Page 7 of Bad Luck, Hard Love (Heaven’s Rejects MC #6)

THOR

The Nevada sun feels like a hammer to the skull, each ray beating down on me with relentless precision as I lean against my bike across from Ace's clubhouse. Even hours later, the desert heat already makes the air shimmer, distorting the clubhouse in the distance like some kind of mirage.

I've been here for an hour, tucked into the shadow of an abandoned gas station, watching.

The place looks quiet, too quiet, for a chapter that's supposedly making big money moves.

Only three bikes are outside the club, the same ones that were there when I rolled up.

Either they're all sleeping off hangovers, or something's not adding up.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. V, probably with information on those assholes from the club.

But when I check, it's just a notification about my dinner reservation. Damn, V’s buddy works fast. I hadn’t expected to hear anything back from him until this afternoon.

I swipe it away, my mind drifting back to Charlotte.

That hesitant smile when I asked her to dinner. The way she looked at me this morning, confused and vulnerable, but with a steel underneath that impressed the hell out of me.

“Focus,” I mutter to myself, scanning the clubhouse again. I'm not here to daydream about a woman I barely know.

Nothing physical happened between us. Not that I hadn't thought about it.

She'd been soft and warm beside me in that bed, her hair smelling like vanilla and whiskey.

But I'm not that kind of asshole. Never have been, never will be.

A woman who can't consent isn't a woman I want touching me, no matter how beautiful.

The clubhouse door swings open, catching my attention. A prospect in a fresh cut stumbles out. He looks young, too young, like he's barely old enough to drink. His movements are sluggish as he makes his way to a rusted pickup truck parked beside the bikes.

I duck deeper into the shadow as he climbs in and fires up the engine. The truck pulls away, kicking up dust. I memorize the license plate information for V to run later.

My phone buzzes again, this time with a text from Raze.

Anything?

I type back quickly.

Place is dead. Watching. Will update soon.

Three little dots appear, then disappear, then appear again.

Be careful. Don't trust anyone there.

Like I needed that reminder. Ace might be a brother under the same colors, but brotherhood only goes so far when money is involved.

I've seen it happen before. Chapters turning on each other, brothers betraying brothers.

It's not pretty, and it never ends well. I left Oakland’s chapter for this very reason.

They were spiraling out of control, and Raze had offered me a spot.

The air feels different here than back in Upland.

Tense. Like the whole city is holding its breath, waiting for something to break.

Vegas has always been about illusion—the glittering lights hiding the grime beneath the surface.

The Vegas chapter feels the same way—something shiny on the surface covering up something rotten at the core.

My bike's seat has turned into a damn skillet under the sun. I shift positions, wiping sweat from my brow as I continue my surveillance. The minutes crawl by like hours until finally, the clubhouse door swings open again.

This time, it's Striker, Ace's enforcer who looked ready to break my face yesterday.

He's followed by another member I don't recognize.

They stand in the doorway, deep in conversation, their expressions serious.

Striker gestures wildly, jabbing a finger toward the road, while the other guy shakes his head.

I take out my phone and snap a few pictures.

Not close enough to see their faces clearly, but V can work his magic.

The argument intensifies, Striker shoving the other guy hard enough to make him stumble backward.

Interesting. Dissension in the ranks is always valuable information. I send off the images to V.

My phone vibrates in my hand.

Give me a couple of hours, and I’ll know what these fuckers had for breakfast.

I swipe to read the rest of his message, but movement at the clubhouse catches my attention.

A black SUV with tinted windows is pulling up.

The vehicle screams money—not the kind of ride your average biker would drive.

The plate is obscured enough that even zooming in with my phone only gives me a few partial numbers. Z-4-9 .

Both Striker and his buddy straighten up immediately, their argument forgotten.

The SUV parks, and the driver's door opens.

A thin man steps out, walking around the vehicle and opening the back passenger-side door.

Striker says something else to his buddy before shifting and sliding into the vehicle.

The tinted windows hide whoever sits inside, but the rigid set of Striker's shoulders as he enters tells me this isn't a social call.

I slide my phone into my pocket, instinct taking over as I crouch lower behind my bike.

The second member hovers near the clubhouse entrance, shifting his weight from foot to foot like a kid waiting outside the principal's office.

Something about this doesn't feel right.

Vegas chapter members don't get nervous about regular club business.

Ten minutes pass before Striker emerges from the SUV, his face grim. He nods once to the driver, who closes the door behind him and returns to his position. The vehicle idles for another moment before pulling away, tires crunching over gravel as it disappears down the road.

Striker strides back to his companion, grabs him by the cut, and practically drags him inside. The door slams shut behind them, the sound echoing across the empty lot.

“What the hell are you mixed up in, Ace?” I mutter, checking the time. I've been sitting here too long. If anyone from the clubhouse decides to make a supply run, they'll spot me for sure. Time to move.

I swing my leg over my bike, the leather seat scorching through my jeans.

The engine roars to life beneath me, a familiar comfort in this uncertain territory.

I pull away from the gas station, keeping my distance from the clubhouse as I head back toward the Strip.

The black SUV is nowhere to be seen, but I make a mental note of the direction it went—north.

Heading toward the older part of town where the real money hides behind gated communities and private clubs.

My phone rings as I hit the main road. V's name flashes on the screen, and I pull over to answer.

“Tell me you've got something good,” I say without preamble.

“Do I ever disappoint? Got the name of the prospect you saw stumbling out of the clubhouse. Marcus Nelson. Has a rental a couple of miles away from the clubhouse with a Rebecca Martin listed on the lease with him. Got a couple of priors for public intoxication on his juvie record.”

“Give me the address.”

“Texting it to you now,” V replies, his fingers audibly tapping across his keyboard.

“Anything on the guys from last night?”

“Nothing yet. The video footage is grainy as shit, but I am working on cleaning it up. I’ll keep you posted.”

“What about the SUV that just left the clubhouse? Black, tinted windows, expensive looking.”

“I'm not a fucking miracle worker, Thor. Give me a full plate number. A letter and a couple of numbers isn’t going to give me much of anything. This ain’t Wheel of Fortune. I can’t just guess to see if something sticks.”

“I'll get you one.” I rev the engine, decision made. “I'm going to pay our prospect a visit. See what he knows about his chapter's new business ventures.”

“Be careful. Young guys are either completely clueless or completely loyal. No in-between.”

“I can handle a kid.”

“Famous last words,” V mutters before hanging up.

The address leads me to a run-down apartment complex on the outskirts of town, the kind of place where dreams go to die and rent comes cheap.

The prospect's truck sits in the parking lot, engine ticking as it cools.

I park my bike two spaces away and assess the building.

Three stories, external staircases, and paint peeling off the walls like sunburned skin.

Unit 2B. Second floor, middle of the building. I take the stairs two at a time, my boots echoing against the metal grating. I knock on the door—three sharp raps that echo through the thin walls.

Shuffling sounds come from inside, followed by a muffled curse. The door cracks open, revealing the prospect's bloodshot eyes and disheveled appearance. Recognition flashes across his face, quickly replaced by panic.

“You—” he stammers, trying to slam the door shut.

I wedge my boot in the gap, pushing forward with enough force to send him stumbling backward. “Morning, prospect. Thought we could have a chat.”

The kid's apartment is exactly what I expected. Empty pizza boxes stacked on a coffee table, clothes strewn across a threadbare couch, and the distinct smell of weed hanging in the air. He backs away from me, his hand drifting toward his waistband.

“I wouldn't,” I warn. “You reach for whatever you're thinking about reaching for, and this conversation gets a lot more complicated.”

Marcus freezes, “What do you want?”

“Information.” I close the door behind me, the click echoing through the cramped space. “About your chapter's new business partners. The kind that drives expensive SUVs and makes grown men nervous.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.” The lie comes out too quick, too rehearsed. This kid's been coached on what to say if anyone comes asking questions.

“Sure you don't.” I move closer, watching him flinch with each step. “That's why you were stumbling out of the clubhouse this morning. That's why Striker was having heated discussions with his buddy before climbing into that black SUV.”

Marcus's face goes pale. “You were watching the clubhouse?”