Jack (The Kings of Mayhem MC Tennessee 1)

“You’re not very good at the whole poker face thing, are you?” I question.

“Fuck you.”

“I’m just saying is all. You’re an easy man to read.”

“Yeah? Read this.” He salutes me with his middle finger.

Caligula doesn’t get the whole, you’ve got to know when to hold ‘em, know when to fold ‘em philosophy. Unless he’s dealt a straight, full house, or flush, it’s game over for him.

Which makes him suck at poker.

Which is why we like playing with him.

“Sore loser,” I say with a wink.

“Suck my goddam dick,” he replies, ripping off a bottle cap and flicking it across the table.

One thing about Caligula, he’s always talking about his dick. He isn’t named Caligula for nothing. His tastes linger in controversy. Nothing illegal—we don’t tolerate anyone fucking with illegal perversities in our club—but let’s just say Caligula isn’t into vanilla. He likes the whole goddamn ice cream cart and likes to talk about it too.

Paw looks at us over his cards. “I’ll pass on the dick-sucking and see the bet.” He throws a chip down next to mine on the table.

“You don’t know what you’re missing out on, brother,” Caligula replies casually, leaning back as he takes a swig from his bottle.

“I’ve walked in on you enough times over the years to know exactly what I’m missing, and it ain’t nothing to write home about, brother,” Paw adds.

“Fuck you! Any bigger and the government would classify it as a weapon of mass destruction,” Caligula retorts, which earns him a shower of pretzels sent his way by the other Kings of Mayhem sitting around the table.

“Are you boys playing poker or playing with your dicks?” asks my father, Earl Dillinger, chewing on his fat cigar. Despite his sixty-something years on this Earth, Earl is still a wall of muscle and has a growl you listened to because, if you don’t, he’ll find a way to make you. And you don’t want that.

He used to be president, but a cancer scare a few years back saw him step down. I was VP back then, and the club voted me in as president.

Next to him is Ares, our sergeant-at-arms. At almost seven-foot, he’s a beast of a man with long flowing hair and arms as big as tree trunks. One night, Paw was dumb enough to challenge him in an arm wrestle when he was drunk, and Ares almost pulled his goddamn limb off. He’s a quiet one, and they say the quiet ones are the ones you need to watch. I don’t doubt it. Even though I trust him with my life, I have a feeling none of us really know the silent giant.

He throws down a chip. “I’ll see your ten.”

Beside Ares, is Wyatt. He’s more my father’s age. A crusty old biker with dyed black hair and a handlebar mustache to match. He used to ride with my father and Hutch Calley back in the ‘70s as a prospect.

“I’m out,” he says calmly.

Not a lot fazes Wyatt.

Ghoul sits beside him, his high chiseled cheekbones casting a shadow across his strong face as he studies his cards. Dolly says he looks like a Skarsgård, either Alexander or Bill, whoever the fuck they are. We call him Ghoul because the dude is obsessed with horror movies, serial killers, and true crime. And surprise, surprise, Halloween is like a holy day to the morbid fuck.

With a shake of his head, he de-fans his cards and throws them on the table. “I’m out.”

Across from me, Banks, our treasurer, eyes his cards with a steady poker face. He’s a math genius and a financial whiz. When he invested some of the club’s money in cryptocurrency a few years back, we made a ton of cash. Like a fucking ton of it.

Pushing up his thick-rimmed glasses, he throws a ten-dollar chip into the mix. “I’m in.”

Beside him, Gabe, our baby-faced rockabilly, rubs his chin before closing his cards and throwing them down on the table. Gabe looks like Elvis but can’t sing for shit. Unfortunately, it doesn’t stop him trying.

Next to Gabe is Venom, our resident tattoo artist. Covered head to toe in ink, he runs our tattoo shop, The Devil’s Hand. He gnaws on his lip ring for a moment before throwing his cards onto the pile.

That leaves me.

The man with a royal flush.

I eye Paw. “I’ll see your ten and raise you twenty.”

Upping the bet earns me some graphic language. Everyone, except Ares, throws their cards down in disgust.

Ares accepts my raise and throws down two ten-dollar chips.

It’s just me and my SAA.

I meet his steely gaze across the table. He narrows his eyes, so I narrow mine, then he lets out a throaty growl, so I give him a smug smile.

“Well, big boy, it’s just you and me,” I say.

One dark eyebrow goes up. “Are you waiting for a kiss or what?” He nods toward my hand. “Show me.”