Page 25 of Devils Cut

The wind whipped around us, the harsh scent of gasoline and smoke filling my nostrils. I glanced at Hammer.

"So, you locked that jailbait down yet?" he asked with a smirk.

"Fuck off, I'm not locking her down," I replied, feeling irritated by his question.

Hammer raised an eyebrow. "Why not, VP? I mean, you're 34 now - why not have a family and shit?"

"Because she's too fucking young, Hammer," I snapped back. "Sixteen years difference is a bit much, don't you think? I'm old enough to be her dad."

Nate chimed in, his voice steady and calm. "So, who cares? If you want it, then have it."

"See, that's the issue right there," I countered, shaking my head. "If I took it, it would be permanent. I just don't know if I want permanent."

The three of them laughed at me, and I couldn't help but scowl. Their laughter grated on my nerves, each chuckle a reminder of the position I was in.

"Man, she's been here like what? A week?" Nate continued. "And you haven't been to the clubhouse once. You're already fucking married, and you're not getting your dick wet for it either."

"Fuck off, all of you," I said, my voice low and dangerous. I clenched my fists, feeling the familiar urge to punch something.

The roar of the sleek black car's engine cut through the tense silence. Its arrival was like a harbinger of death; doom on four wheels. My heart slammed in my chest, threatening to break through my ribcage, as I watched the three men step out, clad in tailored suits that screamed power.

"Showtime," I muttered under my breath, my grip tightening on the leather cut I wore like armour.

The man leading the trio was inked from head to toe. His eyes were cold and calculating, his gaze slicing through me as if he could read every dark thought that crossed my mind. It was clear: this man was the boss.

"Mr. Pavlov?" I strode toward him, hand outstretched, trying to sound confident despite the pounding in my ears. "Corvus King, VP of the Devil's Cut."

"Da," he replied, his voice thick with a Russian accent as he shook my hand. A fleeting smile ghosted across his lips, and I could tell he was sizing me up, weighing whether I was worth his time. "I hear you're looking to find out who screwed me over."

"Something like that," I responded, keeping my tone even.

"Good," Mr. Pavlov said, his smile broadening into something predatory.

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The rain soaked me to the bone as I rode back to the bar, my Harley roaring beneath me. The sky had turned dark and angry while I was gone, pouring down like it wanted to wash away all the sins of the world. As I pulled up to the front of the bar, water dripped from my hair and pooled in my boots. I stomped my wet ass inside, shaking off the cold.

"Damn, Corvus," Killer laughed when he saw me, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "Went for a swim, VP?"

"Fuck off," I grumbled, frowning at him. "How's it been here?"

"Ah, it's been quiet. The bitches in the back were givin' Tempest shit earlier, but Amanda squashed 'em real quick." He smirked, popping a toothpick into his mouth.

I nodded, feeling a mixture of irritation and relief. I turned away from Killer and headed for the door marked "private," hoping to change into some dry clothes.

The clinking of glass and chatter from the patrons filled the air as I stalked past the front bar, my eyes locking onto Tempest's captivating form. My voice was like a whip, cutting through the noise. "Tempest! Come find me when your shift is done, okay?"

She looked up, her eyes meeting mine for a fleeting moment before a smile graced her lips. "No worries," she replied, her hands never stopping as she continued to pour drinks for the thirsty customers.

I hurried through the door marked "private" and entered my office. I wasted no time in stripping out of my soaked jeans and t-shirt, hanging my cut on the back of my chair.

"Shit," I muttered, realising I didn't have any spare shirts left in here. It wasn't uncommon to get soaked during a ride, so I had clothes stashed all over the place. But today, I'd run out of luck. With no other choice, I draped my wet shirt over a wooden chair in front of my desk, hoping it would dry before Tempest finished her shift, and pulled on the spare pair of ripped jeans I had.

"Fuckin' great," I grumbled, glancing around the room as if expecting a dry shirt to materialise out of nowhere. No such luck.

With resolve hardened, I turned my attention to the mountain of paperwork sitting on my desk, my fingers twitching, craving the familiar weight of a gun or the rough grip of a knife, but instead settling for the cold metal of a pen.

"Time to get to work," I whispered, diving into the maze of numbers and names before me.

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