Page 55 of Pink Poison

“What good is your education if I don’t put it to use once in a while?” he jokes.

Jesus. Who is this guy and what has he done to Jameson?

“Okay, smartass,” I huff. “It’s my turn to put you to good use.”

“That sounds kinky,” he snorts, slapping the bar rag on the counter. “What can I get you?”

“The usual.”

He grabs me a beer from the cooler and pops the cap before sliding it over the counter. I take a generous sip before finding a table to sit at while the other members and prospects filter in. April, our long-time bartender, flits around the tables, taking orders and making her rounds. A smile creeps up my face as she brings me another beer without question. I appreciate thatshe knows me well enough to not bother me, unlike the others. Though, if I had to guess, I’d say they like her attention.

They’ll learn eventually that she isn’t interested in them.

My sense of time diminishes with each drink as I ride the line between buzzed and wasted. It’s a happy medium that I intend to keep until Jameson cuts me off.

Speaking of the asshole, where is he?

Vibration from the table catches my attention, distracting me from the whereabouts of my best friend. With the liquor coursing through my veins, the screen appears blurry. My finger swipes across the screen with zero hesitation as I pull up my text messages. I can hardly make out the numbers and words, but I’m aware enough to see that there’s an audio message attached.

A rustling sound comes from the speaker, resembling the sound of a pocket dial before a familiar snarky feminine voice speaks over it.

Stephanie.

“I think our versions of foreplay are very different,” my little nightmare snorts. I can’t stop my smile from widening at her sass. If she thought what happened between us at Memento was foreplay, she has another thing coming.

“I would say you’re right,” a smooth, masculine voice replies to her, wiping the smile from my face completely. The sound of blood rushing echoes through my ears, blocking the rest of what he says.Who the hell does she think she is, sending me a recording of her with another man?I clench my jaw tightly as the man’s teasing words filter through the speaker again. “Now, tell me what you want.”

“M-Max.” She dares to stammermyname. Not Jameson. Not Stone. And sure as fuck not Kash.Mine.I’d be lying if I said it didn’t make my dick hard knowing that she wants me, despite recording this with some random John, like the whore she is.

Shaking my head, the effects of the alcohol and the rush of desire encourage me to fast forward the recording until the end. Skin slaps against skin, hard—punishingly.It's brutal, and somewhere in my consciousness I know that there's something wrong because Stephanie is quiet.Too quiet. But the unpacked baggage sitting in my head refuses to accept the red flag. Because this is her. This is the fake haired, fake tempered, blonde seductress. She fucked my best friend. She fuckedourbrother, and has the other wrapped around her neatly painted pinky nail. This is her poison, her venom in full effect.

And it's fucking paralyzing.

The audio continues, and with it the uncomfortable sound of this man railing into Stephanie. I move to stop it, but her cries of ecstasy freeze me.“Max! Max! Max!”

I lose count of how many times she yells my name. I mean, how am I supposed to focus when my dick is reacting despite the level of disgust I feel for her? Just when I consider doing something I will inevitably regret, a deep,carnal, masculine groan deflates every inch of me, reminding me of every reason I fucking hate my stepsister as he claims her release with one word.

“Angel.”

Chapter twenty

Stone

Standing from my bike, I stretch my back out before swinging my good leg over the seat.Fuck me, that hurts.I pushed it hard at the gym today,too hard. And it doesn’t help that my ribcage still burns like hell.

Thanks, Mack.

With a pained groan, I shake off the discomfort andlimptowards Mo's doors. It's wishful fucking thinking that she'd be willing to help us out with anything after the way we've all but pissed on her club over the years, but it sure as hell beats asking Lennon for any favors. Worst case scenario, Mo tells me to go fuck myself. Worst case with Lennon would undoubtedly end in a debt that I'd sooner take myself out over than repay.

“What the fuck are you doin’ here?” the red-head I snapped at the other day barks.

“Talkin’ with Mo,” I drawl. “Speaking of which, where is the ol’bat?”

She flips her long, fiery waves over her shoulder, a mannerism I hold no doubt that Stevie picked up from her. “None ya business,Butcher.”

Fuck me. Another certainty about this chick—the way she spits our name with such vitriol without a doubt came from Stevie herself.

I limp to the bar and sit on a tattered stool. “I have some questions, and Mo has the answers. I need to talk to her—the sooner, the better.”

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