Reign (Sin City Outlaws #1)(11)

“Just shocked that bitch didn’t seem afraid, or even concerned with who the hell she was talking to,” I state. Everyone is afraid of us. Every pig who wears a badge stays out of our way, because most of them are in our pocket.

“You should have put her in her place, ‘cause that woman will be back. Mark my words, brother.”

I tilt my head back and take a deep breath, the smell of blood from my shirt filling my lungs. I love the smell of violence. The look of terror on someone’s face after they’ve realized they crossed the wrong motherf*cker. The way the crimson paints the perfect picture of life right across my knuckles. It’s a rush.

“You let me deal with her, got it?” Lowering my head, I glare at him, waiting for him to respond.

He rubs at his chin and nods. “You’re the boss.”

Cheap perfume wafts past me, and an arm slides along my mid-section.

“Baby, you should have punched that ho in the face,” Dolly coos, looking up at me like I am her f*cking king. The boys call her Dolly ‘cause she looks like a doll—thick black hair, rosy cheeks, and thick eyelashes. I call her Dolly cause that’s what she is to me—a doll I f*ck with when I want to play, and when I’m done, I toss her ass to the side. “Now, you look weak. You let a pig talk to you like—”

I grab her by the back of her hair, yanking her head back roughly. I’m sick of her mouth. Because I’ve f*cked her a few times, she thinks she’s important enough to tell me what I should have done? She’s forgetting where she stands in the Sin City Outlaws—the bottom, with the rest of the whores I slam into from time to time. I never did find Rachel. So I went on with my life, as I hope she did hers. Only this time, I won’t make the same mistake of becoming attached to a woman who can’t stick around. I don’t have time for a chick anyway, I got a club to run.

Dolly’s arm leaves my waist, trying to grab at my hand that’s tangled in her hair, her ridiculous heels tripping on themselves as she loses her balance.

“Why don’t you worry about yourself, and remember who the f*ck you’re talking to,” I seethe into her ear.

I push her away, and she falls into one of the other girls—f*ck if I can remember who, though. These boys are always bringing new * into the club. Sometimes I think it’s a sorority with all the drunk chicks I have in my face.

“We’ve delivered the message Uncle Frank wanted, let’s head back to the club!” I holler, heading toward my bike.

Uncle Frank wanted us to give a warm welcome to the new casino. Let them know if their business starts to interfere with his casino, we’d be back, and the owner will endure more than a broken nose and rib. Frank’s bullshit orders get on my nerves. His casino and my MC are separate, but he seems to forget that… or not care, I’m not sure.

Only reason I follow through with it is because shit seems to go missing or gets broken when I don’t.

Climbing on my bike, Dolly tries to slide in behind me. I grit my teeth and shake my head. I don’t let any woman ride bitch, ‘cause I don’t have a bitch.

“No, you ride with someone else.”

She pulls her blue jean skirt down, her black shirt showing off her belly button.

“Why do you have to be such an ass?”

Narrowing my eyes, I snap my fingers, pointing anywhere but where the f*ck I am. I’m not an ass; this is just how I am. It’s no surprise I don’t want her ass on the back of my bike, so why the f*ck would she try to pull that bullshit?

“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll get the f*ck out of my face right now.”

She frowns as she rolls her eyes, walking away.

***

Riding up behind the casino, we park our bikes and head into the clubhouse. It sits right behind Uncle’s casino, with a small street separating the two. It keeps tourist’s wandering eyes away.

It’s made of tan stucco, three stories high.

Big Mike stands guard as I approach the red door, our logo painted on it. Mike is big and fat and is wearing a white suit, one of his hands dipped in a bag of chips, as usual. I hired him a year ago; he watches the place in case a tourist does happen to stumble across the club. Had a couple of guys heading back here thinking it would be a perfect alley to piss in, only to come inside and take pictures. Cameras got shattered. Hands got broken. Last thing I need is someone taking photos of what goes on behind these doors.

“Zeek,” he greets, and I nod in reply.

“Mike.”

Pushing the distressed wooden door open, my boots thud against the tiled floor. The lights are low, and music is blaring. Some of the usual hang-arounds are seated around the bar, random bitches sitting on their laps. The bar is the first thing you see when you walk in, set up at the opposite end of the entry. Wooden barstools take up the front of it, with two cute bitches we picked up working behind the bar. One is a blonde little thing we call Tinker because she looks like Tinker Bell. The other is a punk-looking chick with short black hair and piercings all over her face; we call her Emo. Tinker started hanging around here a couple months ago then just kind of migrated into working here. But Emo was a prostitute the boys constantly had here. One night, she was sitting at the bar eating food from the kitchen, and I told her to get her ass behind the bar and pull her weight. She’s been doing so ever since.

Walking further into the club, there’s a pool table to the left and some red leather couches to the right. Behind the couches is a hallway for the boys when they have company. I have a room in the back for when I’m with chicks, or too damn drunk to ride home. Both happen a lot.