Page 15 of Raze
But after that spanking in the clubhouse, the way he broke under my hand, calling meDaddybefore sucking my cock, I’m not sure where the line is anymore—between business and something else altogether.
I shrug off my Wolf Rider jacket, the leather heavy with the snarling wolf patch that marks me as a target in a place like this. I’m going in incognito, blending into the crowd of drunks and hustlers.
My .45 is tucked under my shirt, a familiar weight against my hip.
“You wait five minutes,” I tell Nico, my eyes locking onto his. “Then you come in. Walk the room, signal who’s who.Subtle. Point out Snake, Tito, and the Broker. You fuck this up, boy, and we’re both done.”
Nico nods, his jaw tight, but those eyes—defiant, bright, and too damn pretty—hold mine a beat too long.
“Got it,” the boy says, his voice softer now, almost like he’s trying to prove something… to me or himself, I’m not sure.
I should move, get inside, scope the place out.
But something stops me, a pull I can’t shake.
Nico’s standing close, the heat of him cutting through the cool night air, and before I can think better of it, I grab his face, my scarred hands rough against his smooth skin.
I kiss the gorgeous boy, hard and quick, my lips crashing into his. Sparks fly, electric and raw, and for a second, the world narrows to his mouth, the connection between us undeniable by the way he leans into it, just a fraction, before I pull back.
Nico’s eyes are wide, shocked, but there’s a heat there that mirrors the one burning in my chest.
Fuck.
This is real—too real—and it’s gonna complicate everything even more than it already is.
“Stay sharp,” I growl, turning away before I do something even stupider.
I don’t look back as I head for the bar, my boots crunching gravel, my pulse hammering. I’m here to take down the assholes who stole from us, to protect the Wolf Riders’ name, but Nico’s got me twisted up, and I don’t like it. Not one bit.
Inside, the bar is a haze of smoke and dim lights, the kind of place where deals go down in the booths and fights spill out into the lot.
The jukebox is blasting some old rock tune, and the air smells like bad intentions and desperation. I slide onto a stool at the bar, ordering a whiskey I don’t plan to drink, my eyes scanning the room.
It’s crowded—truckers, bikers, a few women in tight skirts working the room for tips or trouble.
I clock the exits: front door, back door near the bathrooms, a fire exit that’s probably chained shut.
My hand rests near my gun, ready but calm.
I’m good at this, at blending in, at waiting for the moment to strike.
But as the minutes tick by, a nagging doubt creeps in. What if Nico’s cut and run? He’s a hustler, used to slipping out of tight spots. I left him out there with his .38—potentially my fuck-up for not taking it off him—and he could be halfway across town by now.
Come on, boy.
Don’t let me down.
Don’t make me hunt you down and do what I could have done at the start…
But my fears are unfounded. The door swings open, and there he is, striding in like he owns the place, his leather jacket unzipped, that tight black tee clinging to his frame.
Relief hits me, followed by a pulse of something hotter.
He’s not running. Not yet.
Nico moves through the crowd, casual but deliberate, his eyes flicking over the room. The boy is good, I’ll give him that—subtle, like I told him.
Nico brushes past a table in the corner, three guys hunched over beers, and his hand grazes the back of one’s chair, a quick point. Snake, I’m guessing, skinny with a snake tattoo curling up his neck.
