Reign (Sin City Outlaws #1)(18)

“Let’s take a taxi,” Alessandra yells over her shoulder, stepping onto the sidewalk.

“Why? We can take my Jeep,” I offer, locking my door.

“I don’t plan on either of us being sober tonight, Jillian.” I’d argue with her, but a drink sounds kind of nice. I’ve been working so hard to make it into the department I don’t think I know how to breathe anymore.

A taxi pulls up, and Alessandra glances over her shoulder before doing a double-take.

“You took the shirt off?”

I shrug. “It wasn’t me.”

She laughs and gets in the car.

“Fair enough. You look more relaxed in your Farmer Joe shirt anyhow.”

I furrow my brows, tugging on my shirt.

“This is not a farmer shirt. I got it at the mall,” I defend, climbing in the back of the taxi with her.





ZEEK


After some light gambling, I head to the club. I suck at gambling; I must not have gotten the gene from my uncle, that’s for sure. I pass a couple of half-naked girls, who are trying to carry one of their drunk friends to the elevator. They stop and smile big as I pass by. I give them the smirk, nodding at them as I continue to the back of the casino. Entering the club, I stop by the bar and spot Tinker bent over, putting bottles into the ice bin. She has on short little shorts, the globes of her ass cheeks peeking out at me, and some red top, showing off the sides of her small tits.

“You bending over like that, I see it as an open invitation for me to take you from behind,” I suggest, grabbing the rounds of her ass roughly.

She doesn’t respond, which is odd; she’s usually more than willing for a little rough play. Turning, she glances at me with watery eyes.



Her bottom lip is split and bruised, a dark circle sitting on the apple of her cheek.

“Damn, what happened to you?”

Rolling her lips onto one another, she turns her head.

“I don’t think we should play around anymore,” she mutters, looking the other way.

I stand straight, confusion and anger rising in my chest. “Who hurt you? You tell me now!” I demand, my words sharp. Even if she’s not with a patched member, and is just a club ho who tends the bar, she’s ours. I won’t let someone else put their hands on what’s ours.

Her face snaps toward me from my tone. “‘Cause your f*cking girlfriend made it very clear what would happen to me if I did,” she smarts.

My eyes widen, and my mouth pops open. “The f*ck? What girlfriend?”

She scoffs, shaking her head.

“Silly boy, don’t you know. Whether you see it or not, that little whore Dolly is claiming your ass. Bet if I get close enough to you I can smell the piss she’s tracking you with.”

“Hey, brother,” Felix states, walking into the club room we conduct Church in. My eyes never leave Tinker’s, my nostrils flaring.

“Dolly ain’t my bitch, and you know that!” I seethe, pointing at her.

Her bravery fades quickly, and tears fill her eyes.

“Damn, Dolly do that to ya?” Felix questions, resting both hands on the bar.

Tinker turns quickly and grabs two beers, slamming them between us.

“Here,” she mutters. I grab the beer and raise a brow at her.

“You better watch that tone, little one,” I reprimand, having about enough of it.

She swallows hard and looks elsewhere.

“Man, that bitch Dolly is psycho.” Felix laughs. I turn where I stand and lift a brow at him. His hair is down today, and he’s wearing a black wife beater.

“Yeah, tell me about it. The boys in Church waiting?” I question, changing the f*ckin’ subject. Church is where the patched men of the Sin City Outlaws meet, discussing drops, money, runs—everything.

“Yeah, they’re in there. Haven’t heard anything from Uncle Frank in a while,” he states, taking a sip of his beer.

“That’s good. Only time he shows up is when shit goes wrong.”

Felix and I head into the club, and the men slowly stop their idle chit-chat.

“Brothers,” I announce lazily, finding my chair at the head of the table. It’s gray marble, with leather cushioning lining the sides. Chrome thumbtacks are pushed into the leather here and there. I love this table; it’s one my father got us before shit went down. Before I questioned his loyalty to the club, and the beginning of my soul rotting into damnation.

Taking my seat, I look around the room and see all eyes on me. The ceiling fan’s blades slowly turn from above the table, the walls filled with memorabilia from members before us.

Grabbing the gavel, I slam it.

“What’s new, boys?” I smile, leaning back in my chair.

This is it, the f*cking life.

Every one of these patched men would lie down and die for me, and I would them. I often feel like I don’t have blood here, that my family is nothing but traitors, except for Felix. But this club? If I didn’t have it and the loyalty of my men, I’d be a dead man. My own flaws, my craving for violence, would be my own demise. Too many times have one of these men saved me. A rival walking up behind me without me knowing, or a rogue club trying to take me out to claim Vegas as their own. My men were there, taking me out of the line of fire when I was the one who took the oath of putting myself in it.