Devlin (Dirty Aces MC #2) - Lane Hart Page 0,25

you details.”

“He said he owed you a little money, that’s all, and that you added on a bunch of interest,” I say softly into the phone because I don’t want my brother to hear me through the wall.

“The four thousand is with no interest actually,” Devlin tells me. “Our president is feeling generous now that he’s a father and soon-to-be husband.”

“What was Sean gambling on?” I ask, wanting more information and, as stupid as it is, not really wanting to end the call with him yet. Since moving back home, I haven’t been in contact with many friends. Most have moved away, or we’ve grown apart, except for Carla.

“We have all sorts of shit people bet on — football games, the Super Bowl is a big one, baseball, and other sports. Then there’s the actual casino boat with poker, blackjack and all the usual games.”

“Four thousand isn’t a lot of money,” I remark.

“Not really in the big scheme of things,” Devlin agrees. “If you can pay it back. While our president is generous with the interest, he’s still insisting that we collect every penny due by the end of the month because we’ve been too slack lately and no one is ponying up what they owe.”

“I’ll help pay what Sean owes.”

“Like hell you will!” Devlin says. “This is your brother’s mess. He needs to figure out how to pay it back.”

“I have a job and can pay some toward the total,” I assure him. “If you’ll agree not to hurt him again.”

“Where are you working?” Devlin asks.

“Like I would really tell you that,” I scoff.

“Come on, baby. Admit it. You’ve missed me and my ice and my big dick,” he says, making me smile despite my annoyance. “Do you need me to send you a pic so you can remember how amazing my cock is?”

“Do not send me a dick pic or I’ll block you and change my number!” I warn him.

“Too late,” he says as my phone dings.

And I hate to admit the speed at which I look at the incoming photo which is, of course, an up-close shot of a long, hard penis…wearing a pair of black sunglasses on the thick base. There’s even a strip of white sunscreen running down the shaft like it’s a long nose. Oh, and I can’t forget the tiny, colorful drink umbrella that is tucked into his pubes.

“You are…insane!” I say when I eventually put the phone back up to my ear before ending the call.

I don’t block his number even though I consider it for a long time.

For now, I decide to keep it just in case since my brother is hiding shit from me. But that is the only reason.

I have no plans of ever sleeping with Devlin again.

None at all.

The thought never even crossed my mind…except a few hundred times later that night.

Chapter Eleven

Devlin

I don’t text or call Jetta again over the next week, figuring she’s probably blocked me, and it would hurt too much to find out for sure.

Fiasco and I still pay Sean a visit as promised, only we follow him early in the morning before work to his job site to make sure Jetta isn’t around.

“Fuck,” Sean mutters when he gets out of his car and we climb out of Fiasco’s Thing. “Now you’re following me like psycho stalkers?”

“It’s been a week, James,” I tell him as Fiasco and I approach him, both of us with our guns by our sides, not pointing them since we could have witnesses around. “Pay up.”

“I don’t have your money,” he says. “I’m working on it.”

“You have to work faster,” Fiasco says as we box James in against the side of his car. “You knew the deadline.”

“I can’t make money magically appear! If I had it, I would pay you!” he exclaims.

“Tell you what,” I say. “For this week only, I’ll make you a deal. If you give me some info on Jetta, we’ll let you have one more week to get us two grand.”

“So you want my sister, huh? Too bad,” he says with a grin. “She promised me she was done with you.”

Goddamn it.

“We’ll see about that,” I tell him. “Where does she work?”

“Why should I tell you?” he asks like a total moron.

“Because if you tell me, we’ll let both of your arms and legs keep working,” I explain.

“Fair enough,” he says, swallowing audibly. “Jetta got a job at one of those waterparks in town.”

“Which one?”

“Fuck, I can’t remember,” he grumbles, scrubbing his palm down his sweaty