Page 72 of Choices

“Why hasn’t she gotten the wifey tattoo?” Rogue asks, oblivious to the eyes on her.

“She hasn’t even gotten a cut.” I crack up laughing. “I guess Cutter doesn’t want her having it.”

Most ol’ ladies wore a “Property of” cut, and wives got the tattoo. They were a sign of devotion, love, and respect for their man and their club. Claire doesn’t have either. My dad wouldn’t allow it when she was his girl, and I guess Cutter won’t either.

“Those two still make zero sense to me. You know, Callan said Cutter never talks about Claire. Doesn’t text or call her.”

“What do you mean?” I raise my voice as we join a crush of people waiting for drinks.

“I don’t know. We were talking about how we can’t bear to spend the night away from each other, and Callan said it was weird how Cutter never goes home to Claire.”

“Wait.” I stop her when we finally reach the bar through the packed bodies. “Are you telling me my brother admitted he doesn’t like spending time away from you?”

Slapping my arm, she squirms. “Shut up.”

“He’s a bitch in private, huh?” I tease, and she flips me the bird. “Let’s not talk about Cutter tonight,” I tell her, and she winces.

“Shit, you’re right. I’m sorry,” she says sheepishly.

“Stop saying sorry and buy me a drink.” I jerk my chin toward the bar.

“Deal.”

When the bartender makes it over to us, Rogue orders two beers.

“What kind?”

“Any,” we say in unison.

“It’s nice in here, but I feel completely out of place.” She winces, turning back to look out over the club.

My gaze roams over her, and I snort. “Are you fucking kidding? You look like this place was built for you.” In a red silk dress that ties around her neck then skims her ass, completely backless, before flowing down to her knees like water, she looks like a million bucks.

Two black bottles get placed on the bar with no labels. “Forty-four dollars and ninety cents.”

“What did you say?” Rogue gapes.

Slipping my credit card across the bar, I grab one of the bottles and place it in her hand. “Drink.”

“She better have distilled the barley grain herself. Are they kidding with those prices?”

“Barley grain?” I chuckle, swiping up my own beer.

“Yeah, beer has like four ingredients. They’re robbing us.”

“They need to pay for all the gold,” I quip, nodding toward the wall melting before our eyes.

Surveying the space, she says, “I wonder what something like this costs.”

“It’s the Carnells’ club. They have more money than God.” Memories of meeting Nicolas Carnell and taking him to the clubhouse filter through my mind. He was reported missing the same week. Rumor has it he got himself in trouble with some street gang. The guy was reckless and out of control and it cost him his life. Look at everything he could have had. What makes it worse is the drugs you get from inside these clubs are ten times better than anything watered down in the streets.

“I know that name.”

“One is a senator. The rest own casinos and fancy clubs like this one.”

“Andrew Carnell.” She taps a finger against her temple. “I met him once.”

“The senator’s son,” I inform her.

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