“The boss is in Europe.” I roll my eyes and gulp my tea as Sweet Sally saunters over to swipe the card. She shakes everything the good Lord gave her in hopes of a bigger tip. I’m certain my colleague could accommodate her needs.
Wang pivots in the booth to catch a glimpse of that ass in those shorts, which aren’t exactly shorts at all. Coverage is at a bare minimum, and last time I checked, I wasn’t wearing shorts like that to walk my dog in.
Not that I have a dog. That would require care, much like a woman.
And I do not care enough to care.
“She’s got so much ass, man,” he mumbles under his breath, and I snarl. “I cannot wait to tap that one.”
Let it be known; Wang has tapped almost every waitress in the joint since we started the Dower contract in Phoenix three months ago. Thank heavens, we’re over halfway done because he’s almost out of waitresses at all the wing joints.
It’s not that I’m immune to Sally, Monica, or Renda’s womanly prowess, but their version of getting it on included verbally communicating, which I do not do.
Hit it and quit it.
Don’t chat it up.
In and out, and…bye-bye.
“Why can’t I just send you?”
“You want your father to skin you alive?”
“I’ll owe you for the next year,” I bargain.
His eyes spark like I said the exact wrong thing. “Enough to warm up the temptress in the tight ones?”
“I’m not foreplay.”
“You’re no play,” he cackles as the waitress slides the leather folder with a bright smile and a slight bend to show off her cleavage.
Implants. Eyelashes. Boobs.
Fake. Fake. Fake.
“Don’t go there, W.”
“When was the last time you got laid?”
I contemplate if his inquiry even deserves a response as I scribble my name, leaving a respectable tip and slam the book shut. I grab my jacket, put on my sunglasses, and head for the door.
The weekend meeting is a celebration of this expansion project, and it just so happens to be in Vegas in two months. Eight weeks away. I am counting down the days.
I used to love Vegas, but not for the reasons Wang does. I loved the glitz and glamour—the lights, music, and noise—the addiction to blackjack, partying until dawn, and the smell of whiskey that caused irreparable damage. I gave up gambling and booze over a decade ago. In exchange, I took up working out, green shakes, and reading thrillers.
Wang is hot on my tail as I exit the building and light a smoke. The heat in late March in Arizona is not yet unruly.
When we finalized the contract last August, the temperature was terrible, not like South Carolina, where a pervading humidity dampens everything in the summer—a warning before the imminent, oppressive swelter.
Pulling out my keys, I click to unlock the doors of the sports car. It’s a rental and a piece of shit that has been dogged out worse than the stretched out pussy of one of Wang’s wild ones.
I can’t wait to get back home. I’ve got plans that involve my quiet, secluded house, and no hot wings for the next year. Wang will return to the Windy City, and I can get back to being me.
I wouldn’t have taken the gig in the Devil’s ball sack, except I sometimes like my dad. He runs a respectable, affluent, international IT consulting firm. I know computer architecture, understand the importance of reliable infrastructure, and how to make shit work right, the first time.
As a bonus, he trusts me more than the twerp with three degrees who couldn’t hack into his own thermostat if he had to.
He notices the bag packed in the backseat. “Is she getting serious?”
“I like the club in Tucson,” I answer, blasting the air conditioner as Wang sits down.
“… Another random?”
With a side-eyed glare, I ask, “Does it matter?”
“Do you even know her name?”
“I don’t need to,” I say, backing up. “And I don’t want to. She changes every weekend. I plug in, play, and move on.”
He gives a sympathetic gaze like my motherboard just fried in one of my custom machines. “At some point, you have to grow up.”
“Like you?” I snicker. “A couple of long-term, a string of diseases, and no life? No, thanks. I’ll keep my ever-changing weekend menu.”
“So wait,” he eagerly says. “If a proper girl presented herself, would you hitch her to the altar?”
“Proper girls don’t exist in the seedy world I hang out in.”
2
Room Six
Jynx
The hypnotic, sensual energy in the private club is unreal on the weekends. I only know because when we first arrived in Arizona, I was desperate for a fix, but decent, upscale fetish clubs are rarely listed on any website. They’re hidden in the underground or in towering skyscrapers, but they are not spoken of in the neighborhood bar by strangers.
The way in is by knowing someone who knows.
I called my “brother” in the Reckless Rebellion MC, who also happened to be my cousin, and he recommended the place.
With a grunt, he exhaled, “Where are you again?”
“Phoenix.”
“Tucson has a nice spot,” he said amidst the clattering of tools. “They do lots of rope work.”
“I need an eager ass to tan with zero commitment, Cruz.”
“Go to Tucson. Madame Tilda’s place. I’ll send you the address. Tell them I sent you.”
Leave it to that crazy fucker Deacon Cruz to know where to go.
I had taken a sabbatical from the two-wheeled lifestyle since taking over my grandparents’ place when my gramps died last winter.
My younger biological brother, Axel, is also a member of RR MC. He is watching over the farm while I do Dad’s dirty work in Arizona.
Axel is everything I am not. He lives in eccentric opulence with his gold toothbrush and marbled toilet paper holder.
Life on the farm is probably destroying his mental state with Grandma’s shabby chic junk finds. I snicker at the thought.
I need a dependable truck—Ford F-250, a fast car—Mustang, and a bike to make the girls squeal and guys drool. I collect Kawasaki Ninjas, having bought and restored over twenty, buy Maker’s Mark by the case, and love a good cigar.
I enjoy hunting and fishing, relaxing with a spectacular bottle of wine while preparing a fine meal, and getting off on girls who like it rough.
This is the extent of my lavishness.
I have no need for excess in anything.
Despite the name conjuring up grungy images, Axel is a complete nerd set to run Monroe Consulting alongside me.
His real name isn’t Axel, and mine isn’t Jynx, but we hackers never talk about that. These bitches don’t need to know what we stand to inherit.
That is mine.
Not theirs.
Thankfully, Axel feels the same way I do about relationships and women. The only difference is he routinely plays with the same half dozen girls.
At thirty-four, the bastard likes them young—college age. I have no desire to play with or train someone under the age of thirty. I am thirty-six, set in my bachelor ways, and relishing in the peacefulness of my life.
I hand over my card to the girl at Madame Tilda’s place. “Good evening, Mr. Monroe.”