Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 107557 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107557 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
“I can’t get out there right now. I have to be on stage in a few minutes.”
“Shit,” he muttered. “All right. I’ll head over to the club now. I’ll check in with you when I get there.”
“See you soon, Tony.” She blew him a kiss through the phone.
Of course that kiss landed right in his dick.
Chapter Seventeen
Since he and Nox had been working on the club here and there fixing Sapphire’s long list of much-needed repairs in exchange for baggies of meth, Saint was generous—eye roll—enough to waive the cover charge. However, he still had to leave his gun in the car or at home since he wasn’t allowed to skirt the metal detector.
He guessed Saint was afraid of eating lead. It would come as no surprise if that fucker made a lot of enemies throughout his life.
He jerked his chin up at Ringo as he stepped through it, grabbed his wallet and keys on the other side and headed through the double doors into the club.
Of course, the too-loud, bass-heavy music immediately assaulted his ears. He quickly scanned the stage and the floor for Sapphire but didn’t see her. However, he did see the asshole T-Bone standing behind the red velvet rope with his legs spread and his arms crossed over his chest while wearing a sour puss.
Someone wasn’t happy to be back working for peanuts.
On his drive over to the club, Rez ran through some scenarios on why T-Bone would want to work at The Peach Pit again. His best guess was to have access to the stash of meth kept in a vehicle parked behind the club.
Of course, it was another old junker than the one originally parked in the employee lot since Mel had burned that one to the ground.
Rez grinned at the memory of that badass move.
His musings about T-Bone led to coming up with a new plan for serving up a slice of karma to the prospect. But first, he’d have to discuss his thoughts with Decker and Finn and make sure they were on board.
They had originally planned on setting the fucker up with the Russos, but maybe they could drop a dime on the prospect by making Wolf or Saint suspect that T-Bone was skimming meth from their supply instead.
The Demons might deal with a thief much quicker than La Cosa Nostra.
And it wasn’t out of the realm of possibilities that T-Bone was skimming. It wasn’t like he was some upstanding citizen.
Whether true or not, the MC wasn’t going to tolerate him stealing their major moneymaker. The same way T-Bone wasn’t happy when Decker “stole” T-Bone’s personal moneymaker, Sadie, from him.
In the end, karma was a fucking bitch that had very sharp teeth.
Rez stopped by the bar, grabbed a Jack and Coke from Mutt—one drink he couldn’t fuck up since the prospect’s only real skill was twisting caps off beer bottles—then took his glass over to one of the booths along the far wall that was away from the bright lights of the stage and where he could observe without being too obvious.
He weaved his way around all the empty tables. Every time he showed up at the club, he swore there were fewer and fewer patrons.
That wasn’t good for Sapphire or any of the women dancing. By running the club into the ground, Saint was knee-capping the women financially.
He slid into the booth, took a long sip of the drink made up of mostly fucking ice and pulled out his cell phone.
So, yeah, the no-phones policy was now out the fucking window. That meant any schlub in the club could secretly record or snap photos of the dancers and upload them online. Or profit off them. Or watch it for personal use late at night when they were alone.
Sapphire really needed to get the fuck out of there. Like yesterday. And he’d strongly suggest that Cherish and Porsche do the same.
He planned on having that discussion with Sapphire. Again.
He slipped his phone from the inner pocket of his leather jacket and held it under the table, just in case Ringo made a mistake by allowing him to keep it.
He texted Crew. You know who’s watching the cameras at The Pit tonight?
He almost finished his watered-down Jack and Coke by the time the task force leader replied.
Why?
Of course the man couldn’t just answer the fucking question. I’m here and so’s T-Bone. I want whoever’s on duty to keep a close eye on him. If I can catch the details of the sedan he’s driving, along with the registration, it may help us hunt him down later.
Most likely the same sedan Sloane escaped from when that fucker took her, was Crew’s reply.
Probably, since Mullins said it was a brown sedan.
Then it sounds like the same sedan I saw on the hospital footage when he picked up Sadie. I think Reynolds is watching the feeds tonight.