I shoved my hands in the front pockets of my jeans, walking forward. The front door opened and a club girl came out, her clothes in disarray and that “just fucked” look on her face. Her hair was a rat’s nest around her head, and her red lipstick was slightly smeared along her cheek. Her eyes were glossy, her gait unsteady. It was fucked up—drunk or high, hell, maybe both.
One of the prospects followed her out, holding the door open so I could enter. I looked over my shoulder at him. He brought his hand down on the woman’s ass, the sound of his palm connecting with the cheek making a squeal of delight come from her.
She looked over at the prospect and grinned, a little bit of that smeared lipstick on her front tooth. She was a hot mess, but she probably fucked that prospect like a thoroughbred horse who’d just won the race.
And that’s what the girls who hung around at the club were good for—fucking the MC boys and helping them find that release and unwind. Typically, they didn’t want anything more than that, just to be associated with us, just to say they had a cock from The Devil’s Right Hand MC. But there had been a couple on occasion throughout the years who thought they could be more than just a piece of ass. They thought they could be an old lady, tied to one specific member of the club and essentially be their wife.
But a lot of the guys in the MC had hard, long lives. Even with some of the young members, they’d seen a hell of a lot more than they should have. And because of that, they were skeptical, didn’t allow themselves to fall in love. They didn’t allow themselves to be with women for more than a night at a time.
And me? I, on the other hand, hadn’t been with a woman in longer than I cared to even admit. With work, running the business, and keeping track of our legal and illegal dealings, my focus and priority had been on everything else aside from female companionship.
Besides, I wasn’t a club whore kind of guy. I didn’t like that shit. Never had. Never would.
But then I saw Poppy and something in me changed, like this light switch going on, like this room filling up with an iridescent glow shining on the darkness that had always been my life. I couldn’t even pinpoint what exactly it was about her that drew me in, but what I did know was it felt real. It felt right.
And so my goal, my mission, was to make her mine, to watch her, find out about her. She worked damn near seven days a week, second shift until closing. She walked to and from that shitty bar job. She had no vehicle, not that I’d seen, and up until now, I realized she was a runner, afraid of something or someone.
And I wanted to show her—prove to her—that whoever had hurt her, whoever had made her feel like she wasn’t safe, like she couldn’t have a home and be rooted, would feel my fucking wrath.
That was a damn promise.
I made my way to the back where I knew Shyne was.
I could hear the low, steady bump of music coming from the back office, the door partially opened. I placed my hand on the smooth, cold wood and pushed it inward. Shyne sat behind the desk, the laptop open in front of him, his phone sitting beside him, the music coming out of it. He had his baseball cap on backward, scruff covering his jaw, his unearthly blue eyes focused on the screen.
I leaned my shoulder against the doorframe and crossed my arms over my chest, just watching him, seeing him in his element. He was the clubhouse tech genius, our resident hacker.
With a little bit a time and patience, Shyne could get into any system or database on the net. He was a fucking genius.
“I found some shit on your girl,” he finally said, leaning back in his chair and looking up at me.
I wasn’t surprised he’d known I was here, sensed me. All the members of the club had this sixth fucking sense. It was what made us dangerous.
Well, one of the reasons.
He adjusted the baseball cap on his head, taking it off for a minute and running his hand over his scalp, his short dark hair becoming messy before he put the cap back on.
“Yeah? Whatchu got?”
He cleared his throat and leaned forward, the leather chair creaking from the movement.
“Well, she gave Richie a fake name and Social Security number.” He glanced up at me, but I gave no outward reaction.
“I figured as much. But you found out who she is, I assume?”
The look Shyne gave me was akin to “who do you think you’re fucking talking to?”