Page 3 of Property of Rattler

I hadn’t had much say when I’d been nominated as the on-call King for tonight. Personally, I think Freak was getting his own back for some of the comments I’d made about him needing his brains tested as he’d taken a whore as his wife, or maybe he just has a general downer on me. Anyway, when he pointed his finger in my direction, neither Stalker nor Paint had objected. And why the fuck should they? They were the ones who were getting drunk, partying it up, knowing they could have a good time without interruptions. But not me.

I’m a King. I swore an oath to this club and did my time prospecting to prove my worth. I might be an asshole, but you wouldn’t catch me letting my brothers down. While knowing I was the point of call tonight, I’ve abstained from drinking too much, pacing myself just in case I was needed, which I hoped wasn’t going to happen. When it did, I was glad I was justpleasantly buzzed and only a little high from all the weed I’d consumed.

Annoyed to leave the party behind, I stomp my way through the clubhouse, accidentally-on-purpose shouldering Paint as I pass him. I’d much rather be able to stay. By the time I return, I’m sure Star will be taken. I’d already seen her making eyes at Hardcore, one of the brothers who’d accompanied our national prez, Big Daddy, from California.

Throwing the remains of my joint away, I make my way toward my bike, paddle-walk it out of line, then start the engine and kick down into first. Letting out the clutch and twisting the throttle, I head away from the clubhouse. The auto-opener affixed to my Breakout has the gates sliding along their rails automatically, closing behind me as I exit through them and ride out onto the road. I reach the main highway into town. It’s that weird time on a Saturday evening when the roads have calmed down for a moment. Most people have already gotten to where they’re going, and no one has yet headed home. No, all those fuckers are out enjoying themselves. Me? I have to fucking work.

The freedom of the road, the pavement beneath my wheels, and the wind in my face have none of the normal effect of calming me. My journey’s too short for that. Which means I’m still feeling resentful twenty minutes later, as I park, at the back of Royals, in the club’s reserved motorcycle parking close to the back door. Using my key, I walk inside, pausing before heading into the main area, letting my head acclimate to the cacophony of loud thumping music, loud voices, and raucous laughter.Why did Freak have to get married on a Saturday?It’s Royals’ busiest night, and one when all the troublemakers seem to come out.

Taking a breath of air already tinged with the odours of beer, lingering disinfectant left over from the daytime cleaners, perfume, and cheap aftershave, I finally enter through the doorsand step onto the main floor. Casting an eye toward the stage, I see one of our headliners, Salome, strutting her stuff to a packed pervert row. I notice James, one of our security, keeping a close eye on the assholes sitting ringside. Casually looking around, I take in the bachelor and bachelorette parties that are in tonight, but who so far seem to be behaving themselves. I raise my chin toward Gary, another man who we employ to keep an eye on things. He shoots me a quick nod in return before resuming his perusal of the room.

All seems to be good out here at least. Finding nothing to delay me, I finally approach the bar and wait for Joe to finish fulfilling drink orders. When the server has them on her tray, I approach him.

“Where is she?” I growl. I knew Freak shouldn’t have employed Amethyst, or Ames, as she goes by. Her sister, Satin, well, she’s alright. Pretty damn decent on the pole and brings in the customers. Ames, she’s a fucking disaster. Drops more drinks than serves them. If I had my way, she’d have been out on her ass the first day she started working at Royals. Freak, though, who seems to have had his balls surgically removed by hooking up with his now wife, had decided to keep her on. Probably as her sister’s a real crowd puller, and if we got shot of Ames, we’d lose Satin as well.

Joe, in answer to my question, tilts his head toward the door I’d just entered through. “She’s locked herself in the storage closet, won’t come out.”

“And that’s my fuckin’ problem, why?” I growl.

He leans forward. “Because she’s been in there for,” he consults his watch, “two fuckin’ hours.” Raising and lowering his shoulders, he adds, “She won’t talk to anyone. Not totally sure she’s still alive.”

“You think she’s offed herself in the closet?” My brows rise. “Why the fuck didn’t you break the door down?”

“It’s a closet,” he snarls. “Not much room in there. If I’d broken in, the door would hit her.”

Pushing my fingers through my hair—not feeling the short strands I’d been used to, but the softer length I’ve slowly been growing out, hating this messy stage, it’s not one thing nor another—I refrain from pointing out the obvious. If she’s dead, hitting her wouldn’t matter. Fuck, I wish I was back at Freak’s party and not here, wondering what I’m supposed to do. Flummoxed, I ask, “What made her lock herself in there? She spill more drinks?”

Joe shakes his head. “She’s actually getting better, starting to know how to avoid roving hands. I think one of the customers spooked her.”

“By touching her ass?”

Again, our chief bartender shakes his head. “Nah, he didn’t get close enough.” As someone tries to get his attention, he holds one finger up, then, to me, says hurriedly, “I happened to be watching her. Saw her freeze. Man, her fuckin’ face went white. Then she hightailed it out the door into the hallway. I sent Gary after her. When he came back, he told me she’d locked herself in.” He moves to attend to the server who’s waiting.

“Wait,” I demand, turning for a second to glance around the club. “Which customer?”

Briefly, he turns back. “Fuck if I know. A crowd all came in at once. Could have been any of them.” Then he gets on with his job.

I frown. Another thing I know Freak had been lax about was getting Satin and Ames’s information from them. From what I recall, they came to the club having run from Satin’s ex. Had they come up with their documents, or were they still an unknown? However much Freak’s mind might have been elsewhere, I know he’d have wanted intel about the ex. Wouldn’tbe the first time an abusive asshole had turned up wanting his punching bag back.

I move up the bar to where Joe is pouring shots. Reaching my hand across the bar, I fasten my fingers around his arm. “Is Satin here?” Surely, she’d be the one to talk Ames down from whatever hissy fit she was having.

“Nah, she went home early.”

“Before or after Ames did her disappearing act?” If I recall the story correctly, the abusive ex was definitely Satin’s, not hers.

His brow creases. “Before, early. She had cramps and couldn’t dance.” He frees himself from my hold and pointedly gets back to his task.

I think it’s likely that it was Satin’s ex who had spooked Ames. She’d probably clocked him as soon as he walked in and had hidden so as not to reveal her sister's whereabouts. But I can do fuck all unless I know who I’m looking for. Heaving a heavy sigh, I set off to do what, apparently, no man has done before. Only this time I’m not travelling to outer galaxies—nothing that exciting. My task? Extract Ames from the claustrophobic sanctuary she’s chosen.

Shaking my head, I swipe one of the shots Joe’s just prepared, down it in one and slam the empty glass back on the bar. My glare warns him not to say anything. Then I stride down the hallway opposite the one where I’d entered. When I reach the closet door, I thump on it hard.

“Open up.”

I wait a beat, but there’s no response.

I bang on the door again. “Open the fuckin’ door, Ames.” When I still get no answer, I plant my fist harder against the wood. “It’s Rattler. You open up now, or you lose your fuckin’ job.”

There’s a pause where I start to doubt whether she’ll reply or even whether she’s conscious, then, finally, I hear a feeble-sounding voice. “I can’t.”