Reckless Truths (Lost Kings MC)

Guy must be dense as fuck or just not paying attention. He reaches for another girl. His stubby little fingers graze her thigh as she passes.

I shackle my hand around his wrist, snapping his arm up in the air, lifting him out of his chair.

“What part of no touching is confusing?” I shout in his face.

“Huh?” His blank expression take a few seconds to catch up to what’s happening. Crystal Ball can’t legally serve alcohol but that doesn’t stop patrons from getting wasted before they come into the club. If they’re obviously intoxicated, whoever’s manning the door should turn them away, but some slip through.

I squeeze his wrist harder.

“Okay, okay. Sorry.”

I throw his ass back into his chair. “The only thing I want to see that hand doing is waving dollar bills.”

He pulls a wad of cash out of his pocket. “Okay. Okay, I got money. See?” He shoves the stack of ones toward my face.

“Good.” I lean down so we’re almost nose to nose. He rears away, but runs into Ravage, who’s leaning over the back of the chair. “I will break whatever part of you I see touch another girl, are we clear?”

He swallows hard. A bead of sweat rolls down the side of his face. His gaze drops to my cut, quickly scanning my flash. People like him pretend outlaw bikers are a cute fairy tale—until they actually cross paths with one.

“I hear you, bro.” He nods to my cut. “I ride too.”

I bend his wrist to an awkward, painful angle. “I ain’t your bro.” I release him so fast, he rocks sideways.

Ravage squeezes the guy’s shoulder—hard. “You don’t want to go home to your wife and explain how your fingers got broken, right?”

“R-right.”

“Good.” Rav pats his shoulder.

Now that he’s been sufficiently warned, the girls working the floor feel safe enough to swarm over to him.

Rav and I step back, leaning against the wall that runs to the hallway backstage. Someone propped open the exit door and a crowd of nervous young women are milling around, while Lexi talks to each one, marking down information on her clipboard.

“Amateur night is the best.” Rav cackles with evil glee. “Girls are like timid deer. And someone always wears something without Velcro and gets stuck in their clothes on stage.”

“You’re a psycho.”

“What? It’s cute.”

“Bullshit,” I snort. “Half the time we don’t even get amateurs. It’s pros from other clubs trying to scope us out.” At least that’s how it was ten or twelve years ago.

“Bro, there are no other clubs around. We’re the last one standing for like a hundred miles.”

“Whatever.” My strip club days are so far behind me, I couldn’t care less.

I sweep my gaze over the customers again. Handsy seems to be taking our threats seriously.

Loud chatter from the hallway draws my eyes that way again. Just more wannabe strippers crowding inside.

There’s something familiar about one short, extra-curvy girl with long black hair so dark it has to be dyed. Chunks of hair dyed pink and red match her pink panties and red lace dress.

“Oh,” Rav groans. “Now those are some amazing pillow thighs.”

“Pillow what?” I mutter, studying the girl.

Hell the fuck no. I push through the crowd, frowning at the girl. Praying it’s not who I think it is.

I touch her shoulder and she turns. Her mouth drops open in surprise.