Page 20 of Bad Luck, Hard Love (Heaven’s Rejects MC #6)

THOR

The hotel isn’t far. I pull into the parking garage and snag a spot on the same level as the skybridge that leads straight into the casino. Efficient. Fast. I don’t plan on lingering.

Inside, I move like I belong—head down, strides steady. Just another guest blending into the chaos of flashing lights and fake smiles.

The casino sprawls before me like a glittering trap.

Neon strobes, clinking glasses, and the hypnotic chime of slot machines fill the air with false hope.

I hug the perimeter, scanning the crowd.

No familiar faces. No one watching too closely.

Just tourists chasing luck and cocktail servers pretending to care.

I hit the bars next, starting with the one near the lobby. It’s quiet, scattered with early drinkers and bored business types. No sign of them.

Then I head toward the high-roller section—the bar near the velvet ropes and heavy security. The one where they drugged Charlotte.

My jaw tightens as the memory flashes: her body folding into mine, limp and helpless.

The bartender tonight is new—young, sharp, and female. She barely glances at me when I order a water, no flicker of recognition.

I lean against the bar, scanning the room. High-limit tables hum behind me. A few suits talk too loudly over overpriced scotch. But no one stares. No one lingers.

Still, my instincts itch. This place wears its opulence like a mask—and I know exactly what kind of monsters hide behind masks.

Frustration burns in my gut as I stand up to leave. This was a long shot, but I needed to do something. Needed to feel like I was making progress instead of twiddling my thumbs and waiting for the next fucking disaster to happen.

I slam my glass down harder than intended, drawing a few curious glances. The frustration is building, making my skin feel too tight for my body. What the fuck was I expecting? That these assholes would just be hanging around waiting for me to find them?

Movement outside catches my eye through the bar's expansive windows.

The glass walls frame a perfect view of the resort's center, where an elevated restaurant sits nestled between the outdoor pools and the casino's east entrance.

It's one of those upscale places—all glass and modern furniture, designed so rich people can eat overpriced food while watching the peasants below.

Something about it pulls my attention. The place is a fishbowl—three-hundred-sixty-degree visibility with floor-to-ceiling windows. Anyone sitting there would have a commanding view of the entire resort complex. The pools, the casino entrances, the hotel lobby. All visible from those tables.

A perfect surveillance position.

My pulse quickens as the realization hits.

If I were hunting someone at this resort, that's exactly where I'd position myself.

I head for the exit, moving with purpose now.

The restaurant is accessible through an escalator from the main floor, designed to make rich folks feel like they're ascending into something better than the gambling masses below.

Two minutes later, I'm standing at the host podium. The place reeks of money—white tablecloths, crystal glasses, waitstaff in pressed black uniforms. A woman with a tight smile and tighter bun looks me up and down.

“Table for one?” Her tone suggests I've wandered into the wrong establishment.

“Yeah.” I flash what passes for my charming smile, “By the window, facing the walkway.”

She hesitates, glancing at her reservation book. “Those tables are typically reserved for?—”

I pull out my wallet, slide a hundred-dollar bill across the podium. “I appreciate your help.”

Her fingers close over the bill with practiced discretion. “Of course, sir. Right this way.”

She leads me to a prime spot, exactly what I wanted. A clear view of the main walkway connecting the hotel towers, the casino entrance, and the pool area. From here, I can see three different entry points to the resort. Anyone watching for Charlotte would have a perfect vantage point.

“Your server will be with you shortly,” the hostess says, leaving me alone.

A waiter approaches and takes my order without much interaction.

As I wait for my food to arrive, I watch my surroundings.

The waiter returns ten minutes later with my steak.

I barely notice when he sets it in front of me.

I start to cut into it when I notice two men walking past the restaurant window.

A young woman barely standing on her own between them.

The men have their arms around her, casual to anyone watching, but I recognize the hold—one that looks supportive but actually controls movement. The woman's head lolls slightly, her steps uncoordinated. Drugged. Just like Charlotte was.

“Motherfucker,” I growl. I slide out of my seat, abandoning my untouched meal and dropping cash on the table. I move with purpose toward the escalator, never letting the group leave my sight. They're heading toward the hotel towers, away from the casino floor, away from witnesses.

I pull my phone out. The woman stumbles, nearly falls, and one of the men laughs like it's some big fucking joke. My blood boils as I hit V's number.

“Miss me already?” V answers on the first ring.

“Shut up and listen,” I growl, keeping my voice low as I trail the group at a safe distance. “I've got a visual on who I think are two of our guys. Same MO. They've got a girl who can barely stand heading toward the hotel towers.”

“Shit. You sure?”

“No, but it's too similar to ignore. One's wearing a blue button-down, the other's got a black polo. Both white, mid-thirties. Girl's blonde, red dress.”

I hear V's fingers flying across a keyboard. “I just left the airport.”

I quicken my pace as they disappear around a corner. “Track my location and meet me here. These fuckers aren't getting away this time.”

“On it. Five minutes out.”

I end the call and slip the phone back into my pocket, adrenaline sharpening my focus. The corridor opens into a small lobby with four elevators. I hang back, watching as they guide the woman into an elevator. She's definitely not with them willingly. Her movements are jerky.

The elevator doors close with a soft ding, and I curse under my breath. I sprint toward the bank of elevators, watching the floor indicator climb. Third floor. Fourth. Fifth. It stops at seven.

My phone buzzes with a text from V.

Pulling up now. Where are you?

I fire back a reply.

East tower. 7th floor.

The next elevator takes forever to arrive. Every second feels like an eternity while that girl is trapped with those bastards. When the doors finally open, I jam the button for the seventh floor and watch the numbers crawl upward.

The hallway is eerily quiet when I step out. Thick carpet muffles my footsteps as I move down the corridor, listening for any sound that might give away their location. Most of the doors are closed, the guests out enjoying their vacation in blissful ignorance of what's happening just feet away.

Then I hear it—a muffled thump, followed by a man's voice saying something I can't quite make out. Room 724. I press my ear to the door, straining to hear more. The woman's voice comes through the thin wall, slurred and confused.

“Where...where am I?”

“Just relax. Everything's going to be fine.”

The same patronizing tone I've heard a thousand times from predators who think they're entitled to whatever they want. My hands clench into fists.

Another voice, this one rougher, “She's fighting it. Give her more.”

“You sure? She's already pretty out of it.”

“I'm not paying for a fucking corpse, man. Just enough to keep her compliant. You know the boss hates it when they fight back during transport.”

My vision narrows to a pinpoint of rage. I know exactly what these fuckers are planning. Without thinking, I step back and kick the door with everything I've got. The wood splinters around the lock, the door flying inward with a crash that echoes down the hallway.

The scene before me freezes. Blue Button-Down stands by a small table, a syringe in his hand. Black Polo has the girl pinned to the bed, her dress hiked up around her thighs, her eyes unfocused and terrified. Both men stare at me in shock.

“What the fu?—”

I don't let him finish. I lunge for Blue Button-Down first, grabbing his wrist and slamming it against the wall until the syringe drops from his fingers. His face contorts in pain and surprise as I drive my fist into his stomach, doubling him over.

Black Polo recovers from his shock, releasing the girl and charging at me like a bull. I sidestep, letting his momentum carry him past me, then grab the back of his shirt and slam his face into the wall. The impact leaves a smear of blood on the cream-colored paint.

“Who the fuck are you?” he spits, blood streaming from his nose.

I don't answer. Words aren't necessary when my fists can do the talking. I drag him back by his collar and drive my knee into his ribs, feeling something crack under the impact. He howls, the sound cutting off abruptly when my elbow connects with his jaw.

Blue Button-Down scrambles for the door, but I catch him by the ankle, yanking him backward. He crashes to the floor, head bouncing off the carpet with a dull thud. I flip him over, pinning him across his chest.

“Wait, wait!” he chokes out. “We don't know you, man! This isn't?—”

My fist silences him. Blood sprays from his split lip, speckling my knuckles. “You know a woman named Charlotte?” I growl, leaning close enough to smell his fear.

Confusion flickers across his face. “Who?”

I hit him again, harder this time. “Don't fucking lie to me. You and your buddy drugged her two nights ago.”

“I swear to God, I don't know what you're talking about! We've never?—”