Page 9 of Biker's Collar: Property of Scrap

“You’re welcome.”

He drags Abraham forward. The guy gets more tense with the contact from Deacon. Every animal has that sense when he draws closer to death. Even a man so high off meth he’s giving away club secrets to sworn enemies – to the same enemies who are going to pump him so full of meth he never takes another breath.

“Holy shit,” Deacon exclaims once he enters the room. “Get in here, Scrap.”

I follow them into the room. I’m stunned into silence and my first instinct is to count the heads of the bound and gagged captives. I count seven before my eyes land on the last woman – a plus-sized woman with skin the color of a roasted almond.How the fuck did she end up here?

“Vickie?”

Deacon shoots me a confused look. But she looks up at me, completely incapable of hiding her recognition. She remembers me.

The black woman who robbed me blind remembers me – and now she’s tied up in a warehouse out here in the desert.

How the fuck did that happen?

Five

Vickie

Las Vegas – 5 Years Ago

This is painful to watch. Owen leans over the table, gambling not because he thinks he can win, but because he has to. It didn’t take me long working here to have my finger on the pulse of the addicts. They move different from the other men. They’re crazier. I’m hooked on his losing game, but I know I should move on. I should probably even choose another mark. What’s the chance this man will have enough money for me left to rob by the end of the night?

His large lumberjack looking brother asks one of the girls to get his brother another drink. Owen doesn’t seem to care. He just gazes at the cards in front of him. There’s definitely a point where watching this game could get sad. After the first card, two of the players fold. Owen remains tenaciously hooked on the game. His brother gives him a disapproving look and increases the bet for the next round.

His brother has nothing left. If he folds or loses the round, he’ll go into debt. Owen’s brother doesn’t appear sympathetic inthe slightest. He leans back with a worryingly smug expression on his face. The dealer flips another card. Owen’s brother leans forward, his left foot tapping anxiously. He has good cards and they’re so damn good he doesn’t care who knows it.

When they all show their hands, I pretend to be invested in the game at another table, but it’s hard to miss Ethan’s whoops of pleasure and enthusiastic scraping of poker chips off the table.

“I’m fucked.”

“Calm down,” he says. “Just write a check. Are you in for the next round?”

“Go fuck yourself,” Owen says to his brother.

“I’ll give you one of my chips so you have enough to buy in. Just win the next round.”

There’s no acknowledgment that this mindset is what got him into trouble here in the first damn place. I pause, waiting for Owen to see some sense considering he’s already in the hole. The game in front of me is way too boring – down to two bikers that look like Willie Nelson who are members of the same club and quietly contemplating the hand while stoned out of their minds. Owen’s predicament is a little more compelling. My chest tightens as I wait for him to do the right thing. I don’t know why I expect him to.

“Fine,” he says. “Just one more round.”

“Win this time,” his brother warns sternly.

I shouldn’t mess with this guy. While I want to get out of here tonight, there are more tables and more potential marks. This man is desperately addicted to gambling to the point where a loss that clearly brings him to the brink of suicide doesn’t even stop him from entering another game. He’s going to lose the next round and if he doesn’t lose that round, he’ll lose another one after that. There’s no point in robbing a man who doesn’t haveanything to steal. The only thing he has going for him is that he’s a biker, but there are a lot of bikers in seedy Vegas clubs.

I give the boring game my full attention and for the next forty-five minutes, I put my mark out of my mind as much as possible. Just when I’m about to give up on finding anyone else tonight, Owen’s brother rises from the poker game. His eyes meet mine across the room and I almost freeze from instinctive terror. The gambling addict brother might be sweet but his brother reminds me more of a gross werewolf.

I turn around and pretend to rearrange some glasses on a tray, but I feel that man’s giant paw on my shoulder and have some reassurance that I didn’t imagine his attention.

“Hey, are you busy after the club?”

“Excuse me?”

“My brother is depressed and I noticed he couldn’t stop looking at you when he should have been focused on the fucking game. How much for a night with him?”

“I’m not a prostitute.”

“I doubt he’ll be able to get it up,” his brother says. “Just… spend some time with him. Make him feel good. You were the only thing in this room that could make him smile tonight.”

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