wanted her thinking I was into her, I didn’t want to make it too easy. It was like fishing—always a mistake to try reeling them in the first time they nibble the bait. It’s better to let them get a good taste and then set the hook.
Jack’s Roadhouse was like every other small-town dive I’d ever been in—populated almost entirely by locals, ranging in age from the newly minted twenty-one-year-olds (or at least those who’d managed to get fake IDs, although in a town this small it was more about plausible deniability than anything else) to a few old men who had to be in their seventies. The music was classic rock, the beer was strictly domestic, and the battered tables had seen better days. Wasn’t a half-bad place, though—people seemed to be enjoying themselves, and there were some girls on the dance floor strutting their stuff.
Talia and her posse had staked out a table about halfway back, near the dance floor. The table was littered with empty shot glasses and several untouched glasses of water—guess they weren’t into pacing themselves. I recognized a couple of the women from earlier in the week. Talia spent a lot of time in the bar, which made my job that much easier. Totally natural for a man who’s new to town to visit the local watering hole, and even more natural to home in on a woman who looked like Talia Jackson. On paper she was a perfect ten.
In the flesh? Not so much.
The girl had no curves, for one thing. She was also hard—aged beyond her years with a nasty, calculating air in everything she did. Fucking her would be like fucking a strip of jerky. I watched as the girls raised their glasses, polishing off another round of shots before slamming them back down on the table with a crash. Talia looked up, catching a glimpse of me.
“Cooper!” she shrieked, jumping up and running over toward me. My arms rose to catch her, and then her legs were wrapped around my waist, clutching me tightly. Her mouth covered mine for a kiss that burned with alcohol and the lingering taste of buffalo wings.
You’re doing this for the Reapers, I reminded myself. No different than one of our club whores fucking a guy to get information. Somehow I managed to kiss her back, hands gripping her ass. My hungry dick responded, which was something of a blessing. Maybe having Tinker around would be a good thing after all—I could just think of her anytime I had to touch Talia.
After what felt like a thousand years, Marsh’s sister pulled away, catching my face with both hands.
“I have great news!”
“What’s that?” I asked, wondering how drunk she was.
“My brother wants to meet you,” she slurred, blinking owlishly. Fucking hell, that was good news. The sooner I got in with Marsh Jackson and figured out what was going on, the sooner I’d be able to get the hell out of this shithole.
Of course, then I’d never get my chance with Tinker. In that instant I remembered why I didn’t like women my own age—they complicated things.
They were interesting instead of interchangeable.
“That’s great,” I told Talia, making sure I didn’t sound too enthusiastic. Just ’cause this was her turf didn’t mean I had to give her full custody of my balls. “He’s a biker, right?”
Talia rolled her eyes, sliding down my body until her feet touched the floor. Then she reached up, straightening my hair.
Like a pet.
“No, he’s the biker,” she corrected. “He’s the president of the Nighthawk Raiders—that means he owns this fucking town. If you plan to stick around—even as an independent—you don’t want him pissed off at you.”
“Really?” I asked, raising a brow. “And what happens if he gets pissed at me?”
She shrugged, the gesture playful. “Not sure. You’d have to ask my last boyfriend.”
I laughed. “And let me guess—nobody knows what happened to him?”
Her eyes sparkled.
“How’d you figure it out?” she asked, a hint of steel in her voice. “It’s a bit of a mystery. One night he cheated on me, and the next he was just gone. It was a real shame, because he had a kid and everything.”
I smiled adoringly at the sociopathic little bitch. At least there wasn’t any danger of feeling guilty about using her to infiltrate the club—cunt had a gift for killing off even the slightest hint of empathy.
“Sounds like a loser,” I replied. “You’re better off without him.”