Her hands go to her hips, and she pushes her chin up. “I don’t drink.Ever.”
“Right.”
She narrows her eyes, like she can’t go until I believe her. “I’m serious.”
I study her for a second. She’s not slurring, not unsteady, and her eyes are too clear to fake.
She’s dressed for the clubs. She’s loud like she’s had a skinful of sweet cocktails.Huh.Now, I’m curious.Why doesn’t she drink?
But she’s already turning away.
“Come on, Roxy,” she calls to her friend, stalking off like she doesn’t feel the heat of my stare burning into her. She doesn’t look back, not once, so I watch her just long enough to burn thesway of her hips into my brain like a bad idea I’ll regret thinking about later.
Fucking loudmouth.
I swing a leg over my bike, the seat still warm from her skin, and fire the engine. My gloves tighten on the bars. I shouldn’t care. She was just some attention-hungry brat playing dress-up for the ’gram.
But something about the way her eyes iced over when I called her drunk . . .
I push the thought out of my head and ride.
By the time I roll through the gates of the Chaos Demons compound, the familiar comfort of club life settles back over me. The roar of bikes. The scent of oil and smoke. The sort of noise I can handle. Noise withpurpose.
Axel’s waiting outside with his arms folded over his chest and his shades on, despite the dying light.
“Got it?” he asks as I kill the engine.
I nod and pass him the envelope.
He peels it open and counts the stack in that calm, quiet way he has. Axel doesn’t yell unless you deserve it. He doesn’t need to. There’s a weight to him, steady, unshakable. Men twice his size would rather bleed than disappoint him. When Axel speaks, you shut up and listen. He built this club on loyalty, not fear, and that’s why we follow him. That’s why I do, at least.
“All there?”
“Yeah,” I grunt.
He tucks it into his kutte. “Good. You free now?”
“Depends.”
“Grizz bailed. Said something about food poisoning, but I think his old lady had plans for him.”
“Don’t blame him.”
Axel smirks. “I need a second pair of eyes. Dancer interviews start in ten minutes. Figured you could help me pick who gets a spot.”
“For Zen Den?” I ask. The girls we employ there don’t usually dance, they just fuck.
“Dancers,” he corrects. “Legit ones for Steel’s.” We’ve branched out, inheriting a gentleman’s club as a debt payment, something none of us have a clue how to run.
I arch a brow. “What?” He shrugs. “All we gotta do is watch them dance. How hard can it be?” He sniggers at his words.
I roll my shoulders, my jaw tight. I don’t like crowds, don’t like being the centre of attention. And I sure as hell don’t like sitting through half-naked women pretending to want me for cash.
But I won’t say no to my president without good reason, and it beats chasing down dicks who can’t pay their debts.
Remi
I wasn’t supposed to end up here.
