Page 4 of Kings Against the World

Clenched in my fist is a small white business card. She must’ve slipped it to me when she handed over the pink suspension slip. I unbend the card and straighten it enough to read what it says:

FBI Special Agent & Recruiter Tameka Braun

708-324-7713

1

OZZIE

Sixteen years later…

My father would bethe first one to tell you he was a piece of shit. He wasn’t a good guy, and if anybody was gonna win the Worst Dad of the Year award, it’d be him. He’d be taking home the trophy for Worst Husband Ever too.

But if there was one thing he knew, it was money. And he was right when he said there wasn’t a thing on this earth that money couldn’t buy.

No friends? Money. No girl? Money. Cops on your ass? Bribe them… with money.

Paper is the universal language. Everybody speaks it; everybody damn sure takes it.

I pull out a wad of cash from a pocket in my cargo pants and shove it into the hands of the bouncer at the entrance of the club.

“That should be my cover charge,” I say. “Here for the tournament.”

The bouncer is the brawny type, biceps for days that he’s squeezed into a crewneck t-shirt two sizes too small. He flicksthrough the stack of Ben Franks and then motions his head for me to pass.

If I didn’t have to participate in tonight’s tournament to finish my debt, I’d probably be somewhere else in Houston.

Turns out, there’s one thing money can’t outright buy you, and that’s the freedom from Asa Boone’s blackmail.

The so-called debt isn’t a monetary debt at all. It’s more like secret keeping, covering up my presence altogether. Boone’s fully aware that I was never supposed to get mixed up in his tournaments in the first place, and he holds it over my head every chance he gets.

I’ve got two options: play in his tournament and help him rack up more money, or risk word getting back to the Steel Kings. One of their own has been associating withtheAsa Boone himself, underground criminal kingpin.

No friend or ally to the MC. Possibly even an enemy at times, considering Boone’s been rumored to have ties with the Road Rebels.

It’s enough to make anybody question loyalties.

I cross through the entrance, walking into a short hall that’s cloaked in darkness.

The Déjà Vu Gentleman’s Club is not the nicest accommodation for adult entertainment around. But who’s allowed in depends on what activity’s planned for the night. If the place is being used as advertised—a club for naked chicks to gyrate for dollar bills—or if it’s being used for more nefarious activities.

Tonight happens to be one of those nights for the latter.

I didn’t drive five hours from Pulsboro to Houston for nothing. What else was I supposed to do on a weekend where everybody else is either booed up with their old lady or caught up in other personal shit? Who was I supposed to hang out with?

Johnny fucking Flanagan and his greasy hair?

I’d eat a cup of nails before I’d ever spend a night at the Steel Saloon dealing with his sourpuss ass.

It just so happened that Asa Boone’s infamous underground poker tournament was this weekend and I had reason to go and pay off this last debt. Play in one last tournament and rack up some more cash for him and then we’re supposed to be done. He’s supposed to back the fuck off and forget a Steel King was ever involved in his sketchy underground network.

A drunken, drugged mistake I made during one of my worst benders and have regretted ever since.

But beyond the tournament in Houston, I happened to be free for a weekend of partying and getting my dick wet.

Why not when I’ve got the cash, the time and no old lady waiting for me at home?

The club floor opens up before me, bathed in neon-red light and a sea of tables and chairs. In the center of the room is the stage where girls with some of the most amazing racks I’ve ever seen writhe to the music blasting from the speakers.

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