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“Fuck that. He’s a prospect,” Ant replied, shuffling the cards with all the grace of a butcher. “He’s not meant to be appreciated. He’s meant to be used.”

“Well, why haven’t weusedhim and got a decent spread for tonight?”

“You’re spoilt,” Tools said. “I remember the days of frozen pizza, and some scraps left over from the bar.”

“Yeah, well, I remember charcuterie boards. This is a disgrace,” Chris repeated, looking utterly horrified. “I still say we show some appreciation for Pivot and get him to make us some decent scran.”

“Bit rich coming from you,” Riley drawled from where he was sitting back in his chair with his beer balanced on his stomach. “I’ve seen you make that poor bastard steam your jeans.”

“That was one time.”

“It was three times,” Trent corrected flatly.

“Four,” Greg said helpfully.

Ant turned his glare on him instantly. “Did anyone ask you, Malfoy?”

Greg lifted both hands in surrender and slouched lower in his chair. Across from him, Rooster snorted into his pint, and Chicken let out a wheeze of laughter that made him sound like he’d been smoking twenty a day since birth.

The poker table looked like a fucking crime scene.

Usually, when Shark was around, he’d lay out what he referred to in all seriousness as “the spread,” which was just hisweird way of saying he arranged cheese, crackers, cured meat, fruit, dips, and enough pretentious little snacks to make the whole room look like they were attending a middle-class divorce party rather than getting pissed in a biker clubhouse.

Tonight, in his absence, the spread consisted of, one open packet of pickled onion Monster Munch—arguably the worst flavour. Two crushed packets of salt and vinegar crisps, a half melted Toblerone that Tools had pulled out of his back pocket, and a pork pie that he said “would be as good as new once it aired out,” which meant he had sat on it.

“Who was actually meant to sort food?” Dante asked from the head of the table, pinching the bridge of his nose like he regretted every decision that had led him to this exact point in his life. “We know we can’t order pizza. Macbeth might be gone, but they still won’t deliver here.”

“Oh, I suppose that has nothing to do with you kicking ten bells of shit out of the delivery guy for arguing with Rachel?” I said.

“It shouldn’t. Any man would defend his woman, and that’s all I was doing. It’s nothing to hold a grudge over.”

“Tell it to the hungry men, Dante. Tell it to the hungry men,” I laughed.

“Thought Chris was doing food,” Liam said.

Chris looked up sharply. “Why the fuck would I be doing it?”

“You’re Treasurer,” Sunshine said, like that explained everything. “Thought it came under budgeting.”

“That’s not what a Treasurer does, you thick cunt.”

“Well, whatdoyou do?”

“I stop you lot bankrupting the club on absolute shite.”

“Then technically,” Riley said, completely deadpan, “food would fall under your department.”

Chris stared at him for a long moment. “I hope your next shag fakes it.”

“Bold of you to assume they don’t all fake it,” I piped up.

“That’s enough,” Dante snapped, though there was no real bite in it yet. “Can we just get through one poker night without it turning into an argument?”

“No,” Trent said simply.

“Why hasn’t Divorce done the food?” Rooster asked, pointing an accusatory finger in his direction.

“The fuck would I do the food for? I’ve spent the better half of my life on prison gruel.”