2. Tempe

2

Tempe

Booze. Drugs. Women.

Every time I say I’m going to get my life together, I find myself in places like this and am reminded what an uphill battle that is.

The Twisted Kings clubhouse reminds me of the bar I work at. Replace drunk frat boys with rowdy bikers, and I might as well be standing inside Dirty Drakes. Except, the Twisted Kings have more of a reputation, so I’m not dumb enough to think they’re one and the same.

Motorcycle clubs aren’t fun and sexy like they are in books and movies, and the Twisted Kings are the worst of them. They’re known throughout Vegas for their ruthlessness. They’re unapologetic. Violent. Taking what they want while they battle it out with rival clubs and casino heirs .

Tourists don’t see the war zone through their drunken haze, but I live here. I’ve seen what these men do—what they’re capable of.

Up close.

After all, I’m the product of one of them.

Walking through the clubhouse, I’m reminded of everything I hate about bikers. Their arrogance and egos.

Tonight, there’s a party raging, and from what I’ve overheard, they’re celebrating a win against a rival club. The guys are getting wasted and taking shots off strippers while a group of girls that might be a bachelorette party huddles in the corner watching the scene unfold.

At least with this much chaos, it’s easy to blend in.

I don’t want attention.

Get in and get out.

If I’m lucky, it’ll be that simple. Although, I know better than to think anything is.

Slipping through the crowd, I make my way toward the bar. The clubhouse is massive, so it hasn’t been as easy to find the bathroom as I expected. The building is the size of a warehouse, sitting in the middle of a wide-open compound, and I was lost on my first step inside.

When I reach the bar, I lean against it, waving for the blonde serving someone a drink at the other end. She glances at me long enough that I know she’s seen me, but she doesn’t seem in a rush to help, so I lean back and look around the room while I wait.

The air is thick and hazy. Every inhale floods my lungs with cigarette smoke and the scent of leather. It rattles around memories of my mom’s many boyfriends. Bad boys with pretty faces and broken hearts in the treads of their tires.

Two men are standing at the bar beside me, and from their cuts, they’re clearly ranking members of the club. I don’t miss their eyes scanning over me, but thankfully, they don’t say anything.

My skin itches just being in this place. Nothing but problems follow the Twisted Kings.

Scoping the room, I take it all in, trying to bury my nerves and forget why I’m here in the first place. If I think too much about it, I won’t be able to get this done. And that’s not an option.

Glancing down the bar, I catch gazes with a man at the opposite end. He’s a biker, as evidenced by his leather cut, but there’s something different about him. He’s not partying like the rest, choosing instead to sit with a drink in hand while watching everyone.

He’s confident, not breaking my gaze when I’ve spent too long staring.

His dark hair is messy on his head, and everything about him screams danger. From the wicked gleam in his eyes to the rough stubble on his face. He’s a walking warning sign.

Too good-looking.

Too much blood on his hands.

The man dwarfs the stool he’s sitting on, so it’s clear he’s tall. But even with his broad shoulders, his lean waist makes it clear he’s solid muscle.

He doesn’t take his eyes off me as he brings his drink to his lips for a sip. The tattoo that stretches his arm winds up over the back of his hand, and I can’t help wondering how far his ink goes.

I don’t have to know anything about him for his demeanor to tell me everything.

This man is lethal.

And if I’m smart, not worth my time.

“Don’t bother, honey.” A woman with bright-blonde hair plants her hands on the other side of the bar, pulling my attention.

I glance over, and her cat eyes narrow. She’s smiling, but there’s nothing friendly about it.

“Don’t bother with what?”

“Him.” She tilts her head to the left, not taking her gaze off me. “He’s taken.”

“Don’t worry.” I breathe out a laugh. “Not interested.”

I get the appeal of a man like him—like most of the guys in this room. They’re attractive, strong, probably well-versed in the bedroom. But I’m not my parents. I have goals. Dreams. And the second I get out of this mess, I’ll never be back here again.

“Whatever you say.” The blonde hums, skimming me over. “Can I get you something?”

“The bathroom?” I force a smile, pretending I’m not noticing her territorial irritation.

“Around the corner.” She ticks her head to the side. “First door on the right.”

“Thanks.”

I disappear into the crowd and head toward the hallway behind the bar, pretending to look for the bathroom .

Pulling out my phone, I check the time, and my hands are shaking. I’ve been gone for a little over an hour, which means I only have one more before things go sideways. All I can do now is hope they keep their word if I get them what they’re looking for.

I lock my phone screen and spot a speck of blood on my hand. My fingers shake as I wipe it away, and my eyes burn from the tears I’ve been holding back.

Don’t think about it.

You can do this.

For him, you’ll keep it together.

I pass the bathroom and continue down the dim hallway, trying to remember the directions the men gave me. My head is in a fog, and even completely sober, I can barely see straight.

Around the bar.

Past the bathrooms.

Last door on the left.

Was it the left, or was it the right?

I’m pretty sure they said left, so I pause with my hand on the handle.

So long as no one is in here, I’ll be fine. The party is enough of a distraction to prevent anyone from noticing. All I have to do is find one little thing. Something they don’t even know is there. No one will miss it.

The floor creaks behind me, and I glance over my shoulder, breathing out a sigh of relief to find the hallway still empty.

Get in and get out.

I need to stop wasting time .

Pushing the door open, I’m met with a dark room, and I’m relieved to find it empty.

The curtains are wide open, letting in the moonlight, so there’s enough to see around without having to flip on the light switch and risk drawing more attention to myself. Slipping inside, I shut the door behind me.

It’s neater than I expected. Besides the unmade bed and a small pile of clothes on the floor, everything seems in its place.

Hanging on the wall behind the bed is a large iron work of art with the Twisted Kings logo branded into it. The dark eyes of the skull watch me as I step deeper into the room.

There’s a pack of cigarettes on the dresser and some change sitting beside it. Everything seems too fresh and recently touched. Nothing about this room feels like my father could have once lived here, but there’s only one way to find out.

I hurry over to the door that leads to the bathroom and crouch down, feeling for any give in the panel beside the doorframe. They said that all I have to do is push it once to release the latch, and then it will open to reveal my dad’s secret hiding place.

I push once. Twice. Nothing moves.

Shit.

I must be in the wrong room.

My hair shifts with a faint breeze, and my skin prickles as the door to the room swings open.

“What do we have here?”

I jump, spinning around as a man closes in on me .

He’s too fast, and it’s too dark to get a good look at him as my instincts kick into gear. Between six months of self-defense classes and a year working behind a bar, I know how to handle myself. And the same reflexes that help me fend off drunks and perverts serve me well now.

The man reaches for me, and I duck, barely slipping away. I kick him in the shin and then crouch down to avoid his other hand.

“Fuck,” he grunts, coming for me again.

I manage to land one more jab to his side before he catches my wrist, stopping the punch I was about to land on his jaw.

In one swift move, he twists my arm, spinning me around so I’m pinned with my chest to the wall and my arm behind my back.

Using the heel of my boot, I try to kick him in the shins again, but it only makes him twist my arm so hard that my shoulder aches. His body presses flush with mine, and I feel every heavy breath from our struggle.

“Let me go.”

I try to kick him again, but he widens his stance so I can’t.

A chuckle comes from my left, and I turn to see a man standing to the side, watching us. His dark hair falls over his eyes, which are focused on his phone, and his tattoos peek from his hands to his neck.

“Feisty one, Prez.” The man smirks.

Prez .

Of all the men in the club I could have run into tonight, I caught the attention of Steel, my father’s former president.

I stop struggling because there’s no use. If there’s two of them in sight, there’s probably more on the way.

“You done?” Steel asks, loosening his grip on my arm.

I nod, and he takes a step back, releasing me.

My shoulder aches as I spin around, but he hasn’t backed up, so I’m still cornered against the wall.

Craning my neck back, I look up at him.

Steel.

It’s a fitting name for a man as cold as his arctic gaze. Stubborn and unmoving as he stands in front of me.

A man whose reputation precedes him.

I wasn’t close with my father and didn’t spend time at the clubhouse, so I’ve never met Steel face-to-face. But one look in his eyes and I’m sure he’s everything I’ve heard about him and more. Violent, dangerous, unyielding.

And now that I’m getting a closer look, I see he’s the man who was sitting across the bar staring at me.

Except now, there’s nothing friendly in his lethal gaze. Any confident flirtation he might have flashed earlier is stripped away. He’s strictly business, staring me down, smelling like leather and cinnamon. A blend of scents that I shouldn’t like as much as I do.

This close, I get a better look at his square jaw and chiseled features. I get a hit of his body heat closing in around me.

I’m screwed .

“What do you think you’re doing in here?” Steel crosses his arms over his chest, not backing up.

I stand up straighter and lift my chin. If he thinks he can scare me, he has another thing coming.

“Looking for the bathroom.”

His eyes narrow as he looks me up and down with complete disinterest. I’m not surprised when I’m not much to look at compared to the impressive horde of beautiful women he just left at the bar.

“The bathroom?” He hitches an eyebrow.

“Yes.”

Steel plants one hand on the wall behind my head, and his gaze moves to my mouth when I wet my lips.

“Nice try, wildfire. But you see this patch?” He plants his hand over the word “president” stitched on his chest.

I nod, swallowing hard, trying not to breathe in his intoxicating cinnamon scent.

“They call me that for a reason.” He reaches up to lift my chin, forcing my gaze on his ocean-gray eyes—the color of the sea at dusk. “Now tell me, what is it you’re doing in my club?”