Page 62 of Truck Me
They’re in the bar area, sitting at a table close to the dance floor, but still in perfect view of the poker table in the separate game room where I happen to be sitting.
With my bad luck, I’m sitting in the chair facing the main room. As a result, my focus is shit. I keep watching her instead of the other players. Half the battle in poker is being able to read my opponents. If I can’t focus, I might as well call it a night.
Apparently, I like pain and suffering because I’m not moving. I’m losing money and I don’t give a fuck because I get to see her.
Edge deals the next hand, dragging my attention to the cards in front of me. He’s the president of the local motorcycle club that owns this bar. He’s a decent guy. Much nicer than what I’d expect from the president of a club called the Unholy Ghosts. According to the ladies, he’s also the best-looking club member too. Even for a man in his early fifties. I guess silver foxes really are a thing.
Edge isn’t his real name. That’s something that very few people know. It’s one of those need-to-know things that no one outside the core members of the club knows.
As motorcycle clubs go, they’re pretty mild. They used to deal with drugs and guns before Edge took over about ten years ago. He cleaned house and took the club legit. At least as far as we know.
I pick up my cards and inwardly smile. It’s the best hand I’ve been dealt all night—three aces, a five and a two. I keep the aces and toss the other two cards down, requesting two more cards from the dealer.
Before he deals the new cards, laughter from the main room causes my chest to tighten. Because I’d recognize that laugh anywhere.
Charlotte Weber has unknowingly dug her claws into me, and I can’t shake her hold, no matter how hard I try.
I stare at her from across the room. Her smile is bright, and she looks happier than I’ve seen her since she returned home. She smiles often, but there’s something in her expression tonight that suggests she’s more relaxed than she’s been in a long time.
I know she’s running from something that happened to her in Chicago. I’ve heard the mumblings from the rumor mill, but I’ve purposefully ignored the talk. She’ll tell me if she wants me to know.
Edge nudges my arm from his seat next to me. “You playing or staring at the pretty girls?”
I jerk my head in his direction and narrow my gaze. “What?”
He chuckles, and it comes out rough and dark. “The girls.” He points to where Charlotte is sitting. “You watching them or this game?”
“The game.” I grumble.
“Then how about you look at your cards and place a bet?”
I look down at the two new cards he dealt that I haven’t picked up yet. I quickly swipe them up and hold them with my three aces.
Despite my efforts to maintain a neutral expression, I feel my eyes widen when I see the new cards—two jacks. I’ve got a tough hand to beat.
Without a word, I toss some chips onto the table.
“Someone thinks he has a good hand,” Tanner says from his seat across from me. He’s got a huge smile on his face. His brother Linden mumbles something under his breath, but I don’t make it out.
I don’t respond to him, and I do my damnedest to not react. Instead, I stare at him with as little emotion as I can muster.
I know my bet makes it clear I’ve got a good hand. That was my intention. Let’s see if he’s a big enough dumbass to meet my call.
Tanner breaks our staring contest first and looks over his shoulder. When he looks back at me, his smile is gone. “I can’t imagine which pretty girls you’d be looking at. ’Cause it better not be my sister or her friends.”
I scoff and hide behind my glass of whiskey. I swallow it down, sucking one of the ice cubes into my mouth with it. Then I wave down the waitress for a new glass.
“It better not be Char either.” Tanner continues, his voice low and serious. “As my former girlfriend, she’s off-limits too.”
“Didn’t you two break up senior year?” Billy asks. He’s several years older than us, and a local accountant that sometimes plays with us. Since he’s older than any of the Mutters or Kochs, he’s always remained neutral in our rivalry. “That was over ten years ago, right? Not sure you can claim ownership of her anymore.”
“The hell I can’t. She’s my ex-girlfriend, not his, making ownership clearly mine.”
“Who are you claiming ownership of?” Charlotte asks. Her voice sounds sweet, but her stance says something very different. She’s standing behind Tanner with her arms crossed over her chest and her brows raised in question.
My gaze rakes down her body without my permission. She’s wearing tight as fuck jeans and a sweater that looks more like a fashion statement than for comfort or warmth. It’s black with a big bow in the front and hangs off one shoulder. With no bra strap in sight, she’s either braless, or she’s wearing a strapless bra. Both options make my dick hard.
Her fancy high-heeled shoes look painful and also lack the ability to keep her warm. They barely cover her feet, and from what I can tell, she’s not wearing socks. Does she not get that it’s below zero outside?