Page 7 of Lucky's Trouble

“Since Myla.”

“You know the rules, brother. The courtesans are off-limits.”

“It’s not like that with us. She’s different.”

He shakes his head. “Not a good idea. I already know Mary and Navy will say no.”

The Sons might own the brothel, but Mary is the madam. After Rigger reconnected with Navy, he hired her to be Mary’s second. Those two women run a tight ship and are sticklers for the rules. I get it; when you operate a legal brothel, the county is constantly up your ass, but I’m not asking to break any of the rules.

“Just talk to them for me.”

“Okay, but if I have to sit through a lecture from Mary over this, I’m kicking your ass.”

“Deal.” I stand.

“You know I’d go to the show with you,” Rigger says, almost sounding hurt. He’s been my best friend since I can remember. We grew up together, and when his dad kicked him out of the house at eighteen, my family took him in until we could afford our own place.

“I know. You’ve just been a little preoccupied lately.”

He grins, pointing at the screen showing his woman. “If you had that to go home to, you’d make yourself available too.”

“Not in the cards for me, brother. Variety is the spice of life.”

“I used to think that too.”

I roll my eyes. “Pussy-whipped motherfucker.”

“I could still take you.”

“I’d like to see you try.” I walk out the door before he follows through on his threat. Truth is, I don’t know who would win in that fight. I’m bigger and taller, but not by much, and Rigger’s scrappy as shit.

It’s been a long day, so as I climb onto my bike, I have two things on my mind: a cold beer and a wet pussy. It’s the only way to end a day like this, and the only place I can guarantee I’ll find both is the clubhouse.

Thirty minutes later, I arrive at my destination. Pulling through the iron gates, I park in the gravel lot next to a long line of other bikes. Besides my parents’ house and the shitty apartment Rigger and I shared for a short time, this is the only other home I’ve had.

The old warehouse doesn’t look like much from the outside, but inside, it’s fucking beautiful. As I walk through the front door, the deep bass of a rock ballad piping through the speakers reverberates through my body, and the scent of cigarette smoke laced with the skunky aroma of weed stings my sinuses. Brothers, patch pussy, and hang-arounds loiter about, stopping their conversations long enough to give me a chin lift as I pass.

Being the Sergeant-at-Arms gives me a level of respect that fills me with pride. I may not be the doctor or lawyer my strait-laced parents wanted me to be, but I’m not nothing to these guys, and that’s something.

“Tig, grab me a beer,” I shout at the ginger prospect behind the bar.

“Sure thing, Lucky.” Like the good grunt he is, he scrambles to fill an ice-cold mug and pass it over to me.

“Thanks.” I take a big, satisfying swallow before turning around on my stool and taking in the talent. There ain’t no one here I haven’t seen a million times over, and suddenly, I don’t want to be here anymore.

“What’s up, brother?” Dutch, one of the club’s two Enforcers, asks.

“Not much. You?”

“Nada.” He rests his elbows on the bar. “Riot came back in a mood.”

“Riot’s always in a mood.”

He chuckles. “True.”

“Hey, you doing anything right now?” I ask, an idea forming.

“Nope. Just a chill night.”

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