Page 6 of Property of Tacoma
My dick stirs, interested in a play-by-play despite my better judgment. It’s been weeks since I’ve had a woman beneath me, weeks of handling business and being a father and running this bar. Maybe one more night wouldn’t hurt. Fuck her senseless and make it crystal clear this is the last time.
She takes a delicate sip of her martini, her eyes never leaving mine. Then, slowly, deliberately, she licks her lips, catching a drop of alcohol with the tip of her tongue.
“Come by the clubhouse in a couple of hours,” I hear myself saying before I can think better of it. “Three o’clock.”
Her face lights up with victory as she downs her drink in one go, a move that tells me she was planning this all along. She slides a fifty across the bar—too much for the one drink, but I don’t correct her.
“I’ll be there,” she promises, standing and smoothing her skirt. “Don’t keep me waiting.”
I watch her walk away, her ass swaying hypnotically in that tight skirt. An ass I plan on marking one more time before sending her on her way for good.
“Boss!” Cindy, one of the waitresses, calls from across the room. “Phone call in the office.”
I wave her off. “Take a message.”
“It’s Bash,” she adds, her voice tinged with concern. “Says he needs to talk to you right now.”
My shoulders tense. Bash doesn’t call during the day unless there’s a problem. As the manager of Pretty Kitties, the strip club the Kings of Anarchy MC owns on the edge of town, he runs shit without needing his hand held every step of the way. If he’s calling, it’s serious.
“I’ll take it in the office,” I tell Cindy. Turning to Joe, the bartender who just clocked in, I add, “Watch the bar.”
The office in the back of Eagle’s is small but functional—a desk, a filing cabinet, and a safe bolted to the floor that holds more cash than the government needs to know about. I close the door behind me and pick up the phone.
“Yeah?”
“We’ve got a plumbing problem at the club. Need you to come over ASAP.”
My brows pull together in confusion. “Plumbing? Call Bane. He deals with that shit.” My brother handles the day-to-day maintenance issues with our businesses on top of managing Paradise Pawn and Loan.
I’m about to hang up when Bash’s voice comes through more insistently.
“You’re not hearing me, boss. We have aplumbingproblem.”
The emphasis on “plumbing” triggers something in my brain, and suddenly the lightbulb flips on. “Plumbing” is code forHouston, we have a big fucking problem.
“Fuck,” I breathe. “I’m on my way.”
I roaracross town to Pretty Kitties on my Fat Boy as a thousand and one questions blaze through my mind. The parking lot is empty when I pull up, which is unusual for a Monday, but the handwritten sign taped to the door explains why.“CLOSED FOR PLUMBING ISSUES.”
Yeah, plumbing issues. Right.
Gator is leaning against the brick wall next to the entrance, his arms crossed over his massive chest, a ball cap pulled low to hide his eyes. My enforcer is built like a fucking tank, all muscle and intimidation. If he’s on door duty this early, whatever’s happening inside is more serious than I thought.
I cut the engine and swing my leg over the bike, taking my time removing my brain bucket.
“Boss,” Gator nods as I approach, his Cajun accent thick with tension.
“What am I walking into?” I ask, keeping my voice low as I approach.
His mouth is set in a grim line. “You ain’t gonna believe it.”
He pushes the door open, and I step into the club. It’s jarring seeing Pretty Kitties with all the house lights up. What’s normally a dimly lit den of fantasy and sin is revealed for what it really is—worn carpet, scratched tables, and the lingering smell of cheap perfume and spilled beer. The place loses all its magic in the light of day.
Bash emerges from the back, his usually stoic face tight with worry, and my stomach knots.
Adrian “Bash” Forester is a force of fucking nature. Ex-marine and always-badass. The man doesn’t waver. And he doesn’t worry about shit. As our Sergeant at Arms, he’s seen shit that would make most men piss themselves, and he never breaks a sweat. But looking at him now…. Whatever’s going on has him shook, and that’s not a good sign.
“This way,” he says, jerking his head toward the back.
