Page 6 of Choices

“You seen Kitty today?” I ask, twisting the cap off my own beer when he places it in front of me. I like when Jess or Diamond are behind the bar. These prospects are lazy and not cut out for this shit.

Shaking his head, he looks around, in case my fucking eyesight is fucked and I missed her.Dipshit.

“Don’t see her in here, boss.”

No shit.

Diamond and Kit usually have breakfast in the bar every morning, but Diamond was eating alone when I woke up. And now, Kit’s missing a card game with the brothers. Kitty never misses the opportunity to take their money. I should be grateful she’s not around, tempting me to throw everything away and put her on the back of my bike. This is good. I needed to get over the spell I was under. I rub my chest to alleviate the stabbing pain. I can’t shake the dark cloud sitting over me at the thought of never tasting her lips again, never sinking into her warm body, never having her lay in my arms sated.

Shit, that girl is under my skin. She has been since she turned seventeen and came into her own. She’s not like other chicks. Unlike the club sluts who try to be what they think you want them to be, Kit has a personality, a backbone, and a mouth that can give any brother a run for his money. And damn, all that beauty to boot—golden blonde hair; big, dark eyes; juicy, plush lips stained natural pink; curvy hips; and big tits, she made me hard without even having to touch me. But she’s my best friend’s baby sister and my pres’s daughter. They’d both cut my dick off if they knew about us.

“Why do you look like someone finger-banged your mom and made you sniff their digits?” Green jests, nudging his shoulder into mine. “Was it Daddy?” He laughs, eyeing Daddy across the room, who flips him off.

“Isn’t over twenty-five too old for Daddy?” Callan asks, entering the room. He raps his knuckles against the bar for a beer.

“I’m not DiCaprio. If the pussy’s still wet, I’ll fuck it at any age,” Daddy shouts, gaining a roar from the brothers sitting at his table. A crashing rings out, glass shattering behind the bar. The bottle meant for Callan is in pieces, the shards forming islands with the beer surrounding them. Applause follows. The prospect turns beet red.

“Forget the beer.” Callan shakes his head and jerks his chin at me. “Grease is waiting. You ready?”

“Born ready.”

“Any weapons?” the tank of a security guy asks as we enter through the front door of the Carnell home, the sound revibrating through his chest and coming out as a rumble. My hand twitches, irritation threading through my muscles. I feel naked without my knife, not that I’ll need it tonight. We’re all friends here.

The latest shipment came in and was transported without a hitch, making all our pockets fat with cash. Our pres had been trying to get on the Carnells’ radar for a couple years now. When the ATF seized their last shipment it presented the perfect opportunity.

The bastard clears his throat when none of us move to hand anything over. Grease tenses behind me, his hulking frame almost the same size as this beast. He doesn’t like to part with his steel either.

“There’s no need for that,” Michael announces, striding into the foyer. His suit is tailored to fit him like an extension of himself and his shoes squeak across the shiny floor, echoing through the vast space. A broad grin spreads over his face, his arms outstretched in welcome. “They’re our guests.”

Fucking right we are.

Two imposing men in black suits shadow behind him, surveying us. Michael’s confident smile morphs into a stern expression. Stopping a few feet in front of us, he jabs a finger into the shoulder of one of the men. “When you find Nicolas, you bring him back here and teach the two incompetent morons he slipped away from a lesson. They need to know what happens when you fuck up,” he informs harshly.

“Yes, sir.” They both nod and maneuver past us to exit through the front door.

“A problem?” Callan casts a curious glance in the direction they exit.

“Only of the little brother variety.” Michael raises a brow, as if to say “You know exactly what I mean.”

We all do. Nicolas Carnell is infamous for taking advantage of his family name to gain access to exclusive clubs and parties then making an ass out of himself and leaving it up to Michael to clean up his mess to save their family’s reputation. Little prick. He’s a loose cannon. I have zero tolerance for spoiled little assholes like Nicolas, who think they’re untouchable and the world revolves around them. If they don’t rein him in, he’ll become a liability. I’m glad I have no brothers.

Or sisters.

Sisters.

Kitty.

Fucking Kitty’s tight pussy.

Shit.

I’d managed to go a whole fucking hour without thinking about her.

“Nothing changes.” Callan chuckles, bringing the room back into focus. He steps toward Michael, taking his hand for a firm shake and a slap to his shoulder.

The Carnells are a wealthy, powerful family with generations of money and influence. Michael’s father is in business, and his uncle is in politics. But beneath the Carnells’ pristine exterior lies something much more sinister. They’re as corrupt as it gets. They own elite hotels, nightclubs, and casinos. Michael oversees them, fueling a glamorous celebrity-like status he can’t seem to get away from. He’s often paraded as an eligible bachelor on magazine covers alongside his cousin Andrew. It’s comical how clueless the media is.

We’ve known Michael for years, despite only recently entering business dealings with his father. He’s not like those trust fund assholes who find themselves in rehab or dead by their late twenties. He may live lavishly and appear as nothing more than a businessman, but he’s one of us: he has bloody hands and even bloodier money. Their casino washes cash. Their nightclubs are hubs for supplying drugs to the rich and stupid, morons like his brother.

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