Page 16 of Lucky's Trouble

What does “really good friends” mean? Have they fucked? No, there’s no way. Lucky isn’t my sister’s type. She’s more into the intellectual types. Then again, she’s a prostitute now, so maybe he’s a client. My face screws up when I think about how much I enjoyed grinding on his big dick when he’d been with my sister.

“What’s that look for?” He takes a sip of his sugary coffee.

“Just thinking about how gross it is that I was giving a lap dance to someone my sister fucked.”

He chokes, and coffee dribbles down his beard. I hand him a napkin as he reaches for his water.

“You good?” I ask after his sputters slow.

“Goddamn, hellcat. You can’t say shit like that when I’m drinking.” He pats his beard, soaking up the coffee. “I haven’t fucked your sister.”

I tip my head to the side and raise my brows. “You expect me to believe that?”

“Hell yeah, I do. I’m not a liar. Besides, it’s against regulations for any of the Sons to sleep with our employees. We could get shut down, and I’m not going to be the reason our cash cow dries up.”

“Are you calling my sister a cow?”

He growls. “Jesus fuck. No, I’m calling the Honey Pot a cow.” Realizing that doesn’t sound any better, he shakes his head and blows out a breath. “Anyone ever tell you you’re exhausting?”

“A few people, actually.”

“Yeah, well, they weren’t lying. You’re wound tighter than a two-dollar watch.”

“What?”

“It doesn’t matter. All you need to know is that I haven’t slept with your sister. We’re just friends, and since I know how old she is and you’re her twin, I know how old you are.”

I wonder what else she’s told him, and I’m about to ask when our food is delivered. By the time the server leaves, I forget to ask, because I’m too busy watching Lucky eat. He’s a big man, so the obvious assumption is that he can eat, but when he jabs a fork into a slice of the French toast and shoves the entire thing in his mouth, I’m speechless. He barely chews before another slice of bread goes in.

“What?” he asks around a mouthful.

“When you said you were hungry, you weren’t kidding.”

“I’m a growing boy.” He pats his flat stomach.

I shake my head and pick up my utensils, making a show of cutting my omelet into bite-sized pieces just in case no one ever showed him how. Who knows how this Neanderthal was raised? If I were to guess, it was in a barn next to the hogs.

“You and Myla are really friends?” I ask between bites.

“Yeah. She’s awesome. You don’t know me that well, but I’m a pretty chill guy—”

“You don’t say.”

He smirks. “Anyway, Myla’s cool like that too. I hang out with her whenever she’s not working, and we talk. She’s even come by the clubhouse a few times when she’s not on tour.”

“Clubhouse?” I ask, picturing a bunch of bikers hanging out in a wooden treehouse.

“It’s like a home base for the Sons, somewhere we can have a beer and party, that sort of thing. I live in a cabin on the property, so if I’m not at the Honey Pot, The Garage, or Dope, I’m there.”

“Dope?”

There’s so much I don’t know about Myla’s new life and her new friends. It’s only been three months since I got her away from the Thirst Trap, but we’ve barely spoken in that time. Not because I don’t want to; it just hurts too much. I got her away so she could do something with her life, not get deeper into the sex business by becoming a prostitute.

“The weed shop the club owns. You smoke?”

“No.”

“That’s too bad. Coulda hooked you up.”

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