Piston by Andi Rhodes

Chapter Six

_{I watch and I wait.}

Piston

Irun my fingers through the condensation on my beer bottle as I watch the party around me. Music is blaring from the sound system, Bangin’ Betties are on the prowl, and the air is filled with cigarette smoke and skunk smell. It’s the perfect Friday night.

That’s what I keep telling myself anyway.

I should be enjoying the festivities, letting a Bangin’ Betty take me to paradise for a few minutes, but instead, I’m sitting on the sidelines and feeling my frustration rise further and further toward the surface. Between club business, both legit and otherwise, and a pint-sized reporter with a giant-sized attitude, I doubt there’s anything or anyone in this room that can make this a perfect night. Never mind the front-page story of today’s Portland newspaper.

“Are you going to sit here and sulk all fucking night?”

I lift my head and see Fender standing in front of me with his arms crossed over his chest. I take a long pull from my beer, ignoring his question, and then he sits next to me on the couch.

“I take it things didn’t go well with the potential new runner today.”

I let out an involuntary chuckle. “If by ‘didn’t go well’ you mean he was a rich college punk looking for a new dealer to feed his own habit, then no, it didn’t go well.”

“Figures.” Fender stares out into the crowd. “I heard from Grizzly today.”

My muscles tense up and I look at him out of the corner of my eye. “And?”

“And he’s not as angry as I thought he’d be about the article.”

I finally turn and face Fender. “So he’s not declaring war against us?”

Fender’s normal confidence slips. Most wouldn’t notice it, but I know him better than anyone.

“The article didn’t mention any club names or any illegal activity. Instead it focused on Riley and her boxing career. He’s giving us another chance. Apparently, he’s been fielding calls all day with amateur boxers who want in on the action. Right now, he sees this as a money-making opportunity.” Fender shrugs. “We both know that won’t last, that the clubs won’t be left out of it for long, but for tonight, we’re safe.”

I gulp down the last of my beer and toss the empty bottle toward the trash can that stands against the wall. The glass clanks against the others when it lands.

“I’ll pay the reporter a visit tomorrow.” I stand and thrust my hands into my pockets while looking down at Fender. “I’ll take care of it once and for all.”

I turn to walk away, and his voice stops me in my tracks. “I can have Joker take care of it if you can’t.”

I glare at him over my shoulder. “Are you questioning my ability to do my job?” I growl, angrier at myself for putting him in a position to doubt me than I am at him.

He shakes his head. “Not at all, P.” Fender shrugs. “But this chick is fucking with you. Maybe you need to figure out why.”

With that, he stands and walks away, toward the bar where Charlie is sitting with Riley and Widow. His words bounce around my skull, threatening to split it open.

She’s fucking with me because she’s not backing down.

Holland Tibideaux clearly isn’t like the women I’m used to. Fuck, she’s not like most people. My threats haven’t scared her off, she’s not trying to ride my cock. She’s… different. And that intrigues me more than it should.

Arms come around my waist from behind. “You up for some company?”

I know that voice. It’s attached to the smoking body of Merry-go-round. She’s a Bangin’ Betty who earned her nickname because of the sheer number of Soulless Kings she’s fucked. She’s made the rounds several times and I’m not ashamed to admit that I’ve enjoyed that particular ride on more than one occasion.

But I’m not in the mood. I wrap my fingers around her wrists and pull them away from me. I turn to face her and force a smile. She may be a Bangin’ Betty and worthless to some, but to a Soulless King, she’s to be respected as much as she is fucked.

“Not tonight,” I say.

She steps forward and runs her fingers up under my T-shirt, scraping her nails along my flesh. “I’ll do that thing you like,” she purrs. “The one with my tongue.”

My muscles twitch and I give in to the urge to let my eyes wander. She’s wearing nothing but a lace thong and spike heels. Her tits are on display and while I normally would be all about everything she has to offer, her words and looks have no effect on me.

“Not tonight,” I repeat with a little heat in my tone.

“Are you—”

“I’m not going to tell you again, Meredith,” I snap, using her real name so she knows I’m serious. “Not tonight.”

Her shoulders slump and she huffs out a breath. “Whatever.”

She turns and saunters away. I don’t even bother to watch her go. Instead, I head to the end of the bar where there are several empty stools. I’m not in the mood to talk to anyone else and hopefully, they’ll all stay away.

Margo appears on the opposite side of the bar and slides a beer across the wood. I lift it to my lips and down the entire thing in one long chug.

“Thanks,” I say when I slam the bottle down. “I’ll take another. And a shot of whiskey.”

“You got it.”

After Margo sets me up with my drinks, she shifts away to take care of the others and I’m grateful. Margo isn’t the type to butt out of anyone’s business, but she is right now and that’s a good thing. For both of us.

After a few minutes, I turn on the stool to watch the party and zone out thinking about my promise to Fender to take care of Holland tomorrow.

I have no idea how much time passes… twenty minutes, maybe an hour? Regardless of how long it’s been, the next thing that catches my attention is Trainwreck racing toward the door. I look to see why he’s running, and I have to do a double take.

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!

Just inside the clubhouse entrance are two women. One I don’t recognize at all. She’s pretty but not my type. The second however… I recognize her all too well. And I was right.

Holland Tibideaux has a set of brass balls.

I hop off the stool and take a few steps before stopping myself. I watch as she laughs at something Trainwreck says. My anger simmers as I see her gaze dart around the room, no doubt looking for some sort of angle to use in another story.

I step backward toward the stool I just vacated and sit back down. And I watch. Every single move she makes, I soak it up. I memorize the way her chest rises and falls with her every breath. I analyze her lips as she talks, her annoyingly perfect smile, the way she pushes her glasses up her nose every few minutes… everything about her.

I watch and I wait. Because there will be one perfect moment where I can catch her off guard and ensure she backs the fuck off.