Page 33 of Tracking Luxe

“Our boy is doing it for more than money, Tex. Isn’t that right, G?” simpered Lawless in that way of his that could crawl under a person’s skin like a tape worm and eat away at you until you spilled your guts. Grinder had seen Lawless in action when he’d been terrorizing a poor fucker without putting a hand on them, he’d just never been under Lawless’ microscope before.

And he didn’t like it one bit. He didn’t want to get into the whys of what he was doing.

Luckily Rider chose that moment to take the table back. “We vote.”

“Aye.” Grinder started it off.

“Aye.” Another said.

“I hate those Russians and I hate waiting to see what move they make. It’s fucking risky but I vote yes.” Nodded Snake.

“Aye.”

Capone looked Grinder in the eye when he said. “No. I don’t want you dead,Hermano.”

Grinder nodded understanding. He had already considered all the risks.

The last to vote was his best friend. Preacher sighed hard enough to cause a gust in the room, he rubbed the back of his shaved head and glared hard at Grinder. “You fucking fuck. The shit we do for our women, bro, for fucks sake.”

She’s not my woman, he wanted to insist and the words got stuck in his throat.

“Fine. Fuck.” Preacher added his vote. “But we do this smart, we let Lawless do the thinking, at least we know it won’t be with his dick.”

Everyone laughed and broke the tension, even Grinder smirked while Lawless took center stage and they began to talk about logistics.

CHAPTER TEN

“A mistake often begins with a heavy case of lust…” - Luxe

When a thief met a tracker.

“How long are you sticking around for this time?” Luxe heard, but hardly paid any attention to the man she’d had a handful of dates with over the last few months, taking long pulls from his beer bottle. She was too busy watching the colossal mountain man striding in through the double doors with a pack of other bikers. He barely fit those shoulders, Dear god. Walking like they owned the place. Leather and denim and absurd masculinity.

Only the one in the black beanie hat seized her attention.

He was magnetic. A direct line to her pleasure zone down south.

Wide in the shoulders, slim down to his tapered waist, denim and leather encased that body perfectly, his arms were fucking herculean, solid muscle, he probably bench-pressed a small planet.

But it was the way he had thrown his head back belting out a laugh at something someone had said to him that grabbed lust from down deep in her shoes, showcasing brilliant white teeth sheathed in a black beard thick enough to draw fingers through. The bar was too noisy to hear the sound he made, yet she felt it in the pit of her belly. Dios.

She stared slyly while they all rounded a table and sat as a group.

Feeling like a stalker, it was impossible to tear her gaze away, it was locked on the guy’s face, every expression that crossed his eyes Luxe took note of.

Who was he?

“The Souls are in the house.” Muttered Amos through clenched teeth.

For once in her thieving life, she wasn’t cataloging what she could lift from people. Not that she sunk so low as to pickpocket anymore, she was no artful dodger, she liked bigger and better, things that made more money than a pawnbroker could give her.

Cars.

Art.

Jewelry.

Money.

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