by K. L. Savage
It’s the fifth place I’ve looked at with the real estate agent, and I’ve hated every single one she has shown me. They’re fucking dives, and I’m starting to wonder if she thinks we can’t afford more than this. Bullseye is being a grouch, and he looks a bit pale. He’s holding the spot on his chest where he got shot, and I’m wondering if we need to call it a day and head back to the house. I have to meet with Skirt anyway about the house, then there is church later tonight about some cookout Reaper wants to hold for all the chapters.
All. Of. Them.
That’s about two-hundred people and a beacon for the sheriff to come to our property and make things more difficult.
“So what do you think?” Amber or Amy or whatever the hell her name is asks in a preppy, cheerleader voice, and it grinds on my nerves. She’s wearing an expensive silk skirt with a plain blouse. She’s too skinny, and with how she’s looking at me, I can tell she wants me. It’s too bad. She isn’t my type.
I like my meat a bit thicker and off-limits.
Juliette.
Damn, just the thought of her name gets my cock worked up.
“I think it’s a shithole, lady,” Bullseye growls, toying with a metal dart in his hand, and by his body language, he’s a breath away from throwing it at her. “It ticks me off that you’re showing us these dumps in bad neighborhoods. We told you we were good for it, so why do you keep testing us?” He grips the dart with so much force he snaps it in half.
Before the situation gets out of control, like having to figure out how to dispose of a body, I diffuse the situation with my charm; something Bullseye lacks.
“I think what my friend means to say is—”
“I said what I fucking meant,” Bullseye interrupts me and stands, leaning against the bar as he points at the real estate agent. “You heard me, why?”
She jumps in her expensive heels and licks her lips. She tries to speak but looks like fear has disabled her vocal cords. “I’m sorry. I was only following instruction,” she whispers.
I tilt my head, letting her words roll around a bit as I think. “Instruction? From whom?”
“The sheriff. He found out you were looking for a place on the strip, and he wanted me to show you the worst. Please, don’t hurt me. I’ll…” She ran up to Bullseye and rubbed her hands along his chest. “I’ll do anything.”
“Anything?” he grunts.
“Yes.” She nods in quick bobs.
“So if I said bend over and lift that skirt so I can have my way with your pussy, you would?”
Damn it, Bullseye. Why did I bring him with me again?
She tries to take a step back from him. “I—um, I—” she stutters, and Bullseye grabs her wrists gently, tugging her to him again.
“Listen, don’t come onto me unless you’re willing to go through with it. If that’s all, leave. We don’t have time to waste with shit like this,” Bullseye gently pushes her away from him, and she rights her blouse. Her face is red, flushed with embarrassment, and I’m assuming terror.
“Want to let you know, though, doing us wrong doesn’t get you any favors with the club. Go against the sheriff, show us a good spot, and we will be in debt to you.”
“In debt? Like, you’ll owe me a favor?” she replies to me.
“Only me. So if you need anything, ask for Tool when you call the clubhouse, okay, Amber?”
“It’s Amy,” she corrects me, and I want to roll my eyes.
“Great.” I look around this dump again and cringe. I hear the scuffle of rats inside the walls. The floor is rotted, the roof is caved in with water damage, and there’s a smell in that not even a fire can get rid of. “Can we go?”
“Of course.” She hurries by us, and Bullseye leans forward and bites the air, making her screech and walk faster in front of us.
He laughs, and I slap his shoulder, making him grunt with pain. “Stop being an ass,” I warn him. “You don’t want me to tell Prez.”
“You don’t want me to tell Prez,” he mocks me like a child. “What are you, a snitch?”
“What are you? Twelve? Jesus, Bullseye, get to walking to the truck. And stay in the truck for the next place we see. I don’t feel like dealing with your ornery ass.”
“I don’t feel like dealing with your ornery ass,” he mimics again, and I slap him on the back of the head before he gets into the passenger seat of the truck, arms crossed just like a kid would be.
I slam the passenger door and take a deep breath, telling myself not to stab him between the eyes. Don’t do it. Don’t do it. Calm down.
The sun bears down on my eyes causing me to squint as I run around the truck. I gaze into the windshield and see Bullseye flicking me off. When we get to the clubhouse, I’m going to have Doc tranquilize him so everyone can get a break from Bullseye.
I crank the truck, ignoring Bullseye as he mumbles under his breath. I pull forward and follow Amy’s small red convertible down the strip. Building by building, I can tell we’re finally getting into a better area. The prostitutes get less and less until they are finally non-existent. The sun shines brighter, and tourists walk on the sidewalks pointing to each impressive building they see, like the Bellagio.
This is better.
She turns her blinker on and turns into a garage. It’s so much cooler in here than it is outside since it’s shaded. I lean against the headrest for a second, enjoying the absence of the sun, when Bullseye opens his big mouth. “Are you really making me stay in the car?”
He sounds so sad it’s almost comical.
“No. Keep your mouth shut around Amy. You’re being an ass.”
“Yes, sir,” he says, sounding forlorn like a pouty kid.
We get out of the truck, and our boots land on the parking lot floor with a hard thud, bouncing off the cement walls along with Amy’s high heels. She still seems flustered as we walk toward her and keeps her head down.
This cop is getting involved in matters that he has nothing to do with, and that’s a problem. Sheriff Johnson just got elected, and he seems to have zeroed in on us. I don’t like it. He doesn’t want us coming to the strip, why? He has nothing on us that proves we’re dangerous to society. Is it implied?
Maybe.
But if there’s no proof, then Sheriff is harassing us, and it’s not something I like one bit.
“About the place,” Amy starts to speak, pulling me from my murderous thoughts of hanging the sheriff by his neck. “It used to be an Italian restaurant, but the owner died in a terrible hotel explosion. Can you believe that?” She shakes her head in sadness. “I hope he died quickly.”
Bullseye and I share a look, knowing it’s the same explosion that put Reaper on his ass and Moretti in a coma.
“Shame,” we say at the same time.
“Anyway, it’s a pretty big place—bar, stage, and all that jazz. Location is great. Right in the heart of Vegas. It needs a few repairs because it’s been empty, but it’s beautiful. It just needs a little love.” She grunts when she pulls the door open after unlocking the knob. A cloud of smoke puffs in her face, and she coughs, waving her hand to get the dust out of her eyes. “Like I said, it’s been awhile.”
“Little dust never killed nobody. I don’t mind cleaning,” I say as I step inside the place that hopefully is my future. It’s dark, and I can hardly see anything. A light buzz sounds, and a second later the lights come on. I’m taken aback.
It’s perfect.
It’s narrow more than it is wide, but it goes way back.
Bullseye whistles. “Holy shit, Tool. This place is fancy.” I hear the awe in his voice, and he looks up at the ceiling, staring at the large chandeliers hanging.
Yeah, those have got to go if I get his place.
The place has been cleared out of all the tables and booths besides a few chairs. A thick coat of dust lays on the floor, and our boots leave tracks as we walk deeper into the empty space.
“To the right, you have a bar made of a hundred-year-old wood. It’s original, ju
st like the floors. The previous owner wanted to make sure he kept something traditional.” Amy explains some of the history, and for the first time, I’m actually interested in learning about something that happened in the past.
“To the left we have the stage. Oh, wait, you can’t see it because of the curtain. Let me figure out how to move it.” Amy walks to the side where a big gold rope is, reminding me of something that should be attached to a bell, waiting for someone to tug to sound the loud ring.
“This place is nice, Tool,” Bullseye says. “Can you afford—”
I snap my head to him and narrow my eyes to tell him he better not say another word about money.
I have plenty.
I’ve saved up while doing a few favors for the Prez and other clubs. Let’s just say, the loose ends I take care of never speak again. No one knows that except Reaper, and it’s better to keep it that way. It’s one of the few illegal activities that is necessary. If there’s a problem, I take care of it.
Not even Bullseye, our Sergeant at Arms, knows. He should. He can clean up with me, and we would make one hell of a team, but Reaper wants to keep it on the downlow. The more people who know, means the more people who talk, and talk means gossip.
“It’s nice.” I twist my head left and right, nodding in appreciation as I look at the old trim along the walls. For an Italian place, I wondered if the owner knew he had Irish crescents carved in the wood lining the ceiling. I can imagine it now. Small private booths will line the front of the stage, reserved for VIP only. Other tables will be first come first serve, and the bar will have stools for more seating. No room for dancing, well, not club dancing, just slow dance to enjoy the music being played. I’m thinking old school, like blues or R&B.
The curtain, instead of rising, falls and crashes against the floor, and Amy lets out a scream, and another wave of foggy dust hides her.
“Woman is a damn mess,” Bullseye says, watching as she stumbles onto the stage, coughs, and spreads her arms out.
“Ta-da,” she says with a smile, revealing a stage made for maybe four people.
“She’s cute,” Bullseye chuckles, appreciating Amy’s showmanship.
“Don’t even think about it. The real estate agent is off-limits, Bullseye. Don’t make this difficult.”
“I can’t fuck anyway,” he grumbles. “Hurts my chest and lungs. I just got those bitches drained from moving too quickly. I’m not doing it again. Getting a tube shoved in your side isn’t pleasant.”
His healing process has been slow, but the doctors say it’s normal when they have to crack a chest. The body is never the same after that. And I can see the toll it’s taking on him.
“What do you guys think?” Amy’s voice is like nails on a chalkboard for me. I bring my gaze to hers to see her in the same ‘ta-da’ position.
“I love it so far. Can I see the kitchen?” She runs off the stage, her hands up as she takes small steps to not trip.
“Come with me. It’s in the back through this door.” Amy almost falls on her face from coming down the steps, but she catches herself, tugging the end of her skirt to pull it down her legs. She smooths her palms down her thighs, pulling herself together.
She’s cute, but Bullseye is right; she’s a fucking mess too.
Amy opens the door to the back, which I decide immediately has to go. I want big double swinging doors. Having a door here makes this place look like a house too much. The kitchen has red tile floors, older appliances, and a few cobwebs here and there.
“The fridge needs replaced and so does the oven. But the space is large—” Amy begins to explain, but I interrupt her.
“I’ll take it. Let’s go back to your office and sign papers. I can pay you today. Cash.”
“Damn, fuck you for making me pay for drinks last night,” Bullseye complains and knocks his fist on a hanging pot, which has a domino effect. The chain hanging on the wall creaks then cracks, and the pots shake and clink together before falling onto the island.
It’s loud, and the ringing of pots and pans, metal against metal, has my brains shaking and ears ringing. “You’re paying for that,” I tell him.
“What?” he yells over a piece of ceiling falling next.
I roll my eyes and turn around, ready to get the hell of here and sign the contract so I can get to work. My foot breaks through one of the floorboards and I yank it out, scuffing my boots in the process. Damn it, these are brand new. I’ll have to polish them later.
My shoulder presses against the door, and I swing it open and step out in the hot sun. Two things I notice immediately. Across the street is a lingerie store, and Juliette is in the window hanging a new piece of sexy lace on a mannequin that I can see her wearing for me.
Only Sheriff Fuckwad is leaning against the club truck, arms crossed with a pissed off look on his face. “Don’t pinch your brows, Sheriff, you’ll get wrinkles, but I guess that wouldn’t matter for your ugly mug.”
Bullseye and Amy come out of the building next, and my club brother is right next to me, ready to fight. I don’t know how he will, but the effort is what counts. The sheriff gives Amy a dangerous look, one that has every instinct in me rising up and ready to kill.
“Thought I gave you an order, Amy.”
“Um, I’ll be emailing you the paperwork,” Amy says to me before running to her car, scared as hell. The kind of panic you see when someone is afraid for their life. Is that what the sheriff is doing? Threatening whoever comes within five feet of us?
“You won’t be opening anything here, Logan,” he sneers my name, and I clench my jaw together. This asshole reminds me of my father, and I know how that ended. I was the victor.
I came out on top.
I do every time.
I peer over his shoulders to see Juliette staring at me with her pretty lips open in an O. I lift my hand and wave to the woman I want more than my next breath. “Sheriff, there isn’t anything you can do to stop me. Let’s go, Bullseye.” I go to make my way around the truck to get to the driver’s side, and the sheriff stops me, palm on my chest and his free hand on his gun.
“You better stay away from her. She isn’t for you,” he spits, pushing me to the left before going back to his cruiser. He reverses and purposely backs into the front of the truck, denting the grill, and pulls away.
“Fucking asshole,” Bullseye sneers and hops into the truck.
He is. I can deal with asshole. What I can’t deal with is an asshole with bad intentions. She isn’t for me? What does that mean?
If she isn’t for me, who is she meant for?
6
JULIETTE
So I don’t like an empty house. It’s too quiet. It’s how I ended up at the humane society, ready to adopt a dog. Plus, having a dog will bring me security, a sense of safety if an attacker breaks into the house.
I slam the door to my car and tilt my head back onto my shoulders. Holy mother of sour patch straws, it’s sprinkling. It never rains. It’s hot, dry, and I’ll even see a tumbleweed now and again. Rain? It’s a sweet, precious thing that we locals never see enough of. The first light sprinkle on my skin makes me grin.
I stand in the middle of the parking lot, spread my arms, and stand there as I let the rain fall on me. It’s coming down a little heavier now, not enough to bounce off my skin, but enough for me to feel the small droplets roll down my arm. No one understands how rare it is to feel rain when you live in the desert. It’s like experiencing a miracle, one that you actually get to touch and feel.
“Little sparrow, you should know better than to stand like that in the rain.”
A voice I’ve dreamed about over the last few nights makes my body tighten with shock and lust. I didn’t expect to see him again. Vegas isn’t the smallest city, and how he and I met, well, that was completely out of the norm. So color me shocked that when I turn around, I see his sexy, handsome biker face.
He has on a black tank top that matches the depth of his hair, and it’s suctioned to his bod
y because his muscles are so big. I can see the indentations of his abs and the swells of his pecs. My mouth drools on itself until I’m swallowing a gallon of spit. Gross. Crap, is it dripping down my chin? I lift my hand and scratch my neck then work my way up to my chin to make sure I’m not making a complete fool of myself.
“It’s raining,” I say to him. Duh, Juliette. Way to be lame.
“I see that. You’re enjoying it.” His eyes roam down my body and back up to my face, and that’s when I realize my nipples are hard and my dress is sticking to my skin. I cross my arms over my chest, and the rain starts to come down harder, thunder rolling in the distance to tell us the storm is far from being over.
He wraps his arm around me and spins me toward the entrance of the humane society. “Come on, little sparrow. I don’t want you to get sick being in the rain like this.”
“Being in the rain doesn’t make you sick. That’s a myth.” I let him guide me through the parking lot, and right as we’re about to cross the small street separating the lot and the building, he holds me back to keep me from crossing. A speeding car ignores us completely and whizzes on by, splashing water on the both of us.
There’s dirt in my mouth.
My dress has gone from damp to soaking freaking wet.
“Asshole!” the sexy biker roars at the car that just splashed murky water on us. “You okay, Juliette?” He cups my face gently, his eyes darting back and forth between mine. “I have a hoodie in my truck; let me grab it for you. Stay right here. Don’t fucking move,” he orders, pointing one finger to the ground where my feet are firmly planted.
“Okay,” I whisper.
“I’m serious.”
“I’m not moving!” I snap at his alpha dominate demand that makes me wet between the legs, but I want to fight him too.
His fingers slide under my chin, and he brings his lips down on mine in a quick, soft kiss that steals my breath and brain cells. “Good, I’d be heartbroken if you did,” he says.
I just kissed a guy whose name I don’t even know. He turns to walk toward his bike, but I grab his wrist, needing to know the name of the man who has me considering disappointing my father. “Who are you?” I ask, and he tugs his wrist free and gives me a sexy grin as he walks backward.
