Page 32 of Pink Poison

“You have a lot of fucking nerve,” she snarks, sliding away from me. “I’m not a damn merry-go-round.”

Oh, hell no.

My nostrils flare as I grab her arm to pull her back to me. “Let’s get one thing straight. I donotsee you as an object, much less a damn carnival ride.”

As enticing as she is to ogle—and God, is she—she is, however, more thanjusther looks. She has fire—a passion in her. It takes a strong woman to pull herself off the ground and come back to make a point. I also happen to appreciate the finesse of a woman scorned. Not to mention, there’s nothing wrong with being a sex worker—stripper, escort, or otherwise. One would think thatweas an MC would appreciate the nature of that line of work a little more than others.

“I see a sexy woman with a helluva lot of fight in her. Iseesomeone who isn’t afraid to own her body even if it’s a means to secure a bag—you feel me?” My words come out in a slow, purposeful drawl. One that’s undoubtedly meant for her to sear into her memory.

Her pink, glossy lips part with a staggered breath. “I-I feel you.”

“I know when I’m interested in someone.” I pinch her chin between my fingers, forcing her to look me in the eyes. “And this is me telling you that I’m interested.”

She melts into my grip, like putty in my hands. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re intense?” she whispers.

If she thinks this is intense, then she's not ready forallof me. Unlike my brothers, I have no problems admitting my peculiar tendencies. I obsess, unhealthily. I don't need a rhyme or reason, either. I latch on to an idea, a place,a person.Although, I've never latched myself to a woman before. Being in an MC, I never had a reason to. Sex was always just sex, practically transactional. On rare occasions, a patch bunny would press her luck, but it never ended well. The guys had an agreement long before I joined their ranks—they weren't settling down until club business was handled. Thankfully, that list of business is over a mile long, and I was more than happy to agree to those terms.

Leaning forward, I brush my nose along her jawline until I reach her ear. “This isn’t even the half of it, sweetheart,” I breathe.

The cab driver coughs, abruptly breaking the tension between me and Stevie. “We’re here.”

Stevie pulls herself away from me, moving towards the door closest to her. “Blondie, if you touch that door, you and I will have problems,” I warn, pulling a crisp fifty from my pocket before tossing it through the cab partition. The driver mumbles a briskthanksas I exit the vehicle. Jogging around to Stevie’s door, I open it for her. Her pink platforms clack against the asphalt before she drags herself from the seat.

I offer my arm, pleasantly surprised when she links hers through mine as I slam the door closed. “So he’s cute, smart, and a gentleman,” she teases. “Still a bit of a creeper though.”

“You’re going to give a man a complex if you keep calling me cute,” I grunt.

We fall in stride as we make our way towards the entrance of Le Papillon. “What’s wrong with being cute?”

I halt my steps, forcing her to stop with me. “What if I called you cute instead of sexy?”

She hums, almost like she's pretending to be in deep thought. “I don’t see why you would call me cute when I don't have a baby face like you.”

“Baby face!” I feign shock by placing my hand over my heart. “You wound me, sweetheart.”

Our steps pick back up as we make our way to the dark brick building lit with neon blue lights peeking through the doors and windows. Patrons loiter around the doors, some with remarkably familiar faces that I've seen posted on billboards as representatives of the great people of the state.

Disgusting.

“Kash, you don’t have to come inside with me.” Stevie laughs, drawing my attention back to her. “Honestly, I don’t even know if you’re allowed here.”

“Don’t worry about it, sweetheart.” I smirk.

“Okay, then,” she drawls. “I guess I’ll see you in there.”

Laughing, I wink before she walks away. “You bet your sweet ass you will.”

She shakes her head as she turns on her heel, strutting her way through the front doors like she owns the damn place. I wait a few minutes before approaching the hulk of a bouncer letting people through the doors, hoping he recognizes my cut and lets me through without hassle.

“Head to the back of the line,” he grunts, not bothering to look in my direction.

Clearing my throat, the man twists his neck sharply with a concerning cracking sound that follows. His eyes hone in on my leather vest, taking in the Enforcer patch immediately. “Affiliation?” he asks, locking his beady eyes to mine.

“The Butchers.” He jerks his head to the side, giving me the seal of approval to enter the establishment. “Thanks, man,” I say, quickly moving on from the line of leering men and women. The last thing I need is one of them trying to leech themselves onto me to get inside.

Walking through the doors, a dim, neon blue low light greets me. I shuffle through a scantily dressed crowd gathered in the lobby. Men and women scatter in waves as I push past them, lost in their carnal desire for each other and themselves. Stray hands linger over me, groping at my chest and back in weak attempts to drag me into their budding depravity. I brush them away without thought, pushing my way down the steps toward the nearest hallway with fewer deviants roaming around. I’m not here for personal entertainment, especially not with these twisted fucks. The less I see, the better it will be for all of us.

“Petit papillon,” a low voice lulls from behind the door next to me. I don't know what it is about the voice, but I pause mid-step. “Have you learned your lesson?”

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