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Patriot growled, turned his head, and glared at the asshole. “Just tell me, fucker.”
The asshole snickered again, then his thumbs were flying over the phone screen.
A moment later, he said, “I told him to keep an eye on them, and if he feels like there needs to be an intervention, then to take care of it. Honestly, Cool Hands is a safe place. Cameras, Cluster on duty, and Tornado is at the door. And word is out that Cool Hands is an Unchained establishment, so a man would be crazy as fuck to stir up shit there—especially with the women sittin’ at our tables. The most trouble our women can get into is if they start breakin’ shit.”
Shaking his head, Patriot grunted. He couldn’t picture his sweet Cilla breaking anything. She was about as violent as a butterfly.
“You could just text Cluster and ask him about Cilla, if it’s botherin’ you that much,” Horde offered, tucking his cell into the pocket in his kutte.
Patriot bit the inside of his cheek to keep from cursing. Horde knew what was going on with him and Cilla, and he also knew Patriot was keeping things under wraps, and why. The fucker was just pushing his buttons…and it was working.
Patriot didn’t miss the way Horde called the girls “our women”—his heart skipped a fucking beat hearing that. And the fact that he couldn’t actually claim her as his woman, was a goddamn kick in the balls. It was bad enough that Cluster didn’t know to text him about Cilla because Cluster didn’t know that Cilla belonged to Patriot—because no one fucking did.
And they couldn’t. Not with the shit with Jaime’s new stalker churning up club interest.
After hearing that first voicemail on Jaime’s phone, he’d texted Stallion, then he’d texted Frost, their prez, asking him to call church. That evening, in an emergency church, Patriot had filled the officers in on everything Jaime had told him, and what he and Red had dug up on Eliot. But since Eliot was actually in Pittsburgh—Red checked—it was unlikely that he was the one pulling shit on Jaime. Frost still had Red dig through Eliot Montaine’s life for information about him, and whether it was likely he would hire someone to scare Jaime. The jury was still out about that piece of shit, and they were still standing around, holding their dicks, waiting for the asshole who threatened Patriot to make another move.
Until the stalker resurfaced, Unchained was going about business as usual…but Patriot was fucking suffocating. As a club woman, sister to a patched member, Jaime was under club protection, and that meant that since there was a threat to her, she had a club brother or a prospect with her at all times. Surprise, surprise, she’d demanded that Patriot be the one to protect her. But Patriot was the motherfucking VP, which meant he had responsibilities outside of babysitting female vipers.
And the threat against the club, against Patriot, meant it was doubly impossible for him to claim Cilla. The moment word got out about her and how much she meant to him, she’d become a target—Patriot had no doubt about it. She was his only weakness, his soft spot, his whole fucking world. If she got hurt because of Jaime’s stalker bullshit…he’d strap himself to his bike, and drive it right into the goddamn ocean.
Probably realizing Patriot was lost in his thoughts about the mess Jaime dragged the club into, Horde heaved a sigh and clapped Patriot on the shoulder.
“Come on, man. Just a little longer, then we can meet our women at Cool Hands.”
Patriot flexed his jaw, hating that Horde was right…and wrong. Most definitely, they’d be heading to Cool Hands once they finished their drop at the clubhouse, but the only one who’d get to be with their woman tonight would be Horde. Because as much as Patriot wanted to charge into Cool Hands, grab Cilla, and kiss the fuck out of her for everyone to see…he couldn’t. It was safer that way. She was safer. And if her safety meant he would get blue balls watching her have a good time, then he’d fucking suffer for her.
An hour and a half later, the truck was parked at the clubhouse, and Horde and Patriot were headed toward downtown Scranton.
Cool Hands was a club investment in that they were approached by the son of Frost’s longtime friend, Mustard, to give a percentage of the startup money for a percentage of the profits. Unchained, knowing a pub was a great way to clean their money, bought in at 49%. That meant the owner, James Quinn, was still the owner on paper, but the Unchained made sure their investment was protected by keeping an eye on the place. Usually, a brother or two would stop in, and Tornado took on the job of bouncer/bar security. Quinn got his dream of owning a bar, and the Unchained got a new hangout and cash cow. Win-win.
Parking their bikes in the designated spots nearest the doors, Horde headed in while Patriot scanned the parking lot. Quinn had put a good amount of the seed money toward redoing the lot, adding lighting, security cameras, and expanding the number of spaces available. Patriot was glad about the improvements because that meant that Cilla would have been safe to cross the lot to her car, which she—smartly—parked under a light post.
Jogging to her little Toyota, he did a quick check to make sure the doors were locked, before he jogged back to the bar and slipped inside. He tipped his head to Tornado in greeting as he passed the brother working as the bouncer, then paused to scan the crowd. He could see Horde’s head above everyone else’s, since the man stood 6’6” and ate his Wheaties every morning.
Catching the gaze of the bartender, he pointed at the corner table, silently telling the man he wanted service at the club tables. It would mean dealing with one of the simpering, bad boy thirsty waitresses Quinn hired, but Patriot didn’t give a fuck. As long as Cilla was beside him, he could weather even desperate women looking to score Unchained cock for the night.
Pushing through the milling crowd, Patriot cursed when he saw Jaime seated beside Sasha and Tasha at one of the club’s tables. The prospect assigned to her, Jimmy, was seated next to Cluster, who was downing what looked like a shot of rye. Almost as if she could sense Patriot’s presence, Jaime turned, spotted him, then flashed a wide, predatory smile. Her expression was a practiced “come fuck me” look, that probably worked on many men in the past, but it didn’t work on him.
With Jaime and her posse there, that meant he would have to be more than careful about how he reacted to and treated Cilla. Any sign of affection, any lingering look, any word out of place between two friends, and those women would catch it like an STI, and spread it just as quickly, too. And it wasn’t just the women and the club brothers he had to be careful of. Since he had no idea who the stalker was, he couldn’t know if that asshole was in the bar, watching. He could be following Jaime, waiting for the Unchained to let their guard down. He could be watching Patriot, looking for something to take from him to punish him for “taking Jaime” from him.
Fuck…this was bad. Jaime should have stayed home; coming out was dangerous and fucking reckless, but that was Jaime, only thinking about herself and what she wanted.
No doubt, Jaime was expecting “boyfriend” shit tonight, but he absolutely refused to to that shit with Cilla right there. Jaime would just have to deal with it for a few hours.
Lifting his chin in greeting, he continued past Jaime’s table, ignoring the way her expression morphed into a glare, and he came to a stop beside Horde, who was grinning down at Stephie.
Impatient to see his woman, Patriot’s gaze glided to the woman seated across the booth from Stephie.
God.
Fucking.
Damn.
What the hell was she thinking, coming into a bar dressed like a motherfucking goddess? He remembered that dress—it was burned into his fucking memory. She wore that the night he first saw her, the night she swanned into the Unchained clubhouse and fucking bewitched him. He’d been under her spell since, and he was more than happy to be a thrall to her forever.
Unable to bite back a growl, Patriot nearly shoved Horde out of the way to get to the booth opening so he could grab Cilla and drag her to the bar’s office.
