Reign (Sin City Outlaws #1)(12)

This is a place where men can be men, a refuge from old ladies and the nagging burden of life itself.

Rules are simple.

Don’t touch another man’s property. That goes for women, guns, drugs, and bikes.

No killing another biker, unless voted by the club. Regardless if he’s in our chapter or not.

Don’t talk about shit you think you saw.

No talking to law enforcement of any kind. You get pulled over, you get the f*ck out of there with as little said as possible.

No ratting.

“Zeek, you want a beer, baby?” Tinker asks, popping the top off one before I answer.

Sliding onto a stool, I wink at her, taking the beer. “Thanks, babe.”

My eyes sweep along my boys who followed me in. Trapped cigarette smoke hangs above in a thick fog, as everyone starts to light up.

“You all right, Prez?” Machete asks, sitting on the stool next to me. Machete is a member I found a few years back. I was in a hardware store looking for some shit to fix a door that I tore off in a fit of rage, when I came across his lumberjack ass pacing back and forth in front of the machetes. After watching him go back and forth for the seventh time, I finally asked him what the f*ck he was doing. He wasted no time in telling me he was about to hack up a lawyer who had been having an affair with his high school sweetheart.

The man’s heart was broken.

I’ve never been in love. Got close one time, and that loss alone hurt like a bitch. So I invited him back to the club for some drinks and easy *. I also made him help me with the door I broke, and he’s been one to count on ever since.

He’s gotten in some shit from time to time, ‘cause he gets way too rough with the bitches. The more they scream, the more he likes it. To be honest, I think he just f*cks his heartache out on random women.

“How’s that cell phone working for you?” Mac asks, jutting his chin out. Mac is our techie, and after he saw my phone from the Stone Age last week, I thought he was going to have a stroke. He made me get a new one.

He doesn’t look like the typical geek with his Hollywood-looking hair. It’s short on the sides, with just a little bit more length on the top. Dirty blond, and gelled like hell. He stands out in this place with his uppity-looking ass. But that’s where people underestimate him. He looks like the boy who is here to trim your hedges, or clean your pool. Next thing you know, he’s offing whoever screwed us over, then making a sandwich in their kitchen.

I know ‘cause he made me one, too.

“Dunno, haven’t really messed with it.” I shrug.

Shaking his head, he walks away, with some little brunette hanging off his side. She has on a skimpy teal dress and purple heels, tattoos up her legs and arms. Typical girl for the club. The girls who roll through here are one of two options. One, they are slut candy. Short clothes, hair perfect, tits perfect, and they think their shit don’t stink. They also have a * that could fit a soda can with ease; I’ve seen it done.

Then there’s option two, bad-ass tarts. They’re tattooed, pierced, and occasionally wearing leather of some sort. They are a pain in the ass, and mattress hop frequently.

My eyes catch Dolly and her crew of hoes walking into the club. Full of slut candy and whore tarts. Dolly’s heels click against the tiles as she makes her way toward me.

“Who got you the drink?” Her eyes slide from my beer to me. Taking a long sip, I stare into her, knowing she’s jealous. Her eyes are caked with makeup, and her perfume is strong as f*ck. That rookie didn’t have any makeup on, or at least not like this, and her smell was subtle and attractive, unlike Dolly’s. I lower my bottle and shake my head, curious why my mind drifted to a prudish law enforcement officer while Dolly is standing at my feet dressed for easy access. Well, she seemed like a prude anyway. The way her cheeks turned red when I talked dirty to her, and the way she averted her eyes when I looked right at her.

“Tinker get that for you?” she continues, but I ignore her. Her voice is grating on my nerves. Seems to be a pattern with her. She’s not bad to look at, but when she opens her mouth, it sounds like nails on a chalkboard.

“You like to work that mouth so much, why don’t I put it to use?” I set my empty beer bottle on the counter. Her eyes light up, as if I hadn’t just given her my dick yesterday. Something’s wrong with this bitch; she’s either trying to sleep her way to the top, or she just doesn’t have any self-respect. Or maybe she’s a sex addict, which is fine by me.

She reaches for my hand, but I pull away. I ain’t about that; f*cking and running the club that’s what I am about, what I am programmed to do. I don’t have feelings, and I don’t deserve them, not after the shit I’ve done.

Heading down the hall, the music quiets. Opening a door at the far end, a queen-size bed sits with a black bedframe, a matching dresser, and black chair sitting in the corner.

“Zeek, how come you never take me to your place?” she pouts, following me into the room. “I know your uncle babies your ass with the finest amenities the hotel has to offer, yet you f*ck me in this dump.” Uncle offered me a penthouse on the very top floor that looks over Las Vegas. I declined. I’m sure it’s nicer than the shit hole I stay at across the city, but the last thing I need is to owe him anything.

I haven’t taken anyone to my place, and I don’t plan to.