t mind running my own fingers through the waves either, having never dated a guy with long hair, or have those strong arms hold me down and take whatever they wanted from me…

  Oh jeez! I have no clue where those naughty thoughts came from. I’m here to take care of business, not drool over some random man my father happens to hate. I cannot and will not get distracted from my goal of paying off my debt. The clock is ticking, and I need to get my ass moving.

  Still, despite repeatedly telling myself to forget about Malcolm Hyde, I somehow find myself heading in his direction half an hour later, unable to resist getting a little closer to the sexy man in charge.

  And as stupid as it may be, I can’t help but hope Anika was wrong about him not wanting me.

  Malcolm

  * * *

  It’s going to take a gallon of whiskey to help me get through the club’s end of the month accounting bullshit and the headache it’s causing.

  I fucking hate math.

  It’s my least favorite thing in the world. But after Lowell, one of our own damn guys, stole hundreds of thousands of dollars from the MC, I have no choice but to suck it up and take over the accounting. I’d rather be sitting back, smoking a joint while playing poker or blackjack with all the other guys on our gambling boat, but that’s not going to happen tonight.

  Having someone like me, a grumpy bastard who came from nothing and doesn’t like to spend an unnecessary penny, do the books can be problematic for the club, because I want to cut out all sorts of shit that the guys love, like pay-per-view at the bar.

  “Hey, it’s Malcolm, right? Can I get you a beer?” a woman asks me sweetly while my head is bent over one of our beer vendors invoices. Ronnie, our bartender, and most of the waitresses know better than to bother me while I’m fucking working.

  “No, but you can get me a fifth of whiskey,” I say with a sigh since she’s already interrupted.

  “How much is a fifth?” she asks.

  “For fuck’s sake,” I mutter when I finally lift my eyes to see which of our waitresses is seriously asking me that question. Well, that explains the problem. The skinny little blonde that I’ve never seen before looks too young to be holding a tray and serving alcohol. The last thing we need is a goddamn ABC violation. “Who the hell are you?” I ask her.

  “Oh, I’m Naomi,” she says with a smile.

  “Where did you come from?”

  “Sea Breeze, just north of here.”

  “No, honey. I don’t care where the fuck you were born. I want to know how the fuck you got on my boat,” I snap at her. “Who hired you?”

  “Oh, um, Fiasco,” she answers with her cheeks turning a bright shade of red.

  “Of course he did,” I mutter as I eye her from the top of her short blonde hair pushed behind her ears, down the curves of her tight, sleeveless black dress to the toes of her black strappy heels that wrap around her ankle. She’s sexy as hell, sure, but way too young and innocent to be working in a Dirty Aces establishment. “How old are you? Show me your ID.”

  “I-I don’t have my ID on me. It’s back in the employee room though, in my purse,” she responds.

  “How old does your ID say you are? Your real one. And if you know what’s good for you, you better not fucking lie to me,” I warn her with a threatening glare.

  Her blue eyes lined with long, thick, black lashes widen comically, making her look even more like an innocent teen model who got on the wrong damn boat.

  “I’m twenty-one.”

  “Prove it,” I tell her, spinning toward her in my barstool. When she continues to stand there in front of me, unmoving, I say, “Hustle, honey. I ain’t got all day.”

  “Yes, sir,” she responds. Setting her round tray down on top of the counter next to me, she hurries off behind the bar to the employee lounge, stumbling in her heels like she doesn’t have much experience wearing them.

  A moment later, she comes running back, the small plastic ID card in her hand.

  “Here,” she says, panting and making me think of other ways to take her breath away, especially when I see her date of birth along with the watermark that tells me her license is the real deal.

  “How long have you been working here?” I ask.

  “Tonight’s my first night.”

  “No shit,” I huff. “Why don’t you go find a job at Applebee’s
or some other family establishment tomorrow? You sure as shit don’t belong here.”

  “Why do you say that?” she asks, giving me a little bit of attitude and drawing my attention to her pink, pouty lips that belong on a porn star.

  Ignoring my dick’s interest in her mouth, I tell her, “Look, honey. I don’t have time to baby you every time somebody slaps your ass. And I sure as fuck won’t be wasting the club’s money on attorneys for sexual harassment lawsuits. Tonight’s your last night.”

  Her front teeth bite down on her plump bottom lip and then she steps forward. Stroking her hands up both of my spread jean-covered thighs, she moves into the space between them. Her hips are so lean that she wedges them right on in until her flat stomach is rubbing up on my dick. “I’m not easily offended, and I promise I won’t cause you any problems.”

  “Oh yeah?” I ask. “How do you plan to prove that?”

  “However I need to,” she says, not so subtly grinding against my hard bulge. “Just ask Fiasco.”

  Goddamn him for screwing everything that walks. I’m both surprised and a little pissed that he was able to convince a girl like Naomi to do him. But if there’s one thing I know about the women who hang around the Dirty Aces’ establishments, it’s that they’ll do anything for the right price, be it cash or dope.

  “I’m not going to fuck you,” I tell her, which is the honest to god truth. No matter how sexy she is or how many times she tries to push up on my dick, I don’t screw the help. Ever. It’s a hard and fast rule of mine ever since I’ve been in charge to avoid drama. All the other guys, except for Nash, who has his own reasons for abstaining, pass our girls around like they’re toys, each taking a turn playing with them. Hell, sometimes two even bang one of them at the same time. Their motto is any pussy will do, while I’m a bit more selective. Not that I’m monogamous or anything of the sort. Back in town, I’ve got three women on speed dial who come for me and only me whenever I want them. Silas calls them my Booty Call Squad. Each knows about the others, so I’m not screwing around behind anyone’s back. They’re welcome to walk away and see other men whenever they want; but while they’re fucking me, they keep that pussy on lockdown for me and only me. It comes at a high price to have convenient pussy, but doesn’t it always?

  Naomi is quiet for several seconds as my rejection sinks in. Eventually, she asks, “Then how do you want me to prove I’m not easily offended?”

  Inspiration hits with an idea so fucked up that I’m willing to bet she would rather jump ship than go through with it. It’s low, almost as low as Fiasco went, but all she has to do is decline and quit, which I’m certain she’ll decide to do.

  Reaching around her back with my left hand, I find her dress’s zipper and slowly start to lower it, counting down the seconds before she jumps ship. “You’re going to prove it by taking your dress off and finishing your shift wearing only what’s underneath,” I tell her. “If you make it to the end of the night, you can keep your job.”

  Before the zipper even reaches her lower back, the top of her strapless dress starts falling forward, revealing her bare tits that are small, perky handfuls with bright pink pointed nipples. Lower and lower I go down her tan body until the waistband of a pair of black lace panties are uncovered. After passing over the curve of her hips the dress sinks to the floor and pools around her ankles.

  I figure she’ll be yanking the material back up to cover her mostly naked body within ten seconds at most. Instead, she just stands there between my thighs unflinching. She must be in shock.

  Glancing up at her perfect, flawless, completely blank face, I can’t figure out what she’s thinking.

  “Well, what’s it going to be?” I ask her.

  Some of the guys at the game tables finally notice the topless woman standing at the bar and let out a few whistles and catcalls.

  Naomi clears her throat and then jerks her ID that I forgot I was still holding in my right hand from between my fingers. She goes on to leave me speechless when she shoves the card down the front of her miniscule panties and asks, “Is there a certain type of whiskey you prefer, or will Jack Daniels do?”

  “Jack works,” I agree, unable to lift my eyes from the smooth, flat golden skin right above her narrow string waistband, looking so damn tempting that my fingers twitch wanting to touch her.

  “Coming right up,” she says before she slips out from between my legs and grabs up her tray. As she walks away, I get a nice long look at her jiggling ass cheeks hanging out either side of her thong before her lower body disappears behind the bar.

  A moment later, Naomi brings me the entire bottle of Jack, plopping it down on the bar in front of me with a lowball glass. And then, without a word, she leaves to make the rounds on the game tables with her shoulders back and tits proudly lifted, not the least bit bothered by her nudity, or at least not showing it.

  Guess the girl has more nerve than I gave her credit for.

  The numbers on the pages of invoices in front of me are all but forgotten as I sit back and drink my whiskey straight from the bottle while watching her float around the room, making games halt until she disappears to fetch beers.

  Despite how tempting she looks, not a single man lays a hand on her except to slip their cash into the front of her panties now and then to join her ID, perhaps because they’re scared of the consequences from the Aces that are always keeping an eye out on the room along with at least four security cameras.

  The night is so uneventful and even slow that I’m about to force myself to turn around and get back to work when Fiasco’s palm reaches out and lands with a loud smack on Naomi’s ass. He pulls her down onto his lap for a few seconds, whispers something in her ear and then lets her up.

  It takes every bit of restraint in my body to keep from jumping up and going over to knock his lights out. I’ve always been possessive of my women, but I’ve never had this sort of knee-jerk reaction over a woman I’ve never been inside. And not once have I wanted to lay a hand on one of my own brothers because of a random girl.

  I need to get a fucking grip, I know that. But it’s easier said than done, especially when I start wondering if Fiasco will be taking the new girl home tonight. I don’t like that thought one fucking bit. I try to tell myself that I only feel protective over Naomi because she looks so innocent and young, even strutting around in just her heels and panties.

  When she comes back up to the bar counter, there’s a new, rosy flush on her cheeks, like she’s embarrassed or offended by Fiasco’s rough treatment.

  Her blue eyes meet mine and she says, “I’m fine,” before I even say a word. The woman knew exactly what I was thinking with just a glance. I never let my face give away my hand, so I look back down at my papers while I force myself to relax.

  This girl is going to be trouble, my head warns me. She doesn’t belong here, and she sure as shit doesn’t deserve to be passed around by all of my brothers like some kind of plaything. They’ll devour her and then throw her away quicker than a used rubber, snuffing out her breathtaking radiance before I can snap my fingers.

  Fuck, I’m going soft in my old age of thirty-five.

  Taking a swig of whiskey from the bottle, I swallow it down and mutter under my breath, “You won’t last a fucking week.” I think my words are more of a hope than a prediction of her determination.

  “Wanna bet?” Naomi asks confidently with a grin as she grabs two bottles of beer from our bartender and struts back over to Fiasco’s table, his bright red handprint glowing on her right ass cheek, marking her as his.

  Oh, fuck no.

  He may have already had her, but I’ll be damned if he lays another finger on her.

  “Fiasco!” I shout before I even know what the fuck I’m doing or why. When everyone in the room stops talking to turn and look at me, I say to him, “Meeting in the chapel when we dock. Spread the word.”

  “Sure thing, prez,” he responds with a mock salute, not having a clue how close I’ve come to beating his ass
tonight over some girl I don’t even know.

  Chapter Five

  Naomi

  * * *

  “Here you go,” I say cheerfully despite the inner turmoil raging inside me when I hand Fiasco and the older man he’s playing blackjack with their fresh beers.

  “Thanks, babe,” Fiasco says, stuffing a folded up twenty-dollar bill into the front of my panties where a few others remain since the guys have been treating me like I’m a stripper, all thanks to Malcolm fucking Hyde.

  Harry was right – that guy is an asshole, which makes me feel a little less guilty about stealing from him right underneath his nose. I can’t believe he had the audacity to take my dress off in the middle of the freaking room and then demand that I keep working the rest of the night in nothing but my thong. It’s humiliating and demeaning, and I hate him for it. Who the hell does he think he is?

  Oh, right. He’s the president of the Dirty Aces; and in the blink of his intense green eyes, he could fire me. That’s why I have to suck it up and do whatever he says. I thought maybe he would want the same sort of treatment as Fiasco did, but Anika was right — he turned me down flat.

  Part of me was even a little disappointed by his rejection. He’s apparently physically attracted to me since I sure as shit felt the hard, thick inches between his legs, so I don’t get why he turned me down like all the others.

  After Malcolm takes his paperwork back to his office and I have a few minutes alone with Ronnie, the bartender who trained me earlier, I lower my voice and lean on the counter to get her take on the strange man. “What’s the deal with Malcolm?”

  “Oh, he’s harmless,” she tells me with a wave of her hand. “Well, in some ways. He doesn’t sleep with any of the hired staff, but one time, he did put a bullet in the man who accused him of cheating at poker.”

  “Seriously?” I ask in disbelief.