Page 1 of Graveyards & Greed

Chapter 1

Sylvie

Two Months Prior

I took a deep, shuddering breath, then pushed my chest out and shoved open the grimy black door to Titties Bar in North Las Vegas. A few bikers turned to leer at me in my skimpy halter dress, heavy makeup, and big brunette wig. A temporary snake and rose tattoo on my shoulder completed my new look.

The stench of stale beer and sweaty, unwashed bodies mingled with the acrid smell of cigarette and marijuana smoke. A thick haze hung in the air, and I wondered if it was possible to get hotboxed from all the second-hand smoke.

Neon signs buzzed on the walls, casting a lurid glow against the mostly middle-aged, overweight bikers who occasionally catcalled the topless dancers. This place made nasty dive bars look like quaint little coffee shops.

I chomped on my gum and dodged a few groping hands as I scanned the smoky room, my eyes sweeping past leather-clad bikers and bored, mostly naked women gyrating on the small stage.

“Lookin’ for some cock to suck, sweet cheeks?” I glanced up to see a red-nosed, smelly biker with a paunch that spilled over his belt like soft dough.

“That’s a real temptin’ offer, but I’m looking for Eightball. He owes me back child support,” I whined in a nasally, obnoxious tone, my gaze still scanning the crowd.

The biker stared at me, then snorted. “I didn’t know that mean little punk had a kid. Good luck, honey. How’d he get a hot snatch like you, anyway?”

Hot snatch? Who talked like that? My lips wanted to curl in disgust. “Aw, aren’t you sweet?” I patted his cheek roughly and stepped around him as I searched for Samuel “Eightball” LeBaron. Chances were good he was here somewhere. The little fucktwit belonged to the OutKast motorcycle club, and I’d been told he couldn't resist cheap liquor, recreational drugs, or bargain blowjobs. If that was true, this was certainly his kind of place.

It was late August, and a heat wave held Sin City by the throat. I didn’t have a bra on under my dress so beads of sweat slid straight down my back. As I continued to search through the haze, my eyes snagged on a man leaning against the bar who didn’t belong.

His muscular frame and expensive suit contrasted starkly with all the black leather and dirty denim around him.

It took me a second, but I recognized Drakos Creed as one of the partners at Fowler, Underwood, Creed, and… something that started with a K. Their acronym spelled out FUCK, which I had to admit was a funny name for a law firm.

Vague rumors floated around about FUCK, Legal being more like an organized crime syndicate than a law firm. Salacious stories also circulated about the partners rotating through women like underwear, and frequenting strip and sex clubs. The rumor mill in Las Vegas was as overblown and fake as the Strip, so I believed about ten percent of what I heard, but there werea lotof stories about those guys.

The gorgeous attorney looked to be in his early thirties with thick black hair and a sharp, angular face. He had day-old stubble that saved him from being too pretty for this shithole. His eyes were fixed on a point across the bar, and I followed his gaze to where a thin, stringy-haired biker sat at a high-top table in the corner. My hands clenched when I noticed Eightball LeBaron sitting next to the biker, both wearing their OutKast leather cuts. He stared at one of the younger dancers as he took a shot of tequila. Rage and bone-deep loathing flashed through me. It was dangerous and reckless to come here alone, but I’d run out of ideas and time.

Sometimes people just needed to die. Balling my fists, I fought the urge to walk over, pull out my gun, and shoot the evil bastard in the face. I’d strapped a small pistol to the inside of my thigh and tucked a syringe of fentanyl-laced morphine in my skirt pocket. The person who sold it to me assured me if I could get it into his bloodstream, it’d get the job done. The gun grip chafed against my crotch as I straightened to get a better look, but I ignored it.

I’d been hunting Eightball since getting a frantic phone call from Trina Lopez about her granddaughter, Camilla, just over a week ago. Watching the fucker now, he reminded me of a cockroach scurrying out from under the sink in the middle of the night to copulate and steal crumbs before he scurried back.

Drakos Creed also stared at LeBaron and his biker friend. Fuck. I didn’t want some slick lawyer who was here slumming to screw up my already sketchy plans. But as I continued to observe, I realized Drakos was also staking out one or both of the bikers, and I wondered why.

Tossing back the rest of his drink, the overdressed man set his glass down on the bar. He was braver than me. The only thing I’d be ordering from this place was something that came in a bottle or can, and I still planned to wipe the lip off before drinking.

Eightball continued to watch the dancer, then slid off his stool and walked over to the stage. He snapped his fingers and pointed at the poor girl. Her gaze darted around as if she wanted to either run or ignore him, but she stopped dancing and hesitantly made her way over. Even with the dark eye makeup and skimpy G-string, she looked scared and barely legal.

He grabbed the back of her bleached hair, pulled her head back, and bent to talk in her ear. Her eyes went teary as she listened, then slowly nodded. When Eightball let her go, she sank to her knees on the sticky, dirty floor as he took his dick out.

Acid burned in my stomach, and I turned away to hide my loathing. A few minutes later, Eightball’s ass tightened, and his head fell back as he came down her throat. Then he used the girl’s hair to wipe off his cock, shoved her face away with the palm of his hand, and zipped up his pants. When he pulled out a goddamned twenty-dollar bill and threw it at her chest, I knew I was going to kill the little prick tonight.

As I edged closer, he grinned and sauntered back over to his biker friend, his inebriated laughter sounding like nails scratching across glass.

Drakos approached the men while I ordered a bottle of light beer from the older, heavily tattooed bartender. Slapping a five-dollar bill on the bar, I took my beer and sat at the table right behind Eightball to eavesdrop as I pretended to play on my phone.

“Interesting bar,” I heard Drakos drawl, sliding into a seat at their table. “Are you regulars here?”

Eightball’s friend grunted, not looking up. “Who the fuck’s askin’?”

Drakos leaned in, ignoring the man’s rudeness. “That beauty parked outside in the alley… the 1960s Harley Electra Glide. Is that yours?"

The biker’s chest puffed out with pride, and his squinty eyes flicked toward Drakos for a few seconds before returning to study one of the dancers. “Might be.”

“Nice ride. I've got a few vintage bikes myself. Where’d you get it?”

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