Page 108 of Sinner's Fury

Smiling up at me, she said, “I can’t wait.”

Chapter Forty-One

King

Six months later, Diamond Creek, Nebraska,

“You sure about this, King?”

The night’s sky was pitch fucking black. Not even one motherfucking star visible. To make matters worse, there was no fucking moon. If it weren’t for the faint light coming from inside the clubhouse, I wouldn’t have been able to see shit. How my clubhouse got volunteered for this summit was beyond me, but when someone from out of the blue called me two nights ago and told me who I would be hosting tonight, I just prayed Colt had the club’s insurance premiums paid in full.

“Fuck no,” I growled as I stood on the front steps of my clubhouse. “Everyone close in case shit goes sideways?”

“Yeah,” Jingles whispered into the darkness. “All the girls are over at Beck’s place with Blade and the others.”

“Who’s on the gate?”

“Archie,” Jingles informed. “Told the prospect no IDs tonight. To just let whoever shows up right on in.”

Huffing, I looked around the area, and I spotted two headlights off in the distance.

“And our other guests?”

“Waiting patiently in the wings.”

Nodding, I sent up a quick prayer for patience, then steeled myself for what was about to happen as I watched the gateautomatically open and two lone riders drive right on through. Parking off to one side, the riders cut their engines, removed their helmets, and stepped off their bikes. Refusing to move from my spot, I said nothing when the two men walked over to me. The one in the lead extending his hand.

“Asshole here yet?” Montana Stone, President of the Soulless Sinners MC, asked.

“No. You are the first to arrive.”

“I need a fucking whiskey.”

“Jingles, go with him,” I quickly instructed, then grinned when Montana growled at me. “Sorry, Montana, you know the rules. The hosting club runs point, and considering who will be in attendance tonight, I’m not leaving anything to chance. Now, you are more than welcome to my clubhouse. The bar is fully stocked, but Jingles has been instructed to monitor you the entire time you’re here.”

The moody bastard walked past and grumbled, “I’m not the one who needs a fucking babysitter.”

As Jingles followed Montana into my clubhouse, I noticed that Malice didn’t move an inch.

Curious, I asked, “You planning on staying out here with me?”

Malice was a big fucker and like most brothers in the biker world, we all knew about him. His reputation was almost as colorful as Sandman’s.

“Don’t want to be here.”

“Neither do I,” I replied, which was the God’s honest truth.

I wanted to be anywhere but here tonight.

Malice and I didn’t have to wait long before two more riders rolled past the gates, parking on the other side of my clubhouse. Standing my ground, I said nothing while I watched Reaper and Sandman get off their bikes and walk over to me.

“King.”

“Reaper.”

“Where’s fucknuts?”

“Getting drunk.”

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