“Things still going good at the Lion?” Ty asks, rubbing a hand over his face with a grimace.

“Yeah,” I answer, placing my hands behind my head. “Got given an invite to a party or some shit tomorrow. Details are sketchy on where it is, but from what I found out, Eddie’s supposed to be there.”

Hooch elbows me in the side. “On the up, eh, brother?”

I laugh, dropping my hands to my sides. “Yeah. Somethin’ like that.”

“How did you find that out?” Ty asks.

“Old biker named Horse,” I say. “Dude’s at the bar most nights, so naturally I struck up conversation with him. Guy’s a hard shot, but he seems genuine enough. I asked about where people were scoring, and he told me about this crack house an hour out of town.”

“Who does he ride with?” Hooch asks, crossing an ankle to his knee.

“Unit called the Devil’s Breed.”

“Based in Sioux City,” Hooch explains to Ty. “What’s he doin’ in Omaha?”

“Not patched in anywhere. Guy’s a nomad.”

“Fair enough.”

“You ready for the next stage?” Ty asks warily. “You up to talking to Eddie?”

I smile at my best friend, wondering why exactly it is he thinks I’m not. “Fuck yeah. I’m born to do this shit.”

Ty narrows his gaze.

“What?” I rise from my seat, grabbing a club slut around the waist as she passes by. “You said it yourself—I’m the best fit for this job. You changin’ your mind, man?” I run my nose up her neck, eliciting a groan from the slim brunette.

Ty slides his gaze over to Hooch and shakes his head. “I think it’s hit.”

Hooch laughs, throwing his head back. “Yeah, brother, I think it has.”

I look between the two of them, my face aching with the smile I’m sporting. I don’t even know why I’m grinning, let alone what the fuck is so funny. “Why you assholes laughin’? Thought I had this shit nailed,” I say, gesturing to the gear on the table.

“Yeah, brother,” Hooch says, still chuckling. “You’ve got it nailed all right.”

I flop back into my seat, bringing the slut with me. Her bony ass digs into the tops of my thighs, her oversize belt that masquerades as a skirt riding up to her naked crotch. Feeling at ease in my skin and fucking high on life itself, I watch a couple of prospects argue over something at the bar while I run my hand up over her bare pussy. She writhes about on my lap, turning her head to kiss me, but copping my jaw instead when I turn away. Not after you for that, love. King steps in to split the two prospects up, and it’s not until I catch myself eyeing every glint of light that reflects off his watch while he gestures wildly at the pair, that I realize Hooch and Ty were right—the coke is taking hold.

Nothing to it.

“You feelin’ good?” Hooch asks.

“She’s feelin’ good,” I say with a laugh, planting my hand firmly over the slut’s box to shunt her further up my lap.

Ty stands abruptly from his seat and marches across to the bar in a right fucking mood. If the guy has an issue with me doing dust and fucking sluts, he should have thought about that before he volunteered me for the role. Fuck him. This stint with Eddie’s crew is going to be a piece of cake—too damn easy for a guy like me.

I’ve got this.

“What do you think?” Hooch asks, slapping me on the leg to get my attention. “Think you can pull this stunt off?”

I grin at the guy, my fingers buried in the moaning slut’s cunt, and nod. “Of course I can, you tool. It is me you’re askin’.”

“Thought you might say that.”

He smiles at me and gets out of his seat to go join Ty at the bar. I kick my feet up next to the residue on the table and recline back, opening up the woman’s legs as I do.

Ty’s got nothing to worry about. He’s given the job to the best man.

I’ll show these fuckers how to take down a drug crew, single handed, and still have time to polish my boots.

DROP IT LIKE IT’S HOT

Bronx

Rubbing the underside of my nose, I step through the front gates of the house the party’s being held at. Moonlight casts eerie shadows across the cars parked on the lawn, semi-blocking the path. The shit Hooch hooked me up with is taking its hold—I feel on top of the fucking world. Mentally dialing it in, I step up to the front door and shell out my house fee to the ’roided-up asshole blocking the entranceway. He steps aside, eyeballing me as I pass by. Fuck him. What the fuck do I care? I’ve made it in to one of Eddie’s parties, and tonight I plan on showing those assholes back in Lincoln why it is they picked me to do the job.

A simple objective on paper, but one that’s laced with danger. I have to get close enough to Eddie to have access to his network of dealers. I need to be trusted enough to have a chance at that information. And once I have it, I have to make myself scarce before he realizes that somebody on the inside is bleeding the information to the Fallen Saints. The rest . . . it’s up to King. Once I’ve played my part I’m out, walking away from this and looking for a warm place to have a long overdue vacation.

Somewhere to sit and think about what I want from the rest of my life.

Heavy metal thunders out of huge speakers set up both inside and outside of the house, Slipknot singing something about the devil inside as I make my way through the open plan living area to hunt out Horse. Empty bottles line every available flat surface, overflowing ashtrays spilling their contents onto the carpet where they sit, and discarded food trays are stacked haphazardly on a lamp table jammed in one corner. A couple sits tangled in each other on one of the two sofas, several more people leaning against the available wall space while they talk. A blonde woman dances to a slow and sensual tune only she can hear in the middle of the room, providing a captivating show for two dirty fuckers sharing a pipe. All of ten people are in the place, and at least half are too wasted to move. The party’s everything I expected.

I just hope there’s more.

I make my way through the open doors and out onto the back deck, stepping out of the lights inside the house and back into the welcoming dark. A bonfire rages in the middle of the lawn, providing light for the people scattered around the yard in closed groups. A couple of young women dance around the flames while people of all ages sit on upturned crates and piles of scrap timber, drinks or smokes in hand.

“Thought you’d show your face after all?”

I jolt after a hard slap to the back, and turn to face Horse. “You think I wouldn’t?”

“Never doubted you.” He gives me a shunt to the shoulder, which damn near throws me off balance all over again.

The guy’s a unit: six-four on a quiet day, and built like a fuckin’ bulldozer. A mess of copper hair falls around his face, partly hiding the lines of weather and age that give away his years. Arms like tree trunks sprout from his well-worn T-shirt, scars lining the flesh in raised lines. He’s seen his fair share of violence over the years—that much is clear—but as rough as the asshole looks, there’s something that sets me at ease around him—probably the leather cut he wears which states his allegiance to the Devil’s Breed.

Call me weak, but I’ve kind of developed a trust for the Harley-riding type during the last few months.

“You thirsty?” Horse asks. “Let’s get you a drink, you lonely fucker.”

He throws his arm around my shoulders and steers past a group of men who talk and drink in a tight circle, leading me toward a steel drum cut lengthways, filled with ice and cold brews. I take the drink Horse offers, and look around for something to pop the top off with. He chuckles, snatching the bottle from my grip and ripping the top off with his teeth.

“Fuckin’ soft these days,” he mutters, handing it back.