Page 4 of Biker's Collar: Property of Scrap

Just like a Hollingsworth, he can’t help but keep his mind on his money.

“What’s so fucking special about the game tonight?”

“Southpaw didn’t tell you?”

“We don’t talk about gambling.” We haven’t since he quit. It’s for his well-being. I understand that. When you have a wife and kid, you can’t afford to fuck up a bet. My situation is a little different.

Deacon doesn’t care about our gambling problem, so he just shrugs it off. The Blackwoods occasionally dip into some religious sentiment over gambling. Hunter hates it because of how often he’s had to clean up my brother’s messes… but the Hollingsworth family views gambling as any other way to make a living. No judgment.

“It’s a trap,” he says. “So I need you to win at least one round tonight.”

“I plan to win every round I play.”

Deacon gives me a sympathetic look. “All you need is one.”

“Why didn’t Southpaw tell me this?”

“Well… He told me not to encourage your degeneracy and suggested I get someone else in the game but… I think you’re gonna be my best shot.”

“Why?”

“You’ll see.”

I follow Deacon into the motel lobby. There’s a Hollingsworth at the front desk. That side of the family is so fucking big, that I don’t know her, but she has hair as red as Tylee’s that can only come from that side of the family. Deacon leads me to a door at the back of the lobby, opening it to reveal his illegal off-rez gambling operation.

The two Indian girls from outside are running a blackjack table. Four bikers hunch over the table as they play. The poker table sits three. The fourth seat is mine, I’m guessing. Small globes of orange light barely illuminate the sketchy back room filled with thick cigarette smoke.

I glance at the men sitting at the poker table. Bikers. I recognize one as a fellow Rebel Barbarian, the newer member Warden. But the other two… I glance at their cuts. What the fuck? I don’t want to betray anything, so I sit down at the pokertable, although my heart starts pumping blood when I read the names on the patches and the club name stitched on the back of their leather jackets.

I’m playing poker against the Midnight SS.

And I don’t know why I agreed to get into this shit.

Three

Vickie

Las Vegas – 5 years ago

The new white boy in the room doesn’t notice me at first. But I notice the hell out of him. He’s about twice the size of the other men at the table, with arms the size of pine trees and big thick legs that he has spread wide as he focuses on the cards. He doesn’t give a shit about the girls. Judging by the size of his stack of poker chips, he’s here for the money. For the thrill of the game.

He has thick dark hair cut short and a neat, trimmed black beard. His fingers stroke his beard thoughtfully as he watches the cards. We don’t stop people from counting cards here if they want to. But I don’t think that’s what’s happening. I feel a strange tug in my chest.

He’s the one.

My target for tonight. My scalp tingles with awareness of the spot where my braids plaster the drug stash in place. I hope I don’t look too nervous.

I walk up to the table and ask, “Everything okay here?”

The man looks up and his eyes meet mine. I get a good look at what he’s wearing. Black t-shirt hugging those giant arms. Black jeans. Expensive boots. And a leather jacket with a bunch of patches on it and a name above the breast pocket. SCRAP.

Well, that can’t be his real name. He looks at me strangely, but my job is customer service here, so I use the excuse to talk to him.

“Sir? Mr. Scrap? Can I get you anything?”

“The name is Owen,” he says, a move that seems reckless if that really is his name. “What’s your name, miss?”

He sounds like he’s from Missouri. And damn, he has a nice, booming and confident voice. He talks like a confident gambler.

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