Page 1 of Sinful
PROLOGUE
Helle
The neon CACTUS JACK'S sign flickers like it's having a seizure.
On. Off. On. Off.
Been doing that for three weeks now, and Jack—if that's even his real name—refuses to fix it because "it adds character."
What it adds is a headache that pulses in time with the faulty wiring.
I wipe down the bar for the hundredth time tonight, bourbon and beer creating sticky patterns I could map like constellations.
The Big Dipper made of Jack Daniel's.
Orion's Belt in Bud Light.
Nine-forty on a Friday night, and the place is packed with the usual crowd—truckers, oil workers, a few ranchers, and the occasional Shotgun Saints member passing through on their way to Sharp.
That last group always makes my stomach clench.
Not because they're dangerous—though they are.
But because MC members look at the world differently.
They notice things.
Remember faces.
And I can't afford to be remembered.
"Sweetheart, another round!" Big Tom calls from the pool table, waving his empty bottle like a flag of surrender.
I hate being called sweetheart, but tips pay rent, so I smile.
Grab three Lone Stars from the cooler, condensation immediately slicking my palms.
The bottles are cold enough to hurt.
When I deliver them, Tom slides a twenty across the felt. "Keep it."
That's eight bucks for carrying three beers fifteen feet.
Not bad.
I pocket it with the rest of tonight's haul—two hundred and forty-three dollars so far.
Enough for this week's rent on my shithole apartment with forty bucks left over.
Except I need gas and food.
And the Honda's making a grinding sound that definitely means something expensive is about to break.
Which is why I'm racing tonight.
Five hundred in my purse if I win, two-fifty for second.
Ineedfirst place.
