Page 17 of Bullet

“It’s their loss. I’ll make it up to you. Oh, and, Lynette George?”

“Christ, can you stop calling me by my whole name?”

“I’ll stop when we’re on a first name basis.”

This time, the sigh unspools loudly into the silence. “What? What were you going to say?”

“Don’t waste money on a hotel room. I’ll make sure there’s one free at the clubhouse.”

I stumble to the couch and sink down, the thought of spending a night in such a place isn’t just abhorrent, it’s honestly terrifying. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll drive home after.”

He grunts under his breath in clear disagreement. “Plan to stay the night. You can meet everyone and make up your mind about us. We’ll talk business in the morning.”

“That sounds suspiciously like you won’t let me leave.”

“It might, but I think that you need one night of freedom. One night to vent and let go of your cares and your worries. Have a few drinks, play some pool, smoke some w—”

“I don’t think so, thank you anyway.” How the fuck dare this man tell me what I need and don’t need?

“Fine. But we won’t talk shop until morning. You can have a good time, or you can keep that stick wedged up your lovely behind. It’s your choice. Spend the night. Don’t spend the night, and drive back here all over again in the morning. Shell out of pocket for a useless hotel room. It’s up to you. See you Friday. Oh, and, Lynette George? Being on a first name basis means you call me Bullet.”

The line goes dead, and I drop my phone onto the couch with a muttered curse. I’ve already had several meltdowns. I can’t start screaming again, no matter how incredibly fucking obnoxious and assumingly arrogant this man is. Worst of all? Now I’m at his mercy, just because I had some mercy for him.

Probably not until this weekend is finished and over with.

If I agree to take the last job I’d ever want to work, a job not founded on justice at all, but rather, letting injustice and wickedness prevail, I doubt that there will ever be a minute again where I don’t find my life to be one whole terrible irony.

Chapter 6

Bullet

“Your place just burned down. I figured you’d be drunk by now.”

Smoke crosses his arms and leans against the pool table, mirroring my pose. We’re in the middle of the lounge, but since it’s only just past ten on a Friday night, the place is fairly quiet. Most of the club is over at Patterson’s, Hart’s diner by day and unofficial biker bar by night. We really only go there on Fridays and Saturdays, so most of the civilian population knows to avoid it on those nights.

I told Lynette ten or eleven because I knew most of the club would be over there and that this place would be relatively quiet, despite what I led her to think. I wanted her to get a small sampling of what this place is, not a full heaping dose.

Tyrant and Raiden are over on the other side of the lounge. Raiden has his wife in his lap, but they’re just low-level making out. Clothes don’t tend to come off until much later around here. Thankfully, he and Ella usually leave theirs on and just climb each other like fucking trees before they stumble off to Raiden’s room.

Tyrant and Lark arranged for one of the other old ladies to watch their daughter tonight, since it was important that they both be here. I informed them on Monday that Lynette George would be coming by, and made all the necessary arrangements with them already. She’s got a room here for the night, shouldshe want it, as I promised, and in the morning, they’re set to do business.

Like me, they wanted to see how she’d react to this place. They wanted to watch her meet each and every man as he returns from Patterson’s, club whores in tow.

There are a few other stragglers still here. Friday and Saturday night debauchery is mostly a treat for patched-in members only, though the prospects do take shifts guarding so that they have a few hours to enjoy themselves as well.

I lean so hard against the pool table that the edge cuts into my upper thighs. “Some people find that alcohol exacerbates their emotions. I only ever get buzzed at best anyway.”

“Bullshit. You’re waiting for the lawyer chick.” One ashy blond brow arches up.

“Of course I’m waiting for her.” The worst thing you can do is lie to Smoke. He’ll sniff it out and never let it go. “I’m the only person here that she knows. Her finding me prostrate on the floor is hardly going to convince her to take the job.”

“Since when have you ever drank until you passed out?”

Since never. The only lapse of control Smoke has seen me exhibit in all the time I’ve known him since he came over from the Berserkers with Ella and a few other guys, was on Sunday, when I wrapped my hand around his throat for all of two fucking seconds.

“Even if you did, she might pick you up and take you to bed and care for you all night. That would be sweet.” He snorts and flutters his long eyelashes obnoxiously. “It would be sweeter if itwas the kind of care that involved you waking up with her naked beside you.”

“This is a professional relationship.” I debate the merits of tackling him to the ground and wiping the floor with his face. It’s not the rules that we have here against beating the piss out of each other that stops me.

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