Page 62 of Vegas Daddies

Worse,even, for killing and then for pretending it didn’t happen. For lying to his darling “baby” about how her mother’s death was accidental. The Bratva are bad but Peter commits sins far deeper than anything those guys do. There’s one sin greater than killing, and it’s lying about it and pretending you’re the good guy.

I commend the Russians for at least acknowledging that they’re not saints.

I sniff a laugh. Take another sip of beer. How the man has the audacity to death-glare us likethatwhen he’s committed far worse is beyond me.

And it was all for what?

Power?

“Rocking Rubies.” Brander snaps up from his phone.

“Excuse me?”

“Their hub.Rocking Rubies.It’s some sort of bar.”

I abandon the beer and cross the room to grab my jacket.

“Hey, Lifey,” Brander says into his phone. “I sent you a pin. Meet us on the Vegas Strip as fast as you can.”

We lock up the clubhouse, start up the Harleys and ride.

The sun sets in the distance, golden-orange streaks shining onto the road we travel down at full speed. My pulse drums so fast that it feels like it’s outrunning the bike. Alice has been gone a few hours. It’s not a long time, but they only need one or two hours to commit unspeakable acts. Pain cuts through my chest at just the thought.

Auctioning off girls is something that brings in millions of dollars. Even Grizzly, Prez of the club, found himself unable to steady his breathing when Merideth was captured and sold as a virgin in a Bratva auction.

The peanut butter toast consumed for lunch today swirls around in my stomach, threatening to come back up. I stifle a retch. Take a sharp inhale of breath to compose myself. Killing her would be pointless, but other activities could be pursued while they wait for Peter. Russians like to play games. Their favorite—how high they can stack the one-hundred-dollar bills?

And nothing brings in cash quite like a young, hot blonde girl.

I feel faint.

City lights grow close. Brander and I skip some reds, receive car horns, and park a block away from Rocking Rubies.Lifesaver arrives not a minute later, hopping off his bike. The sweat dripping down his face and his uncertain expression makes itlook like he’s about to board a one-way flight into space or something.

He slips a hand beneath his leather jacket to activate the trigger of his shotgun.

Click!

“Alright. Let’s do this,” he says.

Brander takes out his iron rod, unscrews the gas cap on the Harley and inserts the steel contraption inside. He takes it out after a minute of swirling it around and allows excess gasoline to drip out onto the pavement for a moment.

“Better places to do this than the fucking middle of Vegas, man,” I say.

“I know,” he says, taking out a napkin to clean the end. A couple walk by and flash him a confused glare. “But it’s not like we’ve got all day to search for a quiet street.” He shrugs. “I could be a welder for all they know.”

Lifesaver snorts. “A welder dressed head-to-toe in leather.”

Brander sticks the thing between his legs to strike a match. Tossing the box aside, he grabs the iron rod and lights the tip. Angry flames consume the top, but reduce significantly in size after a few seconds, turning the tip a flaming hot red.

Brander points the thing to the ground. “Let’s do this, and quickly.” He glances at Lifey. “We can talk about your wife-murdering son-of-a-bitch bestieafterwe’ve saved his daughter.”

Walking together as three leathered up bikers definitely draws attention, but we get away with it. Vegas is a fantasy. Take the fake Eiffel Tower for example—it gives the illusion of Paris. Thesame goes for bikers strutting down the strip with hot iron rods and guns hidden under their jackets.

You’d be counting for a decade if you were to list all the sexual fantasies to exist…ever. Outlaw bikers are always popular, which is why most of the time, as paradoxical as it is, we get away with hiding our true identities. It’s why tourist women flash us discreet glances as they walk with their boyfriends, and why cops, as they patrol the streets, give us a once-over and move on.

Rocking Rubies boasts an impressive red sign and large blacked-out windows. The place is dead. Doesn’t open until six PM, according to the glittery sign pinned to the door. We come to a stop after snaking around the back entrance. Used cigarettes litter the ground, and garbage, balled up in large black bags, overflows both dumpsters that have been parked a couple meters away from the side door. My stomach goes uneasy at the sight of overflowing trash, and then again when my nostrils catch a whiff of antiseptic. That strong-smelling stuff is never a good sign, particularly around the back of a Bratva-owned club.

I wonder how many guests enter for a drink?

---