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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
*Coty “Coyote” - Vice President*
Iknow what Lace does for a living. I know what to expect. But between rallies her occupation becomes an out of sight, out of mind sort of deal. Just her job. Not her. She never leaves my damn mind.
While on the road, I mentally pep talk myself during the several hour trip. But what good does it do when I see red regardless? I still lose my shit almost every time I enter this place after being away for a season.
Over the years, either my luck has changed or she has gotten smarter; my guess is the latter. Unlike the first few rallies after I met her, now, more often than not, she is either talking to Jess or “freshening up” in the back when we arrive at the saloon. Not mostly naked and being groped by a customer.
But this season, she had no way of knowing exactly when we would get here.
My mind pulses with the realness of her reality as I stand rooted to the spot, my tunnel vision honing directly on the chair that old man was sitting in a minute ago — touching what is mine.
Brutal images flash through my thoughts — a delusion of a video feed showing me fucking Lace fast and hard projecting onto a wall in front of the old man while I tear off his fingernails one by one so the tops are as “soft” as Lace claimed the pads were.
Out of sight, out of mind.I try to mentally talk myself down as my hands begin to loosen. Slowly, one deep inhale and exhale at a time, the rest of the saloon comes back to life as a fade-in of sounds and colors.
I stride out of the private dance area and back onto the main floor. The unique scent-blend of dirty vanilla, damp dollar bills, and the prelude of regret swirls around the room through the murkiness of hovering smoke. At some point during my breakdown, our President and Enforcer arrived because now, with Kio in the mix, every single Hell for Leather member is involved with a different dancer. Except for Zane and Kal, who must already be bumping knuckles with his pop. Seeing Zane standing by the door, his eyes still manic, serves as another shot to my heart and spurs my agitation.
A doorman was given strict instructions to make sure the Chaplain stayed put. The scowl on the man’s face and the fact that he is perched at the center of the door with his arms crossed tells me Zane must have already tried to bolt.
I scan the room for any of the dancers on our “approved list” for post-assignment damage control situations — in case I can get away with passing him off on someone other than my girl this time. I am so fucking over this initiation shit.
Unfortunately, since the day is still young, pickings are slim. The only advanced dancer is Jess, and she has already been claimed by Kio. That’s not surprising since she tends to prefer the quiet guys like him and Kal. My focus sharpens on her languid movements. Even if Kio didn’t have her locked-in right now, there’s no way she could handle Zane in his state — she looks more fucked up than he does.
Which leaves Lace. Of course. Cursing the damn Universe she is always thanking, I march over to the kid, throw my hands on his shoulders, and guide him to the main stage closest to where some new girl’s ass looks like a hovering hummingbird with how fast each cheek flutters.
Zane has zero damn interest. Zero. He just stares aimlessly toward the dancer, eyes unfocused.
Something soft and warm grazes over the stubble on my chin. Lace’s sweet voice follows, eliminating all other surrounding conversations and music from my awareness. “Thank you for the pants. I love them.”
For whatever damn reason, that gets Zane’s attention. I pat him on the cheek and turn his head toward the performing dancer. “Eyes on the stage, kid.”
Too late. Lace notices him, and her head tilts to the side. “New prospect?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I respond, looking down at her. “About tha—”
The words catch in my throat as I notice her blown pupils. So wrapped up in my fantasy about mutilating the man she was with, I failed to see the forest for the trees. “What the fuck are you on, Lace?”
She blinks rapidly and takes a retreating step.
Oh, fuck no. I wrap my hand around the back of her neck and drag her forward. “Answer me.”
“Ecstasy,” she responds.
“That man give it to you?” I ask.
Lace extends onto her tiptoes, bringing us to eye level. The heels she changed into are shorter than her usual, so her already-tall frame doesn’t loom over me. She places a shaky hand on my chest and brushes her lips against mine. “I missed you.” Her opposite hand slips along the side of my neck and under the hood of my sweatshirt, tense and desperate for touch as she slowly unzips my jacket. A strobe light flashes across her face, and her long, dark lashes cast a shadow over her flushed cheeks.
My breath hitches and heart catapults. I fucking ache for her. Always. Shifting from one foot to the other, I grip her fingers and remove them, livid that she is so damn needy right now and anyone could take advantage. “Answer the damn question. You didn’t miss me; that’s the drug talking.”
With a shot of clarity, she shakes her head and steps back. Her warm hands drop, making my skin cool again. “Part of the job, Coyote. Par for the course.”
“Don’t give me that shit,” I grind out. “You’ve been clean since the spring rally. My local source said you have. I find it really damn hard to believe you would pop something today, of all days, knowing I would be checking on you.”
Lace juts out her chin and levels me with those intoxicating, cognac-colored eyes.
That black tunnel returns and closes in on her face. Her fierce expression says enough. I called it. Stoney crossed a fucking line. I nudge Lace toward the Chaplain. “You have an initiate to… assist.” For the first time since we arrived, Zane is a godsend. If she is left alone with anyone else—
Refusing the vision of her fucking any damn person other than me, I growl and pull out my gun. A few yelps from nearby dancers and customers pierce my eardrums as I prowl off to crash the family reunion and pay the President of the Rolling Stones a surprise visit.
