The door to the men’s bathroom opens, and it registers that guy was the only one in there. Where the fuck is Halo?
The only other door is a fire exit. If that prick ghosted me, I’m going to kick his head in.
He definitely came back here. I glared at him the entire fucking time. Pushing out into the back parking lot, I scan my surroundings. Empty but for one car. Mason’s. But it’s not him inside, it’s his heavily pregnant wife, leaning over the backseat, getting fucked from behind by Halo for anyone and everyone to fucking see. Animal is going to lose his fucking calm when he finds out Halo is breaking one of the rules we live by. Nope, not my place to tell him. I may be the VP, but I’ve never seen him happier now that his woman has come home, and I’m not upsetting that shit.
Trudging back inside, I can’t help but seek out the brunette. If I don’t ask, it will play on my fucking mind. I pull a twenty from my pocket, and her eyes bug out as she bounces like a puppy waiting for a treat.
“Milo—what’s he to you, your dealer?” I know it’s not Willa’s Milo. We’ve heard nothing on him since his best friend confirmed he died the night we torched his bar. If he survived, he would have wriggled out of the woodwork by now, and he certainly wouldn’t be lurking around Little Rock. Yet, here I fucking am asking the question that should have remained buried. This is why I can’t fucking move on with another woman or build a new house. No matter how many years tick by, Willa is still alive in my fucking head.
“He’s my boyfriend.” She licks her lips, never taking her eyes off the money. That’s the right answer. If he were a dealer, and not one of ours, this conversation would end very differently.
“What’s his last name?”
Scratching her head, she shrugs. “I don’t know. Why do you want to know?”
“Just answer the fucking question.” I step closer. Intimidation is usually all I need to get answers.
A hand lands on my shoulder, and my head snaps to the side, fists ready. Out of breath, Halo beams at me. “Sorry I was so long, brother. I had curry last night.” Lying fuck.
“There he is,” the woman announces, pointing to some bald white guy who just walked in. She snatches the twenty from my hand and fucks off.
I shake my head in annoyance—at myself for being caught up in entertaining the possibility of some random being Milo just because they share the same name and for Halo fucking me around. “You ever keep me waiting so you can get your pecker wet again, we’re going to have a fucking problem,” I warn him before getting the fuck out of there.
Thirty-Two
Gabe
The club’s energy tonight is low. Everyone’s on a comedown from Koyn and his brothers visiting from out of town. We shed some blood, drank too much, and he left with a woman in tow. It was all too reminiscent of me saving Willa.
My mood is fucking dark and I feel uneasy. Jackie thumbs through a news article about this serial killer doing the rounds too fucking close to home, and it has everyone on edge. We haven’t found anything on this fucker. Animal has had us all on alert, and no one has seen a fucking thing. Copper, Koyn’s fed brother, is looking into it. He’s given us files on the way this fucker rapes and murders these women. We need to catch the scum and gut him slowly.
The redhead, Amy, behind the bar slides another beer in front of me and one to Crazy Joe a couple feet away. He’s part of the furniture these days. The beloved old chair that has some wear and tear, but is still comfortable and sentimental.
“I’m just going to stay here for the time being. It’s scary to live alone at the moment,” Amy tells Joe, who nods his agreement. My jaw tightens. She’s one of ours and is too scared to go home because of this bastard loose in our city.
“You can come home with me and warm my bed, darling,” Idiot pipes up, slapping Joe on the back and grinning like a fucking predator.
“As tempting as that is, I’ll pass. I’ve seen the company you keep.” She looks to me and pretends to put a finger down her throat, gagging. Idiot is a prospect who’s missing his trigger finger, thanks to me cutting it off. Fucking moron shot Jameson in the leg. He’s lucky to be breathing.
“Damn, that Gracie is looking at all kinds of delicious,” PB—aka Pretty Boy—says as he clinks his beer bottle to mine while pulling his ass onto the stool next to me. Amy’s eyes dart over to us, no doubt waiting to see if I allow PB to leave the seat in one piece. My road name isn’t fucking Simmer, it’s Rage, and he knows full well we aren’t friends. He’s a prospect and Idiot’s sidekick. I don’t have time for either of them. They have some growing up to do before I’ll tolerate their company. “You think I have a shot with her?” This motherfucker is young, dumb and dead if he thinks he’s going to sit here trying to rile me up about getting into Gracie’s panties. I fucking bought the ones she flashes every time she leans an inch in any direction. Bitch is trying to make me jealous, punish me for not making her my ol’ lady. I don’t need to give her a title. This little prick knows Gracie is my bitch—hell, every bastard in here knows. I just haven’t claimed her because I can’t—won’t. She deserves more than the half-assed attention I give her, but she keeps coming back for more hoping one day I won’t be this distant, rage-filled, emotion-inept asshole. I won’t change, and deep down, she has to believe that. Willa’s image flashes through my mind—her smile, the way she would bite her lip, that giggle. Damn.