Betrayed (Dark Desires 2)

We sat around and drank, shot the shit, played cards. It was forbidden to talk shop at Dick’s because I took for granted that the place was bugged.

The local cops and the feds had been on my ass for as long as I could remember. Members of my crew had been locked up for crimes that had nothing to do with me and none of them had ever flipped on me. They knew what would happen if they ratted out The Wright Brothers. No cop or fed would be able to protect them, Eddie would see to that.

Rick Wright had never spent a single day in jail and I planned to keep it that way, though I knew my freedom was directly tied to the intelligence and loyalty of those around me. That’s why I kept my inner circle small, consisting of only those few guys who had proven to me in the past that I could trust them completely.

I knew that it would take just one asshole with a big mouth to sink the ship I was captaining, so I kept the crew small and under my thumb. They didn’t do anything without me knowing about it or giving it my blessing. Although Eddie sometimes went rogue and had to be put back in line, the rest of the crew were as loyal and obedient as a pack of wolves.

That said, I was getting tired of being the leader of the pack.

I was tired of looking over my shoulder and sleeping with a gun under my pillow at night.

I had a plan that would get me out of this/ life soon.

One more big score and it was bye-bye Rick Wright.

You’ll never see this good-looking son of a bitch again.

Rick Wright was going to become a motherfucking ghost.

* * *

“Holy fucking shit, have you guys seen the bitch sitting at the end of the bar?”

I looked up from the lousy poker hand Eddie had dealt me to see Fats, the fattest guy on the crew (duh), standing in the doorway grabbing his crotch. He grunted like a pig in the mud. “Man oh man, what I’d do to that sweet ass bitch.”

All of a sudden it was like I was playing cards with a bunch of fucking horny teenagers. Eddie, Pete, and Ronnie fell all over each other to get to the door to peer out into the bar.

“Holy fucking shit is right,” Eddie said. “Who is she?”

“Don’t recognize her,” Skip said, peering over Eddie’s shoulder. “But I’d tap that ass.” He turned to me. “Rick, dude, you gotta see this bitch.”

I blew out a long breath and threw my cards on the table. I picked up my beer and pushed them out of the way to see the woman that had gotten all their cocks hard.

Sitting at the end of the bar, facing me, nursing a tequila shot, was a gorgeous piece of ass with hair so black it shined and a face that belonged to a fucking Victoria’s Secret model.

She was wearing a black tank top that was overflowing with cleavage. Her arms were toned. I could see tattoos on her upper arms shoulders, but couldn’t make out what they were from that distance. My shoulders and back are covered with tats. I regretted getting every one of them. They hurt like a motherfucker. And they were like scars. Once you had them, it was virtually impossible to get rid of them without a trace. I gave respect to any woman who could sit through the pain it took to get the amount of ink she had on her.

“I’m gonna go talk to her,” Eddie said, trying to elbow his way past me. “That bitch needs some Eddie Wright cock in her ass.”

“Keep it in your pants, Casanova,” I said, holding up a hand that made them all take a step back. “Nobody’s sticking anything in anybody’s ass until I make sure she’s not a cop.”

Eddie blinked at me. “Dude, you think she’s a cop?”

“I think everybody is a cop,” I said. I tilted the bottle to my lips to drain it. “You fuckers stay here. I got this.”

SANDY

It took longer for me to sit in my car and muster the courage to walk into Dick’s than it did for someone to hit on me once I took a seat at the bar. I’d barely had time to slide onto the barstool when a slimy-looking guy wearing a wife beater and a Members Only jacket asked if he could buy me a drink.

I told him to fuck off and he started to say something back to me, but the bartender came over and gave him a look that sent him on his way.

The bartender, an older man with thick white hair, wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a tie pulled loose from his collar (he looked like Coach from that old TV show Cheers) swirled a wet rag over the bar in front of me.

He looked out of place compared to the bikers and sleaze balls lined up at the bar and sitting at the dozen or so tables that haphazardly dotted the room. There were three bikers shooting pool in the corner, leaning on their sticks and gawking at me like hungry dogs staring in a butcher’s window.

“What’ll you have?” the bartender asked.

“What do you have?” I asked. It was the first time I’d ever