Page 82 of Debt of My Soul

She gulps at the sleek black that reflects like a mirror. “We’re taking your bike?”

“Yes.”

She nods, rubbing her hands along her thighs, beckoning my gaze again.

Damn it.

“I-I, um, I’ve never been on one before.” Panic laces her voice, and her hand instinctively reaches for her wrapped wrist.

She’s nervous.

Normally, the small tidbit of information would thrill me, but at the way her face wrings with worry, along with her subconscious reach for a way to quiet the fear—my muscles tighten with an otherworldly desire to touch her. I flex open my closed fists, trying to quench the need.

“Trust me, Fleur.”

Darrin’s new establishment is at an old dry cleaner. It’s rather ordinary in order to avoid arousing suspicion. The building is warped and splintered, the siding a muted yellow that reminds me of piss in snow. The metal roof has been neglected, and the faint outline of the old business name is barely visible.

When we first pull up, I immediately want to take Fleur away. Several men, dressed in their leathers and smoking cigarettes, loiter around outside in the back. Women in scantily clad outfits hang all over them. One of the women’s hands wanders over the man’s shoulders she’s practically climbing. I don’t even need to remove my helmet to see her behavior is off. Most likely Jackpot.

Darrin isn’t looking to get rich with these underground card games and gambling rings. He wants people in his pocket—favors owed to him. He wants users around to make irrational decisions and those addicted to the game to become addicted to something far more powerful. These places are conduits, funnels to trap. Nothing more.

When I finally maneuver the bike into an inconspicuous spot and shut off the engine, Fleur’s hands drop away from where they’d been vice-gripped around my waist. With each rev of the engine or sharp turn, her hold would intensify, sending heat rushing through me. Something about her being at my mercy.

I turn, reaching my gloved hands up to unfasten her helmet. Her hair puffs out when I rip the helmet away, the static feathering out individual strands into the air. For a moment, I take the opportunity to study her through the tinted visor of my own helmet, having not yet removed it.

“Look who it is,” a voice shouts from the back entrance. Fleur’s hand bolts to my arm, her fist twisting my leather jacket as her eyes find the source of the shout. Barely do I keep my mouth from twitching upward at her slight shift in my direction. As if I’m the one to protect her from these buffoons.

She’d be right, though. I am the only one standing between her and this awful life.

Eventually, I remove my helmet and raise a hand toward Larry, Darrin’s bookkeeper.

Dressed in khaki pants and a blue checkered button-down, Larry isn’t the sort of guy you’d think you’d catch at establishments like these. With his wide-rimmed glasses and ever-changing bowtie, the guy reads more church-going frat brother rather than someone who’d run in Darrin’s circles. He doesn’t live at the compound. Actually, he’s the only one besides Micahallowedto live off the compound even though he has privileged access to everything Darrin knows.

Darrin believes if something were to happen to our hideaway in the woods, keeping Larry out of the mix can only bode well.

“Hey, man,” Larry says, cozying up closer to my bike than I’d like. “Haven’t seen you come out to the tables in a while. Finally decide to try your luck?”

I sniff, wiping the tip of my nose with my thumb. “Darrin wanted us here tonight. Gotta good crowd?”

He knows I don’t gamble. Not after what went down with Adam. Shockingly, Darrin never made me feel as if I had to. Most of the six don’t mess with it, same as we don’t mess with the Jackpot.

“Yes. We do.” Larry grins. He rolls back on his heels, shoving his hands in his slacks, letting his gaze scan Fleur.

“This is Fleur. Fleur, this is Larry.” I offer introductions but nothing more.

She nods at him, while he gives me a side pat on my shoulder twice, then winces when his hand is met with my solid muscle. Rolling my eyes, I gesture to the door and Larry leads us.

I linger, waiting for Fleur to step with me. My hand grazes the small of her back, and she sucks in a tiny breath before moving along in the direction I guide her.

Managing to dodge most of the guys at the door is a feat, but Larry is usually one to deter them. They don’t have the patience for him and his ever-growing obsession with the numbers. The wide berth they give us is more than I’ve ever been afforded before, and I take advantage, ushering Fleur in without their wandering or prying eyes.

A few of Darrin’s men stand in the front acting as security for the evening, but step aside when they see Larry and me.

A thin layer of dust and grime coats the windows, but the floors are clean, and the smell of smoke-drenched clothes cancels out any musty odor.

The space opens into lines of tables, all filled with people. Blackjack, poker, casino war—table after table of card games litter the vast space.

There’s resistance from Fleur as she stops, taking in the sight of each filled table. Women slide through, carrying drinks and Jackpot on trays, dealers stand, keeping eyes on each player, and Darrin sits, lounging in the back on a black leather chair.

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