Havoc (Storm MC 7)

“Take the day off, Havoc. I’ll call you when I need you,” King said as he sunk into the clubhouse couch.

We’d arrived back there half an hour earlier and he’d spent most of that half hour with one of the club whores who he pulled onto his lap as he told me to go home. He appeared to be more relaxed than I thought he would be after the meeting with Jackson. But who the hell knew how King’s mind worked. My guess was he needed a release to help clear his mind.

He didn’t wait for my reply before burying his face in her breasts, and I had no desire to spend time with any of the other club members in the bar, so I headed out to my bike.

My phone buzzed with a text as I exited the clubhouse and my dick hardened as I watched the video Carla had sent me. She’d done exactly what I’d asked and recorded herself for me. The video was all pussy and fingers and tits.

Swollen, delicious pussy.

Fuck.

I watched it once more before shoving my phone back into my pocket. As much as I wanted to get back to the motel and fuck her, I had some club business I wanted to take care of first.

And club business always came first.

I reached my bike just as my phone rang.

Carla.

“Did you watch it?” she asked.

The breathy tone to her voice hit me right in the gut, coiling desire through me.

“Yeah.”

“That’s all you’ve got? Jesus, Havoc, when a woman sends you a text like that, she kinda expects more than ‘yeah’ for a reaction.”

“I’m working here, Carla.” Irritation cut across my chest, grating against my desire.

“I know, but I thought it may have warranted a reply at least.”

I had to give her credit—she didn’t sound pissed off. What I was hearing was more frustration than annoyance.

I blew out a long breath. “Give me about two hours. You’ll get your reply, darlin’.”

“I’ll be ready.”

We ended the call and I did my best to ignore the way my stomach knotted.

What the fuck am I doing?

* * *

“Long time, no see, Havoc.”

For good reason.

Nikolas Petrova was a man I did my best never to run into. Unless I needed his help with something. He was a thieving, lying asshole who couldn’t be trusted, but he had contacts. Sometimes I needed access to those contacts.

Pulling up a seat at his table in the back corner of the small café he owned on Pitt Street, I replied, “I haven’t been in town for about five months. How have you been, Nikolas?” I detested small talk, but Nikolas insisted on it.

A slimy grin decorated his face. “Life is good, my friend.”

He always did think we were friends.

We weren’t.

I didn’t have friends.