Page 87 of Playboy’s Purgatory

He doesn’t let it show. But I swear I can feel it clenching around my heart as I look at his bowed head.

“Tonight,” Ryker pauses, “I’m no longer your Prez.”

Every muscle in Omen’s body locks up tight and I’m almost in fucking tears over here. My fingers tighten around my glass, and I want to take a step toward him.

“Tonight,” Ryker’s voice booms just as Scratch materializes out of nowhere and hands something over, “I’m just your brother.”

Omen’s head snaps up as Ryker holds up a brand-new cut, one with Omen on the chest without a trace of the Prospect patch. My heart is pounding in my chest as Ryker, this club’s President, helps to slip the cut into place on his newest brother.

When the cheering starts, I’m in the thick of it, my throat going raw as I hoot and yell. Playboy kisses the side of my head, but I barely notice.

Once things calm down, for the most part, I turn toward Playboy, still a little breathless. “How does it still come as a surprise? Bolt just saw that play out, won’t he know when his time comes?”

“Naw,” Jettson shakes his head, “Ryker changes it up every time. Sometimes it’s just an announcement, not because they don’t deserve the whole act, but because they deserved it another way. Like if someone puts their life on the line for the club, it’s honored, not made into a spectacle.”

My lips part as I stare up at Jettson. He just winks. Somehow, his words make so much sense. The loyalty within them, the honor, is something I can understand.

As the brothers start to crowd around Omen, I give Jettson a little shove and encourage him, “Go on then, go and greet your new brother.”

He flashes me a grin before turning, taking two steps, and stopping. My eyebrows pull together as he spins back toward me, takes my face in his hands, and kisses me. Soundly.

With tongue.

In front of everyone.

With a big smack on my lips, he releases me and heads toward Omen. My fingers come up and rub against my lips, which feel a little swollen.

Opal lets out a low whistle and I jump a little. She’s grinning at me, the look on her face far too knowing for my liking.

“You scared me,” I gasp.

Her eyes go wide as she stares at me. “I’ve been sitting next to you like the entire time. We both just watched the same show,” she points out while waving in the direction of where Omen is being swallowed whole by leather and t-shirts stretching far too tight across shoulders far too broad.

I swear this club needs to have a male review thing on the side.

“I forgot you were there,” I say absently. I tilt my head, my eyes watching Playboy. “Has anyone ever suggested a calendar of some sort? It would be a real moneymaker.”

Opal giggles while eyeing me. “He just claimed you in front of the club, just so you know.”

“No,” I start shaking my head, “he just kissed me.”

“Same thing,” she deadpans, “when it’s you, and this is the situation.”

Her eyes move over my shoulders and I almost cover myself. “What are you doing?”

“I’m mentally guessing what cut size will be ordered for you,” she says it so easily.

While I choke on my own spit.

“Don’t go putting lies in her head,” Lola’s voice has us both turning to find her standing a few feet away with her hands on her hips and her…parts barely covered.

I try to keep my face neutral; I really do. But one corner of my mouth curls up and it really can’t be helped.

“Oh, here we go,” Opal says under her breath. “The cunt thinks she has something to say.”

“Cunt?” Lola screeches, but Opal’s look stays level. Very fucking level. “Who the hell are you, anyway?”

I step in front of Opal because I know this isn’t about her; it’s about me. It’s always about me.