Page 5 of Property of Tacoma
Bane finally releases my shoulder but keeps his voice low. “Either way, brother, he just became a fucking problem.”
I nod slowly, already calculating our next move.
Camden crossed a line tonight—bringing my kids into this. In our world, you threaten a Kings’ property, and you’ve signed your death warrant.
“Yeah,” I agree, downing what’s left of my whiskey in one burning swallow. “He’s got to go.”
Becausenobodyfucks with the Kings.
CHAPTER ONE
One Week Later
“Did you see that defensive line? Like a goddamn brick wall. Best I’ve seen from the Seminoles in years.”
I nod, wiping down the bar top as Dale launches into another play-by-play breakdown of yesterday’s game. He’s been nursing the same beer for the past hour, more interested in reliving Florida State’s victory than actually drinking.
“That final quarter, though,” I say, tossing the rag over my shoulder as I lean back against the backbar, crossing my feet at the ankles. “Nearly gave me a heart attack.”
Dale laughs, his weathered face crinkling around the eyes. “Thought my old ticker was gonna give out right there in my living room. Wife wasn’t too happy about the coffee table I knocked over when they scored that last touchdown.” The game was a nail biter until that play.
The bell over the door chimes, and I glance up, my body tensing reflexively before relaxing.
Melanie Porter.
I watch her every move as she saunters in like she owns the joint. Hips swaying seductively in the tight pencil skirt that hugs her every curve. Blonde hair piled high on her head, and her makeup is flawless, even in the unforgiving afternoon light spilling through the windows.
Our eyes lock, and she smiles a slow, knowing smile that I know from experience means trouble.
The kind of trouble I’ve invited into my bed more times than I should have.
“Hey, handsome,” she purrs, sliding onto the barstool across from me, crossing her arms over her ample chest. The movement is deliberate, calculated to draw my attention. “Been a while.”
Dale takes one look at Mel, drains his beer, and mumbles something about needing to get home to his misses.
My lips turn up and I shake my head.
Horny bastard’s probably going home to bang his wife after getting a good look at Mel. She’s a looker.
“What can I get you?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“Dirty martini.” She leans forward, giving me an unobstructed view of her cleavage. “Extra dirty.”
I can’t help the smirk that crosses my face as I reach for the vodka.
Extra dirty.
Yeah, I bet she wants it that way. Last time she was in my bed, she was begging for more as I paddled her ass a beautiful, bright red. Her wrists secured above her head, face pressed into the mattress as she writhed beneath me, surrendering control completely.
“You never called,” she says, watching me mix her drink. “I thought we had a good thing going.”
I flash her my most disarming smile, the one that’s gotten me out of trouble since high school. “Been busy, darlin’.”
What I don’t say is that I had to scrape her off a month ago when she started talking about wanting to meet my children and making me dinner at her place. Started hinting at things I’m never going to give her—or anyone else, for that matter. Things like commitment, a future, love.
I don’t do relationships. Not after what happened ten years ago when I caught my pregnant ex-wife riding some asshole in our bed. Not after I nearly beat the man to death with my bare hands. Not after spending five years in a six-by-eight cell, missing the birth of my daughter and half of my son’s childhood.
“I’ve missed you,” Melanie says, her voice dropping to a whisper as I slide the martini across the bar. Her fingers brush mine intentionally. “Thought about you just last night, actually. When I was alone in my bed...”
