Page 15 of Pink Poison

“We both know you can handle yourself, and you have Mack with you,” I snort, inclining my head to rest against the wall. “Mo called. The old hag said she had something to show me.”

The background noise of Memento muffles, as if Jameson separated himself from whatever business he was handling. Clearing his throat, he demands, “Continue.”

“Imagine my surprise when I walked in and saw a gorgeous, blonde doll with the biggest tits I’ve seen in my thirty-four years, going by the nameStevieon the damn stage,” I say.

“Fuck!” he bellows, followed by a loud crash that sounds an awful lot like a bike hitting asphalt.Dumbass.“We don’t have time for this shit, brother.”

He’s not wrong. We don’t have time for a lot of shit, much less a little brat with a serious fucking attitude problem.

“I know, man. I told her she needed to leave, but she’s hellbent on staying.”

“Offuckingcourse she is.” He sighs tiredly. “She’s always been a stubborn ass woman. Don’t fuckin’ say anything to Mack, we’ll figure this out quietly.”

Groaning, I scrub the shaved side of my head, letting the comfort of familiar raised scars settle my nerves. Not telling Mack is a bad fucking call—but telling him would turn this into a whole different shitshow that we aren’t prepared to handle. We’re damned if we do, damned if we don’t. Theonlyreason I’d even consider this shit is because Mack’s grudge against her goes bonefuckingdeep. I don’t know what started it, but I remember how livid he was with Jameson for sleeping with her the night he drove her out of the city.Fuck my life, that was a mess.“Yeah, alright. We’ll keep it quiet for now,” I concede.

“Good. Now get the fuck over here. We have a meeting with another suit,” he snaps, back to his usual self.

“Roger that. See you in a few.”

Ending the call, I pocket the device and move to step towards the door when a glimpse of pink stops me. Frowning, I glance down at the pastel pink ribbon heels lying on the floor. Bending low, I snatch both shoes andchuck them in the trash can beside the lockers. I meant what I said to Stevie, I hate those fucking shoes.Even if she looked like a walking wet dream in them.Walking out of the locker room, the scent of stale cigarettes and artificial cherry greets me like a swift kick to the balls.

A petite woman with flowing, fiery red hair stands, topless, in front of the door with her hands on her hips. “Did you do something to Stevie?” she asks with accusation lacing her words. I brush past her without a second thought, refusing to acknowledge why my dick decided it’s not interested in her naked body. “Hey! I asked you a question, dickwad.”

I check the exit to find my second hand waiting by the door. “Let’s roll, Kash!” I holler, catching his attention.

Pain. Knee bucking pain radiates like a fucking electric shock down my back. I whip around to see the cherry-scented bitch with her fist still extended. Red that rivals the color of her hair bleeds over my vision, obscuring everything but her fist. Before logic can override my irrational reaction, I snap my hand over her face and grip it in a punishing hold. Her soft cheeks dimple easily, giving my fingers all the more reason to press in harder.

“Don’t. Ever. Attack. A. Butcher,” I bite before tossing her head to the side.

“Come on, man. We need to get out before we get our asses handed to us.” Kash’s voice breaks through the haze enough for me to turn away.

Gritting my teeth, I follow his lead and jog out of Mo’s.

Rolling into the chapel’s driveway, I kill the switch on my bike.Memento. The bar hasn’t been around long, but it’s the best place to hold business and keep it away from The Deli. After shit went down and we lost our old heads, Jameson made a promise to protect what peace we had left while making the moves to get our revenge. Sometimes that means rubbing elbows with some shitty people to make them feel important. Reality is, we just need them to cut a check, or in most cases, turn a blind eye.

As I yank my helmet off, Kash trots up to me like a damn puppy. “You good, brother?” he asks.

Fuck no. I just pissed off one of Mo’s dancers, which will most assuredly piss Mo off once she hears about it. The ol’ bitch is already more forgiving than she should be, and I all but spit in her face by reacting the way I did.Fuck me.I’m not that kinda guy who goes around putting hands on a woman out of anger—never was. She caught me with a solid punch where most of my nerve damage is, though. I could have sworn it was a fuckin’ man that hit me, that’s how bad it hurt.

“Yeah, man. I’ll deal with the fallout of later,” I grumble.

He lifts his blond brow in disbelief. “If you say so.” I lift mine back, silently challenging him to question me again. Chuckling, he tosses his thumb over his shoulder. “I’ll go in and let Prez know we’re here.”

Good choice, asshat.

I watch him take off before kicking the stand down on my Sportster. Once my ride is secure, I slowly—so fucking slowly, lift from the seat. My teeth grind hard as the debilitating soreness in my aching muscles intensifies. Over five years of fighting and a brush with the Reaper under my belt did some damage, damage that I just can’t recover from. Tossing my leg over the seat, I limp away from my bike and walk off the discomfort until I reach the pristine, white doors of Memento.

Here goes nothin’.

Pulling the ornate handle, I’m engulfed by muffled chatter and clinking glasses. No one dares to break their conversation to see who entered; no one ever does. That’s why we like this place. There’s a level of neutrality to the establishment—as long as everyone behaves, we can discuss whatever we’d like without consequence.

“Jesus fuck, brother,” Mack growls as I approach our usual table. “We’ve been waiting on your sorry ass all night.”

I clap my Vice President on the shoulder, offering him a harsh squeeze before sliding down the pew-esque booth across from him. “Had to deal with some shit,” I grunt. More like I was busy eating out his stepsister, but I’ll be taking that to my grave. “It’s taken care of.”

Nodding, he turns his attention to the wiry guest at our table. “Stone, this is Darien. He’s theinvestorwe talked about earlier,” he introduces diplomatically.

My eyes narrow as I hold Darien’s stare. Sweat gathers at his hairline, forcing his straw-like hair to cling to his forehead.Pussy.Smiling, I stretch my hand across the table. His beady, green eyes flit between my face and my outstretched hand before his bony fingers clasp around it. “It’s good to meet you, Darien,” I greet.

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