Page 7 of Rugged Soul

I follow him outside, not sure what to do next. “So, um, hold up,” I call out as Domino takes long strides over to his bike. I have to take two steps for every one of his. “Did you like this place? Finished kitchen, remember! Less customizing!”

“No,” is all he says before mounting his bike and searing me with an unreadable look.

I was expecting as much, but it’s still disheartening. “Are you free later this week for another showing? Third time’s a charm, right?” I laugh awkwardly at my own joke, getting no response from Domino. Damn, I thought we made some progress today, but then whatever connection he has with those bikers ruined it.

“Text me the details and we’ll figure it out.” Domino starts up his motorcycle and peels out of the parking lot, leaving me glaring after him with my hands on my hips.

I go back inside and make sure all the doors and windows are closed before making a few more notes in the file and crossing off this property from the list of potential places to buy. My phone dings with an incoming text. I’m surprised when Domino’s name pops up on the screen.

Text me when you’re home safe.

I roll my eyes but can't help the grin curling up my lips. It's a sweet gesture done in the most Domino way possible; demanding I report to him. This man has so many layers and surprises to him. I know my dreams will be filled with hazel eyes and rippling muscles tonight like they have been every night since meeting Domino.

4

DOMINO

“Ain’t that right, Prez?” someone says before clapping me on the shoulder.

I nod and take a swig of beer, though truthfully I have no idea what Graham was talking about. Luckily there are plenty of people around to pick up the conversation, and I order another beer before taking a step away from the bar.

Finding an empty booth in the back of the current Deviant Souls clubhouse, I settle in and prop my elbows up on the table so I can rest my head in my hands. My mind has been racing since yesterday when those five fucking traitors drove by and scared the shit out of Calista. I sensed the depth of her fear when she curled up behind me and clung to my back. I never want my girl to feel that way again.

Dammit. Not my girl. My… real estate agent. That certainly falls under the scope of people I need to protect, especially now that she’s involved in locating the next clubhouse. That’s all this feeling is.

Keep telling yourself that, buddy.

I’ll admit, I didn’t handle the situation as well as I could have in the moment. Calista wanted to have a conversation but I had to get out of there and gather intel on what the ex-members were doing and why they’re scoping out properties. It’s clear they wanted to be seen and wanted to start shit, though I don’t know for what purpose yet. I’m hoping the two men I contacted yesterday will have more information for me tonight.

When I got home, I had calmed down enough to send Calista a text making sure she reported back to me when she got to her place. The strangest thing happened when she replied an hour later; I laughed.

Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m snuggled up on the couch in my apartment with my favorite fuzzy dolphin sweatshirt, looking up new properties for a very important client of mine. He’s a president, you know. With very particular tastes.

I don’t think she was trying to be irresistibly adorable in her text, which only made me want her more. Can’t say I’ve ever been much of a flirt, but Christ, this girl has me wanting to be anything and everything to keep her talking to me.

“Prez, is this a good time to talk?”

It takes me a second to realize I’m the Prez. I’m not sure if I’ll ever get used to the title. I look up and see Jett, our enforcer, along with Diesel, who runs our garage. “Yeah, sure,” I reply, nodding for both of them to sit down. “Any updates?”

“Yes, but you’re not going to like it,” Jett warns.

Diesel taps his phone screen a few times and scrolls through what appears to be a bunch of photos. He pauses on one and hands me the phone.

"Shit," I mutter as I double-tap the screen to zoom in. "That's Rocky and Tank alright."

Rocky has a new eyepatch, and from the looks of it, a new MC logo on there as well. I knew it was him on the bike yesterday but it’s like a lead pipe to the gut knowing I was right. These men used to be my brothers. I would have died for them. I almost did a few times. Then everything blew up and we’re still trying to deal with the aftermath.

“There’s more. Keep scrolling,” Diesel says.

I move on to the next photo, cursing again when my worst suspicion is finally confirmed. “Fuckin’ Zeke.” The former Prez. “Didn’t his chicken shit ass flee to Mexico after he was caught with all that cocaine?”

That was the final straw for me and the majority of my brothers. Zeke was always a dangerous motherfucker with an unpredictable edge. That’s to be expected in this world. But when he got hooked on amphetamines, things got messy. Money went missing from the club funds as well as the profits from the garage we own. Some members even got arrested and thrown in prison while unknowingly distributing drugs and stolen goods to feed Zeke’s habit.

Six months later the club is still fractured. Zeke had a handful of loyalists who took off across the border with him, and now, apparently, they're all back here in Texas.

“He probably got into trouble there as well, only he found out the Cartel doesn’t fuck around with people stealing their product,” Jett says. I nod in agreement.

“Serves him right, but he’s got some fuckin’ nerve showing back up in my town. Following me and scaring my… real estate agent.”

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