Page 26 of Pink Poison (The Butchers MC #1)

Chapter seventeen

Kash

I listen to Graves and Mack walk out of the clubhouse, their conversation fading with them.

Curiosity has me grabbing my cut from the kitchen countertop and slipping it over my arms. My gut is telling me that something came up.

It might be nothing, but there’s a nagging voice in the back of my mind that tells me I need to find out.

Walking out of the clubhouse, I ignore Mack’s loaded glare while he smokes a cigarette by the front door.

Graves and I may have patched things up, but Mack is a whole different beast.

“Where’s Graves?” I ask, scuffing my boot on the ground.

He exhales, blowing smoke with each word. “He’s in the garage.”

“Did something come up?”

Dropping his cigarette to the ground, he snubs it out with his steel toe before crossing his arms over his chest. “Yep. ”

“Care to fill me in?” I grunt.

“We’re bringing something to the table later.” He swipes the sweat gathering at his temple with the back of his hand. “Make sure you’re here for it.”

The muscle above my lip twitches at his tiresome tone. Seems whatever he and Graves talked about took a little out of him, that or booze for breakfast isn’t the best meal to start the day. “You know I’ll be here.”

“Do I?” he questions, as if he doesn’t believe me.

“I’m going to say this to you once,” I spit. “Don’t ever question my loyalty to this club again.”

His brows furrow at my brisk words as they lash from my tongue.

I dare him to try and point fingers over it.

I’ve had my face beat to hell. My president accuses me of choosing pussy over my brothers.

And now my VP's distrust—like I haven’t put my ass on the line for them every single day since I patched in.

“Just making sure our priorities are aligned,” he clips.

You have to be fucking kidding me.

“Fuck off, Mack. If you have something to say, say it with your chest.”

“Hey!” Graves shouts from the garage, prompting Mack and I to turn our attention to him. “Get your ass in here, Mack.”

Shaking my head, I walk to where I parked my bike on the lot last night after going back to Memento for it.

The engine roars as I speed down the busy street leading to Stevie’s hotel. A sleek, blacked-out Mercedes catches my attention as I round the turn to the parking lot. Turning my head slightly, I make out the custom license plate— HILL .

Stevie.

Pulling my bike into a parking space, I kill the engine and throw my helmet over the handle before kicking down the stand.

My strides are long as I race to the front entrance of the hotel and push my way around the revolving door.

I stomp through the lobby, brushing past a group of patrons standing in the middle of the room.

Normally, I'd feel bad for my lack of manners, but I don't see them as anything but an obstacle in my path.

The sound of the elevator dinging piques my attention enough for me to turn my head in time to see Stevie wearing a mouthwatering, sheer, knit dress that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination.

The fabric dips low on her chest and under her arms to reveal a clear view of the sides of her breasts.

I open my mouth to call for her, but the woman with bright red hair from Mo’s walks out of the elevator behind her.

Their mouths move fast, too fast for me to keep up with.

Based on the looks on their faces, I gather the topic is something I shouldn't interrupt.

I wait until both exit the doors I just walked through before walking up to the concierge desk. I could just break into her room, but that would leave her vulnerable—more than she already is—and no one wants that, so I'll have a key made. No harm, no foul.

Clearing my throat, I eye the inky-haired girl behind the desk. “Excuse me.”

“I’ll be right with you, sir,” she chirps.

“Take your time.” I smile before glancing down at her name tag. Sirena . “Rinny.”

Her nose scrunches at my attempted nickname. “Only my friends get to call me that, Mr…”

I extend my arm over the desk, offering her my hand. “Kash, and I like to make friends wherever I go.”

“Right,” she drawls, eyeing my hand suspiciously. “What can I help you with today?”

I pull my hand back and nod. She has some good instincts if she's wary of me. “I just need a key made,” I say.

Her nails click over the keyboard sitting in front of her. “Did you misplace your key?”

“Not the word I’d use.” I laugh. “I’m here to set up for my girlfriend’s surprise party.”

She pauses mid-stroke, lifting her brown eyes to mine. “Unless you’re here to use one of the available banquet rooms for a party, I’d suggest you find her and get her key.”

Damn, she's good.

“That defeats the purpose of a surprise,” I tease.

“How do I know you’re not a stalker?” she rebuts firmly. “Or worse, what if you’re a murderer?”

A gravelly laugh forces its way from my throat at how dead-on this woman is. Her lip quirks at my display, likely thinking that I find her joke humorous. I mean, it is, only because it’s true. “I assure you, I am no such thing. I just want to surprise my sweetheart, that’s all. ”

I feel the smallest, tiniest pebble of guilt for lying. This girl, if she ever figures out the truth, is going to hate herself for not trusting her instincts. I don't take pride in lying or forcing people to do what I want, unless they deserve it. Unfortunately, I'll keep doing it for Stevie.

“Okay,” she finally relents. "I need her name so I can look up her account.”

“Stevie Waters, though if you took her ID, it would be under Stephanie Waters.” I smile as I recite blondie’s name like I was born to say it.

“Found her. It looks like she’s in room 333.”

I already knew what room she was in when I walked her to her door last night, but I don't say anything. Her hands move on what looks like auto-pilot, grabbing a blank card and swiping it through the metal strip to code the key. Without looking back up, she hands me the key card. “Don’t make me regret giving this to you.”

“I won’t, I promise.”

Turning on my heel, I walk towards the elevator with lighter steps.

The doors closed promptly behind me as if they sensed someone had entered.

Brushing my finger along the third-floor button, my weight is tossed in the cab as it speeds upwards to my destination.

Within seconds, the doors open, revealing a simply decorated hallway.

Stepping out from the elevator, I follow the numbered sign that directs me where to turn to reach the appropriate room. I round the corner, meeting her room.

Key in hand, I swipe it over the door until the small sensor turns green, allowing me access.

The second the door clicks open, I suck in a deep breath and bask in her scent.

Vanilla. The irony is not lost on me that she wears something so simple and inapt for her personality.

Chuckling to myself, I walk through the room, not bothering to turn the lights on.

I won’t be here long enough to need them.

Clothes and shoes sit scattered around the room without care, and her bed is unkempt. A genuine smile threatens to take over my face with the knowledge that blondie is a hot mess in her own space. I step closer, my eyes honing in on the gift box on her bed. “Motherfucker,” I growl.

Lifting the lid, a card with Angel written on it mocks me.

My teeth grind together as I flip it open to see Hill’s flowery ass handwriting, depicting instructions to wear the clothing he sent for their date at Le Papillon.

Creed Hill just made one hell of an enemy.

He knew she was off fucking limits. Hell, she knew she was off limits.

I understand her anger at the club, particularly with Mack and Graves, but to put herself in the hands of someone who has the ability to hurt her—to ruin her for the sake of pissing us off…

if I didn't think she'd like it, I'd spank her ass raw for this.

Her door slams shut behind me as I rush down the hall towards the stairs.

If I have any chance in hell of catching her, I need to move faster.

I jump down the stairs four, five at a time until the emergency exit comes into view.

Without a second thought, I plow my shoulder into the door without a single care that I triggered the alarms.

My world becomes a blur in a blink. I barely have a second to register that I'm on my bike, flying out of the hotel parking lot like a bat outta hell.

How could I when the only thing on my mind is finding Stevie and putting a bullet through Creed Hill's skull?

It doesn't matter that it's broad fucking daylight out—if I see the bastard, he will meet his twisted ass maker.

I didn't make her wear my cut last night for nothing.

It was a warning and a promise, all wrapped around her sexy ass body for every single heathen within the walls of Lennon's club to see.

They may be allowed to see her body—desire it, even.

But, they will never get to touch her. Ever.

My knuckles turn white while I grip the handles harder before pushing fifty over the city limit.

Dread creeps through my muscles, tensing them until my entire body aches as I weave in and out of traffic like I'm not one wrong move from becoming roadkill.

What should be a cool, twenty-minute ride quickly turns into a ten minute one, forcing me to slow as I whip down the oddly busy street.

Pumping the brakes, I slowly roll to a stop in front of Le Papillon, just in time to see Atticus Lennon step out from the doors.

Fucker.

I yank my helmet from my head before killing my bike and dropping the kickstand. Swinging my leg over the seat, I damn near trip over the curb in my rush to get inside. “Mr. Reid,” Atticus drawls, stopping me in my tracks.