Page 16 of Pink Poison

“L-Likewise, Mr. Stone,” he stutters, pulling his hand away too quickly for my liking. “W-We were just discussing f-finances.”

“Perfect. That’s my area of expertise.” I smirk. What’s that quote,all brawn and no brains?I’m walking, talking proof that anyone can be both. Everyone assumes that I lack intelligence for becoming themusclein a motorcycle club. What theydon’tknow is that I majored in mathematics. Reclining against the booth, I blow out a heavy exhale and will my body to relax. I want this slimeball suit to see that I’m not worried about him or his wallet. “We’re not asking for much, Darien. We are simply asking for seven percent more than your original offer,” I say.

“I can offer t-two percent. Seven is t-too much,” he blurts, looking at each club member seated around the table.

Too much? Seven percent would barely put a dent in this fuck wipe’s account. We lowballed him for a fucking reason. This was supposed to be an easy in, easy out meeting.

Where the fuck is Graves?

Ask for the Devil, and he shall appear. As if he heard his name being called, Graves walks around the booth wearing a smug as fuck grin. “That’s not going to work for us, Darien.” He pulls a chair from the table next to our booth. Spinning the chair around, he straddles it. “Seven is the magic number—theonlynumber we’re walking away with tonight.”

Each member nods in confirmation, adding an air of intimidation. While not planned, it does exactly as we hoped it would. Darien’s face pales, solidifying my earlier thought that this suit is a puss.

“Seven p-percent isn’t p-possible, gentlemen,” he stammers.

“Make it possible, suit,” Mack snaps.

“I c-can’t—”

Graves leans forward, steepling his fingers underneath his chin. “If you don’t, your company will go down once we leak what we have on you, Darien.”

Crossing my arms over my chest, I fight to keep my lips from pulling upwards. Darien Crawford, investor by day, piece of shit sex-trafficker bynight. The MC had Kash follow the cocksucker for a month, gathering all the evidence we could need to drive him into the dirt if he didn’t come to heel.

Darien tosses each of us a worried look before opening his mouth, as if he’s about to spew chunks on the table. “I d-don’t! I didn’t—”

“Save it,” I snap. “You did, and we have the proof. You’re only getting away with your life and your side hobby if you give us what we want.”

“O-Okay! Seven p-percent,” he concedes.

Graves knocks his fist against the table, triggering a roar of excitement from the crew. Those closest to the slimeball suit jostle his shoulders while the others raise their drinks in celebration. “To seven percent, gentlemen,” Graves announces, standing from his chair.

Following his lead, Mack and I drag ourselves from the booth. We toss our heads to the side, signaling for the rest of the crew to join us. Like good soldiers, they take the hint and move themselves from their seats, leaving Darien behind.

“Hey guys,” Kash greets suddenly from behind me. “I got the shitbag’s car rigged up.”

Smirking, I turn to face the newest brother in our ranks. “Good. You’re on babysitting duty for the suit.”

“On it, boss.” He fucking beams like a kid stuck inside a candy shop. “I’ll see y’all tomorrow. Don’t overdo it, Stone. You need to rest or some shit.”

Rolling my eyes, I toss a weak punch at his shoulder. The guy is almost as bad as a woman when looking after us. “See you tomorrow, brother.”

“Leaving so soon, boys?” an airy voice asks.

Locking eyes on the bar, I take notice of a burgundy-haired woman standing behind the counter polishing a cocktail glass. “Yeah,” I drawl. “The meeting was a success, so we’re gonna head back home to celebrate.”

“Congratulations…” She smiles. As nice of a smile as it is, it does absolutely nothing for me.What the hell is wrong with me tonight?A throatylaugh pierces through my thoughts, snapping me back to the unfamiliar woman. “Sorry, I’m new around here. What’s your name?”

“Stone,” I say, giving a small nod of acknowledgement before walking away. I don’t bother to ask for hers. We’re not here to make friends with anyone, not when we have another issue to address with Stevie being back.

The warm midnight breeze blows over my face, wicking away the moisture gathered over my shaved head. Reaching into my cut, I pull out the nearly empty pack of cigarettes. I take one out without much thought, noting it’s the lucky I flipped a few days ago. Pinching the tube of nicotine between my lips, I pat the sides of my jeans in search of a lighter.

Goddamnit, Mack.

“Here,” Graves grunts as he offers his shitty Bic.

“Thanks,” I mumble.

My thumb snaps over the wheel, sparking a low flame against the paper tube. Inhaling deeply, I suck down the smoke like I need it to live. At this rate, I probably do. I shouldn’t even be here, living this life. The Butchers saved my ass and made me stronger; they made me into a goddamn machine. Unfortunately, the hit busted this machine to high hell shortly after the pretty doll, whose pleasure still lingers on my tongue, left.

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