Page 20 of Emmy's Ride

I shot her a look. “No. But we’re here. And get back in your car and lock the doors.”

A muscle ticked in her jaw, but surprisingly she didn’t argue. I waited to hear the click of the locks engaging before I turned back to the hovel before me.

It reeked of stale beer and regret, the kind of place where every pair of bloodshot eyes measured your worth the second you walked through the door and how easy a target you made.

Dim lights barely illuminated the handful of patrons sitting around sticky tables, most of them hunched over drinks or part of quiet conversations. A jukebox in the back played some old country song, the twangy voice barely cutting through the murmur of voices.

I sent a silent thank you up to the universe that for once Emmy did as she was told. I would have hated the way these men would look at her like she was something to be had, something to be taken. Used.

It sent dark possessiveness churning in my chest.

Mine.

The thought slammed into me so hard I nearly stopped walking. But Emmy wasn’t mine. She couldn’t have made it more obvious than refusing to ride on my bike. It seemed I needed to keep reminding myself of that.

I forced myself to focus. I didn’t belong here, and every bastard in the room knew it. I didn’t give a fuck.

I could tell the moment I was recognized by the change in the air. Charged. Primed.

A bartender with a gut hanging over his belt stared at us warily. “We ain’t got nothin’ for you, Prez.”

I leaned against the grimy bar. “I think you do.”

He shook his head as he reached beneath the bar and came back with a baseball bat in his hand. He dropped it on the bar top. “I don’t want trouble.”

I could feel the smirk on my face growing. As if a bat was going to stop me. “Well, that’s unfortunate.”

The man swallowed audibly.

I gave him my back as I surveyed the room. My gaze locked on something across the room. Or someone.

I fought to keep the impassive look on my face. Sitting in the corner, a sly grin playing at his lips, was Cooper Vale.

Or as the Vultures called him—Grinder.

An old enemy. A former Kings of Chaos brother who had turned his back on the club years ago, aligning himself with the very people who wanted us gone. The last time I saw Cooper, I was throwing him through a window. And judging by the smug amusement on his face, he fucking remembered it.

“Well, well,” Grinder drawled. “Didn’t expect to see the mighty Prez of the Kings of Chaos slumming it in my part of town.”

My body coiled tight, and I didn’t stop moving. I walked straight to the table, planting both hands on the scarred wood as I leaned down. “Where’s Grit?”

Grinder feigned surprise. “Grit? Huh. Can’t say I’ve seen him.”

My patience was razor-thin. “Try again.”

He let out a slow whistle. “Still the same, aren’t you? No foreplay, no small talk.”

He shook his head, sipping his drink. “I heard some whispers, though. Something about Grit poking his nose where it didn’t belong. Something about a certain Ghost.” He set his glass down, leaning forward. His gaze flicked to me, then over to the door… and lingered.

I followed his line of sight, and I stiffened. Damn fool woman. I saw red as Emmy peeked inside the door, found me, and slinked across the room to join me.

Cooper didn’t miss a thing. “Lookie here. Emmy, isn’t it? Grit’s sister, right?”

I stepped in front of her, cutting off Cooper’s view entirely. “Keep your fucking eyes where they belong, asshole.”

“Touchy.”

I didn’t respond. I just waited. Waited for the exact moment Cooper made a mistake. For a long second, no one moved.

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