Page 38 of Filthy Secret

“Well, I’ll be damned,” King grunts as his father slowly makes his way toward us.

From a distance, the man doesn’t appear to be in his early sixties. He’s still strong and tall, his hair only slightly graying. But as his gaze cuts to us, it’s clear he is fucking here on business. Fucking hell.

“I got a bone to pick with you,” Nash calls out, lifting his hand and extending his finger to point directly at me.

“The fuck?” I hiss.

His lips twitch into a smirk, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. I’m not sure what the fuck is going on here, but it’s a weird-as-fuck place to have any kind of conversation, especially with Nash Stanley, who lives more than just a couple of hours away all the way down on the fucking Gulf Coast.

“We got too much goddamn work down south. And it’s not the fun kind like the guys have in Kilgore with hookers.”

King chuckles, and my gaze cuts to him. He shrugs a shoulder. “I told you he was getting too hot to run a stable.”

“I’m too old for this other shit. I need something easy breezy.”

I almost laugh at the word easy breezy being combined with a stable of bitches. Because there is nothing easy or breezy about that. Arching a brow, I watch him for a moment.

“What’s the real deal?” King asks his father.

“Corpus is boring as fuck. I thought I wanted to retire, but I really don’t. Now that we’re getting back into club business a bit more, I want in.”

“In?” I ask.

Nash jerks his chin, his gaze shifting from King to me. “Yeah, in. I’m ready to diversify a bit more.”

“Skin isn’t something we really want to promote on a regular basis. We took over those women as a means of protecting them, although it does benefit us quite nicely. But adding more, I don’t think it’s something we’re really looking into,” I explain.

Nash doesn’t take my words in at all. In fact, I think I can actually see them as they roll off his back. I almost laugh, but I don’t because this man was my president before I was president. This man is fucking respected. He helped start this club, and I will always, always take him seriously in a way where he will always feel respected.

“Strip club,” he barks.

His voice is harsh. I blink, but I don’t say anything else immediately. “A strip club?” I ask.

Nash hums at the same time King laughs behind me. “They make a fuckton of money,” Nash informs me as if I don’t know this. I’ve spent my fair share of cash in a fucking strip joint in my day.

“They do,” I agree.

“And they are an easy way to sell whatever needs selling without anyone really paying much attention, especially since the police down there are already on my dime. Plus, they ain’t worried about what the fuck we’re doing. They got bigger problems than us.”

“Shit,” I murmur. “You’ve thought about this.”

Nash jerks his chin in a single nod. “Damn fucking straight, I have.”

“Then let’s take it to a vote. We’re done here anyway. Meet at the clubhouse?”

Nobody says anything. We all just start our engines or make our way to our vehicles, and then together, we take off. The truck heads on toward its destination, and those of us on our bikes head to the clubhouse.

Fuck, another goddamn new venture. I don’t know if I should be annoyed or if I should be grateful I’m going to be getting some more cash. Because I know a strip club is going to bring in some legit coin.

Fuck me.

It’s never-ending.

CHAPTER

FIFTEEN

RYAN

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