Devil’s Game (Reapers MC #3)(90)
Author: Joanna Wylde

“That’s fine, so long as your dad stays at the clubhouse when he comes to visit.”

“No problem,” she said, giggling. She squeezed me tighter. “Love you, babe.”

“I love you, too.”

It wasn’t a lie.

JANUARY

COEUR D’ALENE, IDAHO

PICNIC

“Pic, check this out.”

Picnic glanced up from his desk toward Gage. The club’s enforcer sat in front of four screens streaming security footage.

“What?”

“New cleaning bitch,” Gage said. “Marie’s out, says she can’t handle it and her homework. Nobody else is available, so Bolt hired a civilian. She runs a service or something, got a good rep.”

“And I should care because?”

“Look at her ass, then rethink the question.”

Picnic pushed up slowly and walked around his cluttered workspace in the pawn shop office. He’d spent the last hour trying to figure out what the hell he’d done with the ticket for the red and gold Harley out back in the yard. Some dumbass rich kid had pawned it, probably to buy pot or something equally stupid. He’d had his eye on it ever since. Spoiled little shit had defaulted that morning.

Gage leaned back in his chair, folding his hands across his stomach.

“Nice, hmm?”

Pic leaned forward and took her in, then gave a low whistle.

“She know there’s a camera on her?”

“Probably not,” Gage replied, smirking. “They’re not hidden, but they don’t jump out at you, either.”

The new cleaner was down on her hands and knees, ass pointing toward the camera mounted in the corner. And what an ass it was . . . Her faded jeans had ridden down, exposing the very top of her rear. No crack, but damned close. It was shaped like a heart, nice and bouncy and curved exactly how he liked ’em.

She leaned forward a little more, and he realized she was using a knife to scrape something up off the floor, under the overhanging lip of the display cabinet. She wiggled again and Pic shifted, reaching down to adjust his pants. Fuck that was hot.

“Her face as pretty as her ass?”

“Yeah,” Gage said, leaning forward to fiddle with the controls. The camera zoomed in on her crotch as she spread her legs slightly. Pic bit back a groan.

“This her first night?”

“Yup.”

“Anyone tap that yet?”

“Nope.”

“No f**kin’ the help allowed. Make sure it’s known.”

Gage glanced up at him and smirked.

“Since when is that a rule? You’ve slept with half the girls at The Line. Hell, you took one home last night.”

Pic grunted, eyes glued to the screen. “New dancers are easy to find. A good cleaner isn’t.”

Gage shook his head, then zoomed back out. The cleaner stood up, stretching her arms high over her head. She turned and said something to another woman working across the showroom. The reply made her smile and Picnic caught his breath. Damn, she was stunning, despite the fact that her dirty blonde hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail and her jeans and sweatshirt had seen better days. Thick, dark eyelashes. Deep brown eyes that sparkled. Big, pouty lips.

Lips that belonged around his cock.

Then she pulled off her sweatshirt, revealing a blue spaghetti-strap tank top. It showed off her tits just right—good size, and he’d bet his life the ni**les hiding underneath would fit his mouth perfectly. Tossing the sweatshirt lightly on the counter, she leaned over, grabbed a spray bottle of blue window cleaner, and started attacking the display case.

“Jesus, I wanna f**k those tits,” Gage muttered. “You sure she’s off-limits?”

Pic growled. “Yeah. I’m sure. Anyone who touches her will answer to me. D’you think she’s puttin’ on a show for us? I don’t need that kind of trouble.”

“No idea,” Gage replied. “She’s missed her calling. Bitch should be doin’  p**n .”

Couldn’t argue with that.

“Fire her,” he said suddenly. “Find someone else.”

“We’ve had the prospects cleaning for a week now. We need them on other things, and I guess Bolt had a hell of a time finding her in the first place.”

She stood, then leaned back against the counter, cocking her head as she said something to her co-worker. The fact that the counter was the perfect height to shove her down and f**k her on didn’t escape his notice.

“We got a file on her?”

Gage leaned over and opened a drawer, pulling out a folder. Pic flipped it open. Not much there. London Armstrong, owner of London’s Cleaning Service. Thirty-eight years old, which surprised him. She looked younger. A lot younger. Not that the security cam had the best resolution, but still . . . She’d been in business six years, solid reputation. Total civilian. And she might be single, but she had custody of a kid—some high school girl. Not hers. A cousin.

Shit.

London didn’t sound like the kind of woman who’d be down for a one-night stand. Nope, despite her sexy little dance, she had a clean, wholesome look, which killed him, because he didn’t do clean. He liked his girls filthy dirty and without strings . . . not to mention young enough to follow his orders without too many questions. Women her age were old enough to know better.

“Tell Bolt to find someone else ASAP,” he muttered. “And until then, hands off. I’m serious.”

Gage laughed.

“Just f**k her and get it over with. It’s obvious you want to.”

“Eat shit,” Pic muttered, rubbing a hand across his stubbled chin, because Gage was right. He did want to f**k her.

He wanted to f**k her a lot.