Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 92397 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92397 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Rage had escorted her home.
Chapter Sixteen
He could’ve had her again that night. She’d been offering herself up.
But again, Rage had to remind himself that Lyric wasn’t a woman to be used. She needed to be respected and cherished.
And that was not how he normally fucked.
He wasn’t interested in all the “after shit” some women wanted to do. The cuddling, the pillow talk, even sharing breakfast the next morning.
Fuck no.
An elbow to the ribs had him snapping back to the present.
“Yo,” Rooster crowed.
“What?”
“Bogey at ten o’clock.”
Bogey? Did the club’s assistant manager think they were starring in a goddamn Top Gun movie?
Rage glanced over in the direction Rooster jerked his head.
“He look like a biker?”
Rage studied the long-haired, bearded man sitting on the other side of the stage wearing clunky silver rings with numerous tattoos visible.
His first instinct would be to say, yeah, it was a biker, and normally he wouldn’t care who came into Heaven’s Angels, as long as they weren’t wearing colors, didn’t harass the women, and paid their bar tab. The only colors allowed in the club were the DAMC’s.
They wanted everyone who entered through those doors to know who owned and ran the joint. In a way, it was a warning.
But any other MC? No. They didn’t even allow the Knights or the Fury to wear their cuts if they decided to come in and enjoy the entertainment.
So, yeah, the guy could be a biker, but unless they saw something that clearly identified him, he wouldn’t assume.
“You hear him mention a club or anything?” Rage asked the older DAMC member.
“Nah. Somethin’ ‘bout him just caught my attention. Wanna make sure he ain’t a Soul scopin’ out the place.”
Rage’s gaze sliced from Rooster to the man with his eyes glued to an upside down Cinnamon using a knee hooked around the pole to swing around it, her huge tits almost clobbering herself in the face.
Those jugs would be perfect for titty-fucking, but the fuck if Rage was doing that shit with one of his employees. He already had enough issues with those crazy bitches and sticking his dick in one of them would make it so much fucking worse. He could just see the other girls accusing him of favoritism and bullshit like that. Strippers loved drama. If there wasn’t any, they’d make shit up just to start some.
No fucking thanks.
“Yeah. Need to stay vigilant ’til we get that problem solved.” The problem being both the Twisted Souls and the Russos.
Rage had a feeling that might take a while.
But in the meantime…
“Gonna go out to the parkin’ lot and see what I can find. You see he’s about to leave, gimme a fuckin’ heads up.”
“You got it, brother.” Rooster slapped Rage on the back.
After one last glance at the possible biker, Rage took long strides out of the club’s entrance and searched the parking lot for any sleds he didn’t recognize.
There were four motorcycles scattered throughout the front lot, but only one was a Harley. He headed to the Softail first. Of fucking course, the leather saddlebags were locked.
Fuckin’ son of a bitch.
Rage slipped a folded knife from the front pocket of his jeans, flipped it open, and after double-checking first to make sure the lot was clear, he popped the cheap-ass lock.
When he didn’t find what he was looking for, he did the same on the other side.
Fuck yeah.
He pulled the cut out only far enough to confirm it belonged to the Souls, then shoved it back into the saddlebag.
He refrained from kicking the Harley over, despite the anger that was building inside him. Grinding his teeth, he went back into the club, and as soon as Rooster spotted him, Rage gave him a slight chin lift for confirmation.
Rooster’s lips flattened out.
Yeah, his club brother’s suspicions had been right. It seemed like the Souls were doing recon in Angels territory.
They only had one reason to do so.
It wasn’t a good one.
His gaze slid through the crowded club until he spotted Luscious flirting with a customer. Rage took long, determined strides over there, grabbed her arm, and pulled her aside. “Need a favor.”
Luscious’s smile turned from fake to predatory and she raked her long, fake-ass nails down his arm. “Anything for you, boss. Do you want to go in the back or upstairs?”
For fuck’s sake. “Ain’t what I meant.” He ignored her toothy smile turning into a dramatic pout. “See the guy with the long hair and ratty braid on the other side of the stage suckin’ down a beer?” He warned, “Don’t be obvious.”
Keeping her head still, Luscious only moved her eyes to check out the Soul. “I see him.”
“Go over and let him see you up close and personal. Want you to convince the motherfucker to take you into the back. Offer him a private lap dance on the house.”