Chapter 1
Pacino
“You know, I employ you for this very reason,” I bark into the phone as I walk along the strip mall. “I’m not what you’d call apeople person. Which is exactly why I fucking hired you.”
I make sure to hold the phone on my right side to show off my scar on the left side. Most men would do what they can to hide it, but I like to make it known. Keeps people away most of the time.
And I know Scotty knows our roles in the security company. It’s no surprise to anyone who spends thirty seconds in a room with me—least of all an employee who’s worked for me for the past five years—that I’m more of a behind-the-scenes type of guy.
We’re in disagreement on whether or not I’m a good face for the company. Literally. I think the scar marring my left cheek makes me too imposing, but Scotty insists it evokes toughness.
Like the Hellfire Daredevils MC kutte I wear doesn’t shout how fucking tough I am.
In the club, I guess I’d be considered an enforcer. I’m the motherfucker called in to stand there to be imposing. To make threats, and then inevitably break faces.
Not the fucking meet-and-greet type of person.
“Sorry, Pacino, I’m sick.”
The fake cough he gives me makes me roll my eyes. “I hear Sarah in the background, asshole. And don’t you dare try to tell me she’s sick, too.”
I’d believe that even less than his bullshit acting.
Scotty’s eight years younger than me, and while he doesn’t come off as tough, he can hold his own until I make it wherever I’m needed to handle the problem. And he’s the charming one of us. The true face of Eagle Eye Security. The one who can convince clients to sign up with us, and then I’m the one called in when they worry he’s not strong enough to keep them safe.
I can also spot bullshit within seconds of any interaction. Another reason I’m the one called in to deal with people when they become difficult.
Which is why he should know I can tell this conversation is laced with it.
“Man, look, it’s been busy for both of us at work. At the bakery, she had graduation, and now it’s wedding season. Not to mention her classes. We haven’t seen each other for more than an hour in over three weeks. I gotta get it in, man.”
I haven’t had a girlfriend in over a decade, but I can empathize with him. While I don’t have a girl to play hooky with, I can head over to Velvet Desire and get what I need from Queenie.
We have a rule that the club doesn’t fuck the escorts, but Queenie’s the loophole. And I’m one of the three miserable assholes who get to visit her to help elevate our moods. As much as possible, anyway.
To be fair, I’m far more agreeable for about three hours after fucking Queenie. Sex is a human need, after all. And without the commitment shit to go with it, it’s even better.
And Queenie’s amazing. She knows what I need, and she’s always willing. She has a man at home—something I’ll neverfucking understand—so she doesn’t get attached. There’s never a conversation about wanting more than I’m willing to give. Which is my cock and nothing more.
Because I know firsthand just how weak women make men. And I refuse to be like Zep.
He almost lost his girl, first because of the twat he calls his ex, and then to the president of our rival club. Lost puppy. That’s what he was, and Misty Reynolds and her daughter are now Zeppelin Molloy’s weaknesses.
I’ll never be that again.
“You owe me, motherfucker.”
“There’s something you should know about her boss—”
“I’m here. I’m sure I can figure it out myself.”
Opening the door to the bakery called—I shit you not—Phoebe’s Phab Pastries, I walk inside as an attractive blonde walks out with a tray of donuts and the biggest grin I’ve ever seen on such a small face.
The bakery is bright. Really fucking bright. Pretty sure she brought in a box of crayons, pulled out the yellow one, and told the paint guy that was the vibe she was going for. Because that’s exactly what she got, and it hurts my eyes.
“Hi there! We’re not open quite yet, but I can offer you a free donut. Fresh from the fryer.”
“If you’re not open yet, why is the door unlocked?”
