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“Get in,” Angel said.
“I don’t—”
Angel pushed her in and followed. She glared as he made himself comfortable. This place was a fucking dump. She didn’t dare touch the table, which looked as if it had a month’s worth of grime on it. She could just imagine what she was sitting on. She kept her back ramrod straight so her new sweater wouldn’t touch the booth, which was no doubt filthy. At first, she thought they were the only ones in the bar, but she was mistaken. Against the walls, she could make out the figures of other men slouched in booths.
“What are we doing here?” she hissed.
“The chicken wings are amazing.”
“You can’t eat what they serve you! This place can’t pass a health code inspection!”
A man rounded the stage with a large tray. He came straight to their table and placed two plates of chicken wings with a linen napkin on the table before he walked away without a word.
“See, we were almost late,” Angel said as he shook out the napkin and placed it on his lap.
It was hard to see the wings, but they smelled delicious. Her mouth watered, but she wouldn’t have eaten those wings unless she had gone without food for a week … and maybe not even then.
“What the hell is going on, Angel?”
He dug into his meal without answering her. No one moved except the girls on stage. Her skin prickled in warning. Something dangerous was going on here, but she couldn’t figure out what. No one made eye contact; they all stared at the stage as if these women were the best dancers in the world, which they weren’t. No one had a drink in front of them, and no one was eating except Angel. What. The. Fuck.
The front door opened. She peered through the dim light as the man advanced through the bar and took a booth three down from theirs. There was just enough light to make out Eli Stark’s sharp, handsome features. The polished image he maintained when he was a cop was gone. Now, he had a five o’clock shadow that she had to admit looked good on him, and his broodiness was off the charts. She knew Eli from her stripping days. Back then, he was a regular cop who was called out to Red Diamond on a weekly basis. She’d witnessed him in action. He was a heartless bastard.
“Eli Stark’s here,” she muttered.
“What do you know about him?” Angel asked as he stared down at his plate instead of taking in their surroundings.
“He’s cold and ruthless.”
“Loyal?”
“He has his own code of what’s right or wrong.”
Angel nodded. “Sounds like my kind of man.”
Several bikers came out from behind the stage and took up stools at the empty bar. They, too, stared at the stage as if they were watching an interesting show. Their guns were on full display.
She gripped Angel’s arm. “We should go.”
“Why?”
She leaned in close to whisper, “Black Vipers.”
“The what?”
“The bikers at the bar. They’re the most violent gang on the West Coast. They don’t have loyalties to anyone.”
Angel licked his finger. “They’ll behave.”
“What the fuck is going on?”
“I’m eating wings.”
“Fuck the wings, Angel. What—” She broke off as the front door opened again.
Another group of men filed in, but this time, they were well-dressed and definitely shouldn’t be in a place like this. An older man led them. George Wotherton handled most of the Pyre fortune and was an old crony of Uncle Manny’s. George knew all the loopholes to keep the Pyre’s money hidden and untraceable. Despite the fact that George was essentially on their side, she never liked him. He arranged all five of his daughter’s marriages and frequented The Strip with his sons-in-law, who worked for him and were currently occupying two tables in front of the stage.
She gripped Angel’s thigh beneath the table. “That’s George Wotherton.”
