Page 86 of Playboy’s Purgatory

From what I’ve heard from Ezra, Opal likes to torture Bolt by making him learn new drinks. She especially loves making him sweat when those drinks have naughty names.

“What,” I tease her, “no buttery nipple today?”

Opal laughs, her head tipping back slightly. “I’ve already done that one, but it’s not one I can torture him with for long since I can’t drink a lot of them.”

“What about making your own up, the drinks and the names?”

The moment the suggestion leaves my mouth, Opal’s eyes light up as she starts clapping. Bolt puts the drinks down in front of us and levels me with a look which could peel paint off a door.

Too bad I’m not afraid of him. It’s hard to be afraid of someone who was in Ezra’s high school history class not long ago.

Jettson’s hand squeezes my neck before his hand slides back down my spine. He lets go of me reluctantly just as Rector, the club’s Chaplain—surprisingly enough the man has a certain spiritual calm about him I can’t explain—walks up to the bar and leans against it.

“Lara,” Rector greets me, “nice to see you joining us tonight.” I nod and he turns his attention toward Playboy. “Your path out of purgatory might not be without merit.”

Playboy’s fingers come up and he pinches the bridge of his nose. “You don’t need to call me out right in front of her,” he whines.

Opal and I laugh before clinking our glasses together. Movement out of the corner of my eye has me turning. Whiskey is rushing across the room toward Ryker who stands with a look of concern on his face.

My heart starts to pound in my chest, but Jettson leans down and whispers, “The show is about to begin.”

Ryker and Whiskey put their heads together, the whispers furtive and very intense. There are a few hand motions. Ryker presses his lips together and listens very hard to whatever Whiskey is saying to him.

The moment Ryker stills and his body snaps around, the air changes. I completely forget this is some sort of play acting happening in real time right in front of me like dinner theater is the peak of entertainment.

Ryker transforms right before my eyes, his eyes going hard and everything about him is screaming danger, death, and destruction. And chrome; can’t forget the chrome. Right now, he’s the President of the Saint’s Outlaws Motorcycle Club.

In all his Presidential glory.

Holy shit.

Damn, Ezra, good for you girl.

My eyes go to her and she’s looking at him like she’s about to jump him and ride him like a bronco.

“Omen,” Ryker bellows the Prospect’s name across the clubhouse and time itself freezes.

No one speaks.

No one breathes.

I think Omen shits himself.

“Get your ass out here, right fucking now. You will answer for this,” every word Ryker grits out might as well be him breathing fire.

Omen’s feet move, but he looks dazed as fuck. And scared.

I don’t blame him for it.

He stops in front of Ryker with his head down and his eyes fixed on the floor. I let out a small, completely involuntary, gasp when the Prez rips the cut off Omen’s back. Literally. Bodily.

Limbs are flying. I think I even hear leather tearing.

What the fuck is going on?

“This is no longer your cut,” Ryker’s words are like ice as he gets right in Omen’s face. “Do you hear me?”

“Yes, Prez,” Omen’s words are filled with sorrow.