Page 35 of Sinful
"Don't what?"
"Get involved with some random Nomad. Not now. Not when everything's falling apart."
"I'm not getting involved with anyone." I drain my second beer. "I'm here for Dad. That's it."
But even as I say it, I feel his eyes on me again.
And when I glance over, the look he's giving me makes my stomach flip.
Like he knows exactly what I'd taste like.
Like he's already decided he's going to find out.
The bar gets louder as night settles in.
More people arrive—locals mixing with clubmembers, civilians who don't know they're drinking in a powder keg.
The jukebox switches from southern rock to something with a harder edge.
Voices rise, competing with the music.
I should leave.
Should go get some sleep, prepare for the clusterfuck that tomorrow will be.
But I stay planted on this barstool, nursing a third beer I don't need, hyper-aware of the man down the bar who hasn't stopped watching me.
The Texan. Bravos, Elfe said.
The Shotgun Saints Nomad who's here to negotiate an alliance.
I wonder if he kills as easily as I do.
Wonder if his hands shake afterward, or if he's past that.
A group of locals near the pool tables are getting louder.
Drunker.
One of them—big guy with a beard and a Titans jersey—keeps looking over at our section of the bar.
Not at me specifically, just at the general area where Raiders members are congregated.
Looking for trouble.
I've seen this dance a thousand times in Texas.
Drunk civilian wants to prove something, picks a fight with the wrong people, gets his ass handed to him.
Usually entertaining.
Tonight it feels dangerous.
Two rival MCs under one roof, trying to maintain peace long enough to form an alliance.
One bar fight could blow the whole thing apart.
"We should probably head out," Elfe says, noticing the same thing I am. "Before things get messy."
