Biker’s Collar: Property of Scrap (Rebel Barbarians MC #6)

Chapter 3 – Vickie

Three

Vickie

Las Vegas – 5 years ago

T he new white boy in the room doesn’t notice me at first. But I notice the hell out of him. He’s about twice the size of the other men at the table, with arms the size of pine trees and big thick legs that he has spread wide as he focuses on the cards. He doesn’t give a shit about the girls. Judging by the size of his stack of poker chips, he’s here for the money. For the thrill of the game.

He has thick dark hair cut short and a neat, trimmed black beard. His fingers stroke his beard thoughtfully as he watches the cards. We don’t stop people from counting cards here if they want to. But I don’t think that’s what’s happening. I feel a strange tug in my chest.

He’s the one.

My target for tonight. My scalp tingles with awareness of the spot where my braids plaster the drug stash in place. I hope I don’t look too nervous.

I walk up to the table and ask, “Everything okay here?”

The man looks up and his eyes meet mine. I get a good look at what he’s wearing. Black t-shirt hugging those giant arms. Black jeans. Expensive boots. And a leather jacket with a bunch of patches on it and a name above the breast pocket. SCRAP.

Well, that can’t be his real name. He looks at me strangely, but my job is customer service here, so I use the excuse to talk to him.

“Sir? Mr. Scrap? Can I get you anything?”

“The name is Owen,” he says, a move that seems reckless if that really is his name. “What’s your name, miss?”

He sounds like he’s from Missouri. And damn, he has a nice, booming and confident voice. He talks like a confident gambler.

“You don’t need to know my name. I just need to know that you’re having a good time.”

“For me to have a good time, I’ll have to know your name.”

Another biker taps his fingers impatiently on the table.

“It’s Veronica.”

“Now that’s a pretty name.”

The girl dealing the cards doesn’t look up. Lying to men is a part of our game here. It’s how we keep the money flowing. Men feel comfortable around lies, even beautiful specimens like this one. Looking at how many chips he has on the table, he must have some access to money. But then again, looking at how many chips he has on the table, this man plays big to win big.

“Thank you.”

“You doing anything after this?”

“Can you play the damn game and get your dick wet after?”

I notice another man at the table looks similar to the man named Owen. He’s a little taller, but less muscular, with sharper angles on his face. He has a pair of terrifying hooded blue eyes that he fixes on me, like I’m responsible for all his brothers’ vices. The name on his patch reads “BEAR”, which seems fitting considering his gruff attitude and the thick black hair covering his arms and face.

“Nice to meet you, Veronica. Apologies for my brother. Y’all run a good club.”

This is a club for degenerates, but I nod and continue to walk around the room. If I linger, it will be too suspicious. This type of game doesn’t come naturally. The other girls in the room learned from Hakeem or the other men how to convince the gamblers that adding women to their list of activities for the night was all their idea.

There used to be an Indian girl who lasted all of two weeks before she took off into the desert who was damned good at it. Watching how quickly she parlayed her skills for seduction into escape inspired me but… I never thought I was anything worth looking at before and considering I’m over a decade older than the preferred age of most of the perverts here… I always expected to have a harder time trying to get a man to demand my presence from Hakeem or Jim.

But when I finish my first round, Owen’s eyes remain glued to me. I can’t go over there too soon without arousing suspicion, so I pretend to focus on the game with the seventeen-year-old. It’s easier to fly under the radar of the law if you keep an eye on your biggest criminals. There’s definitely something wrong with this kid and his rich parents, but he’s been on top of his game for the past year according to the club gossip so… nothing to worry about.

The first rounds end across all eight tables and I start my second loop around the room. The bottle girls emerge from the back room right on cue. The winners want to celebrate and the losers want to make it easier to enter into another game knowing their nights aren’t exactly going as planned. This shit is crazy to me, but these men – and once in a while, a crazy fucking woman – are obsessed with this shit.

Edging closer to Owen’s table, I see exactly what type of gambler he is. The stupid kind. He lost. Everything except one chip. He holds his head in his hands as he gazes red-faced at the table. His brother, the one with BEAR patched across his chest, sits in a much better position with a few chips valued at over $5,000 each stacked next to his drink.

How the fuck did Owen end up like this after just one round?

“This game is fucked.”

“You’re fucked,” his brother murmurs. “Man up and take this.”

He hands his brother a chip. None of the other gangsters and criminals at the table stop him. The man just lost somewhere over $150,000 in one round of poker. I’ve never seen anyone screw up this badly and now I know for sure that this man really is the one.

I want to stay at the table so fucking badly that I want to deal in this round of poker. But I can’t.

“Would you like a rum and coke on the house, Owen?” I offer politely. A couple of the guys at the table snicker. His brother looks at me like I’m lower than dirt and barks at me, “Yes. Hurry before he kills himself.”

The snickering continues. The dealer starts the round while I rush off to the bar to give away a rum and coke that I have no business giving away. My heart pounds as I acknowledge how much they trust me and how easy it would be to slip that Perc 30 into this man’s drink now and get what I want a lot faster. The adrenaline rushing through me turns to numb anxiety and despite the strongest temptation to act early, I don’t.

This will only win his trust. I walk over to the table with the drink and Owen finishes it in one gulp. He almost doesn’t acknowledge me, but when he turns to hand me the empty glass, our eyes meet and a confusing rush goes straight through me.

“Thank you, Veronica,” Owen says. “That drink was damn good.”

His brother gives him a look that just screams, “Your ass had better fold.”

But fueled by the drink, Owen slides his last chip into the pot, deepening his commitment to the round. He’s dumb as fuck or he has balls of steel… I can’t tell which.