Reign (Sin City Outlaws #1)(57)

I ride to the club, needing to clear my head. No matter what kind of mood I’m in, the club has acted as a refuge. It’s a sanctuary, taking my thoughts and anger, and placing them where they’re best needed.

Ruling. Killing. Fucking.

Heading inside, the lights are dimmed, the music loud. It’s packed with bodies from one end to the other.

Pushing through the doorway, people start to move out of the way, some giving me a nod, some smiling.

“Zeek!” Some drunk girl I don’t recognize stumbles into me, her beer spilling on my boots. My lip curls in distaste, and I shove her out of the way.

“There he is!!” Turning my head, I find Machete sitting on the couch, a beer in one hand.

Striding toward him, he shoves some drunk girl off the cushion. She lands on the dirty floor with a thump, passed out. I step over her and sit next to him.

“Hey, Tinker! Get us some beer!” he hollers above the music.

Pop Evil’s “Torn to Pieces” plays on the speakers, and my mind immediately shifts to Jillian.

Trying to be a man of feeling is tearing me apart. I want to walk away from her, want to tell her to screw off like I do every other female… but I can’t. She’s a dream in my nightmare. The path of light I’ve been silently seeking, but never knew… not until her.

“Oh, come on!” Tinker shouts, her hands outstretched. At closer inspection, some guy is throwing up over by the bar.

I don’t feel relaxed. I feel tenser than before, actually.

“You bitch!” a young woman screams, slapping the other across the face. Seconds later, a catfight breaks out.

Shaking my head, I sit forward, resting my elbows on my knees.

Come to think of it, this club hasn’t felt like that for a long time.

This place used to be my home.

It feels cold and empty now.

Out of order.

This isn’t my club anymore.

This is Uncle Frank’s.

“You all right, man?” Machete asks, nudging me in the arm. I ignore him.

Tinker hands me a beer. I grab it in a trance and set it on the coffee table.

My eyes slowly sweep up, catching a couple of guys wearing prospect patches with our club’s colors. I don’t recognize them.

“Who is that?” I nod toward them.

“Oh, yeah. Frank patched them in this morning.”

My head snaps in Machete’s direction.

“What’d you say?”

“Yeah, patched them in this morning. We tried to call you. Felix threw a huge fit, and Cross pistol-whipped him. It was a goddamn mess, man.” Some girl with leather chaps and no panties on slides onto his lap.

“Hey, sweetheart.” He smirks, running his hand over her ass.

My inner beast paces back and forth within my chest, waiting to be released as I watch the posers. Stepping over the coffee table, I stride toward the men I’ve never seen before and fist the back of their leather cuts.

The beast is out of its f*cking cage!

Shoving one to the ground face-first, I press my boot into the back of his neck hard and tear the cut off his back. Turning to grab the other guy, Machete is already on him. The guy’s face pressed into the wall with force, he tears the patch off.

I release my foot from the first dipshit’s back, and he stands. Pulling my piece from my waist, my finger rubs along the trigger. Tears stream down his face, his bottom lip trembling. He’s young, maybe eighteen. Clearly not cut out for this kind of life.

“I’m… I’m…” He stumbles on his words.

“I don’t allow just anyone into my club.” He wipes his eyes and looks the other way. “The f*ck? You crying?” He shakes his head quickly, denying it.

“Get the hell out of my club. You come here again, I will kill you. Do you understand me?”

“Frank—”

“Frank doesn’t run this club, I do. Wearing colors or patches that weren’t given to you by the president of the club, or voted in by said club, will get you killed!”

“Take note,” Machete sneers.

“Fuck you, man, you ain’t in charge of shit!” The one Machete was holding spits at my feet. Looking at my boot, I curl my lip. He disrespected me, in my own club, wearing my colors.

Both of them race out of the club, nearly pushing the other out of the way to get to the exit quick enough.

Fisting the prospect’s top rocker in my hand, rage makes my blood roar in my ears. My uncle has used me since day one, his mission to take over the club in full effect… and I let it happen.

I was a boy before, not seeing my uncle for the f*ck he was.

Not anymore.

“Machete, get that mouthy punk.”





THIRTEEN





JILLIAN


Pacing my living room, regret starts to surface in my chest. Why did I push him? It’s like I’m not happy unless I can run a background check on someone, and have them fully interrogated.

My ways are why I was single for so long. I’m pushy, come on too strong. I normally don’t care; however, Zeek is different. I don’t want him to walk away because I can’t get over my control issues.

Picking up my phone, I call his cell. It goes to voicemail.

Running to my room, I throw on ripped jeans and a hoodie. Grabbing my keys, I get in my Jeep and drive toward Sin Casino.