He wasn’t a hundred percent sure, but he might’ve called Soph’s name when he came.

Shit, he needed to get a handle on this … But there was just something about the thought of her in his house, all available and at his mercy. It was too much power.

Ruger had never been one of the good guys.

He took a long, deep breath. This was a business trip, so time to pull his head out of his ass. He glanced over to the stage, where a nearly naked woman gyrated lifelessly around the pole. She could’ve been cleaning toilets for all the enthusiasm she showed.

“Too bad they’re more interested in quantity than quality,” Ruger said, nodding toward the stage. “Fire her ass, she worked at The Line.”

Deke gave a snort of laughter. Ruger glanced at him, noting the humor didn’t reach the Portland president’s eyes. Man was dead inside, so far as he could tell. He’d heard that Deke was national’s first choice for enforcement, and he had no trouble believing it. The former marine could probably pull off a hit in his sleep.

Good guy to have at your back in a fight.

“You bastards have it easy up there in Idaho,” Deke said. “Fuckin’ monopoly, so all the talent has to compete to work for you. We got more strip clubs here than anywhere else in the damned country, or so I hear. Market’s saturated, and that means owners gotta take what they can get. Some of these places barely break even. Crazy-ass shit.”

Ruger glanced around the room with new interest. Aside from their table, there couldn’t have been more than six customers total. No, make that seven. Some lucky bastard was getting a hand job back in the far corner.

“So it’s always this empty?” he asked. “That’s fucked up. No wonder she isn’t trying. Why bother?”

“Can’t dance for shit, but at least she gives a hell of a blow job,” Deke responded. “Try her out later if you like. Any of the girls, for that matter.”

Deke glanced over at their waitress, jerking his chin toward their drinks. She carried over a tray of refills, smiling nervously. Ruger eyed her, considering Deke’s offer. The girl wore a black leather bustier, a short, tight skirt, and black fishnets. Long, reddish-brown hair, sort of like Sophie’s. And there his cock went again, getting all hard.

Yeah, this good-guy bullshit wasn’t his gig at all.

Damn, but he’d wanted Soph in his bed a long time. Every inch of her hot little body was burned in his brain, starting that first night he’d seen her screwing Zach in his apartment, which officially classified him as one sick fuck. She’d been sixteen years old and scared shitless, and what’d his response been?

He’d jacked off in the damned shower while she hunted for her panties in his living room. Panties she’d never found, by the way, which he fucking well knew because he still had them. Pink and lacy, innocent as hell, and enough to get his ass thrown into jail back in those days.

Then he’d gone and really fucked things up four years ago, fucked them up so bad her entire life exploded. Not entirely his fault, but he still regretted how he’d handled Zach. Should’ve killed the cocksucker when he had the chance. Even with all his guilt and regret, though, one thing hadn’t changed.

He still jacked off to those panties sometimes.

“Where the fuck is Hunter?” he asked irritably.

Deke narrowed his eyes.

“Like I give a shit?” he answered. “I’m not on board with this. We don’t talk to Jacks. We hurt them. That’s how it’s done—there’s a system.”

Toke, one of the younger Portland guys, nodded in agreement, his face grim. He’d insisted on being part of this meet. Gracie was his old lady these days. Between him and Deke, they were sitting on a fucking powder keg …

“We’re talking to this one,” Picnic said, his voice soft but unyielding. At forty-two, he was the oldest man at the table. He and Deke might have equal rank, but Pic had been around a long time, and when he spoke, men listened. Ruger knew he’d been talked about for national president, but the man wasn’t interested. “Something’s going on. I want to hear what this asshole has to say about it.”

“Fuckin’ simple,” Deke replied. “Little bastards are movin’ in on our territory. You know it, I know it. This shit needs to end.”

Pic shook his head and leaned forward, pale blue eyes intense.

“Doesn’t make sense, brother,” he said. “Four guys living in a house in Portland … Two of them going to fucking school here, like they’re citizens or something. Nomads. You seen them pull a goddamn thing these past nine months?”

Deke sighed, and shook his head.

“Like I said, doesn’t add up,” Pic continued. “We know they’re our enemies. They know it, too. So why the fuck would they be here? Death wish?”

“Setting us up,” Ruger suggested. “Trying to get us to relax? Either that or a mind fuck.”

“Your situation in Seattle, they give you any shit about it?” Pic asked him, although Ruger knew he had the answer already.

“Nope,” he replied. “Fuckwad was theirs to punish, no problem with that. Made our lives easier. Damned civil about it, too.”

“Exactly, and you ever know a Devil’s Jack to be polite?” Picnic continued. “Fuck, didn’t think they knew how. These guys are young—different—and none of us has ever seen them before this year. Roseburg boys say there’ve been dustups in northern Cali. Something’s happening in that club, and for once I think it might not be about screwing us over.”

Deke slammed down a shot, then leaned back, arms crossed, face grim.

“They don’t change,” Toke muttered. “Doesn’t matter what games they’re playing, doesn’t matter who’s in charge, none of it. They’re Jacks and they belong in the ground. Period. Every day they’re livin’ in my town, it eats at me. I want to end it.”

“You got one-track minds, both of you,” Horse said, pulling up a chair to join them. “I swear, we’re goin’ in fuckin’ circles here. Slide just texted. Jacks are in the parking lot. Just the two of ’em, no sign of anyone else. Don’t do anything crazy until we finish talking, okay?”

Toke nodded, eyes narrowed.

Shit, Ruger thought. They shouldn’t have let him come along. Man hated the Devil’s Jacks, and with good reason, but he was like a damned grenade without a pin.

The door opened, bright sunlight framing two figures Ruger recognized. Hunter and Skid—the same bastards who’d come up to collect their former brother in Seattle the weekend before. Both were big, although Hunter was the taller of the two. He was young, probably no more than twenty-four or twenty-five. Nomad, so he didn’t have a home chapter. No official status, but the man carried himself with instinctive authority.

If the Jacks had a serious power-shift in progress, Ruger would bet a thousand bucks Hunter was at the center of it.

The music changed and a new girl strutted out onto the stage. Ms. Personality hopped on down, but she didn’t bother coming over to their table trying to sell lap dances. She might not be enthusiastic about her job, but apparently she wasn’t entirely stupid.

None of them stood as the Jacks approached. Ruger kicked a chair over to Hunter, who caught it with a smile that was anything but friendly. He flipped it backward, straddling it casually. Skid dropped down next to him.

“You ready to talk?” Hunter asked, looking between the men. “I’m Hunter, by the way. With the Devil’s Jacks. Motorcycle club, may have heard of us? This is Skid.”

Deke’s eyes narrowed, and Ruger had to bite back a grin. He wasn’t sure yet if Hunter was an idiot or not, but the kid had balls of fuckin’ brass.

“Picnic,” the Coeur d’Alene president said. “My brothers Deke, Horse, Toke, and Ruger. Deke’s the president here in Portland. Gotta say, he’s a little hurt you haven’t dropped by to introduce yourselves before now. You might not know this, but Portland belongs to the Reapers.”

Hunter held up his hands, palms forward.

“No problems there,” he said. “My rocker says Nomad, not trying to claim Oregon. Your town, your rules.”

“You’re breathing our air,” Deke said, his voice cold. “Generally we charge for that. I think we discussed this with one of your boys last winter. Stayed with us for nearly a week, if I remember right.”

Skid’s eyes narrowed, but he kept his mouth shut. Hunter shrugged.

“These things happen. We get shit’s not good between the Jacks and the Reapers,” he said, his tone mild. “But we’re here today because you helped us out. Been wantin’ to meet up for a while now. This opened the door. We wanted to offer our thanks and talk to you about a truce. Asshole you handed over up in Seattle—he was a problem for us. Serious problem, more than you realize. Now the problem’s gone. We appreciate the gesture, that’s all.”

“Really?” Deke asked. “Because we’ve got some problems, too. You truly appreciate the favor, we could use some help resolving those. You get me?”

Hunter’s eyes darkened.

“Yeah, I get you,” he replied. “That was a bad business—”

“No, that was my niece,” Deke said, slamming his hand down on the table. “Cute kid. Never gonna have kids of her own, though, what with the way your boys ripped her up from the inside out. Spent a year on a fuckin’ psych ward. Still scared to leave her house.”

Toke grunted, pulling out his knife and laying it on the table. Hunter leaned forward, his face every bit as intense as Deke’s. He ignored the knife.

“That problem’s been solved,” he said. “We offered proof.”

“Proof wasn’t good enough,” Deke replied. “Dead is easy. They needed to suffer, and I needed to be the one making them suffer. You stole that from me.”