Clubwhore (Devil's Renegade MC #1)(12)

“You know,” I say, spinning in my chair to face them as they take a seat on my bed and get comfortable. “Saying ‘knock knock’ isn’t really considered asking for permission to come in. Especially when you don’t bother waiting for an invite.”

“You stole my car.”

“That doesn’t justify you being in here. Uninvited. And besides, that was weeks ago.”

“Well, your door was open.”

The more Red talks, the less I like her. But she’s like a fungus that won’t go away unless you treat it. In this case, the quickest way for her to leave is for me to listen to whatever it is she has to say. This time, it’s gonna cost her more than pumpkin pancakes I never got to eat.

“What do you want?” I ask, turning back to face myself in the mirror. This war paint isn’t gonna apply itself.

“We were hoping you could help us get something.” I raise my eyes to Dallas’ in the mirror. To be such a confident multi-millionaire who is the CEO of her own company, she sure does look uneasy from where I’m sitting.

“How much you want?” They glance at each other in question. Shaking my head, I grab my mascara and opt for the bathroom mirror. Climbing on the counter, I sit cross-legged and lean in close. I was hoping for a break from their watchful eyes, but of course they followed me.

“You don’t even know what we want.”

“Yes I do. You want pot.” No sooner are the words out of my mouth than they’re shhhing me and running to close the door. Idiots. I’m thankful every day that I’m not an ol’ lady—asking favors from clubwhores and keeping secrets from my husband. But I’m especially thankful right now. Damn, I hope I never look that desperate.

“We just need a couple blunts.” I can’t tell you who said it, both of them sound the same when they whisper.

“It’s cheaper if you buy it by the pound.” I nearly snort at my own words. I know what Dallas is going to say even before she says it.

“Money isn’t an issue.” Of course it isn’t. Must be nice…

I make them wait until I’ve finished coating my lashes in bat crap before I turn to face them. Swinging my legs over the side of the counter, I just sit and enjoy the moment. No matter what they think now, at one time they didn’t like me. Hell, they probably still don’t.

Even though it’s been confirmed that, in their eyes, I’m just the girl the club pays to suck cock, there’s no telling what other kind of shit they say about me behind my back. Yet, here they are, looking like a bunch of underage girls hiding from their parents and at my mercy. It makes me smile.

“You know it’s gonna cost you, right?” This isn’t the first time I’ve made some extra money off the very women that despise me—well, maybe not me in particular, but definitely what I’m about.

“Name your price.” There’s that confident CEO, I-own-the-fucking-world Dallas I know.

“I’ll buy enough weed to keep you girls happy for a couple months, and I’ll stash it out here. When you want it, you can get it from me and that will prevent me from having to go out every time y’all have a birthday, or party, or anniversary or whatever the fuck it is y’all are always celebrating.”

“I like it.” Red smiles, jerking her head on a nod and turning to Dallas—the one with the fat check book.

“Fine. How much?”

I grin at Dallas who narrows her eyes on me. She knows when she’s getting taken advantage of. But turnabout is fair play. I’m getting taken advantage of too. And she knows that as well.

“Five hundred for the pot, and you pay me whatever you think my silence is worth.”

“So if it’s not enough you’ll rat us out.” Red’s words make my blood heat and I glare at her.

“I’m not a rat. This is a ‘you scratch my back I scratch yours’ kinda deal. If you think my silence is worth a nickel and I think it’s worth a dime, then next time you come asking for a favor, I’ll tell you I can’t. That’s it. I’ll never talk. The two of you get yourself in enough shit. You don’t need my help.”

Like the baller she is, Dallas pulls a wad of cash from her designer purse. “Five hundred for the pot,” she says, flipping bills like it’s George Washington’s face she’s looking at and not Benjamin Franklin’s. “And a G for your silence.”

“A G?” I ask, raising my brows in amusement. “You do realize you don’t have to speak thug around me? I mean, this is a drug deal, but saying ‘a thousand’ doesn’t make you any less of a criminal. Money sounds the same in all accents and languages.”

“I’m in the moment, okay? Red has me feeling all gangsta and shit.”

“Yeah, dog.” Throwing her hand in what I can only guess is a gang sign, Red lifts her chin to me. I can only stare back at her with a look I hope makes her feel as stupid as she sounds.

Snatching the money from Dallas’ fingers, I shake my head at both of them. “Just…get out. I’ll text you in a little while.”

Forty-seven thank yous and an almost hug later, they leave. Placing my hands on the counter, I pull in a deep breath. Just their presence is enough to exhaust me.

“And they think your life is pathetic…” Maybe it’s time they find a mirror of their own.



Knowing better than to use one of the brothers for the amount of weed I plan on purchasing, I make a call to a guy who’s frequented the clubhouse a few times. He hooks up some of the members with stuff when they want to party.

After catching him eyeing several of the men a little too appreciatively, I pulled him to the side and warned him that being so obvious about his homosexuality might interfere with business in a place like this. But heeding my warning wasn’t necessary. The club, or at least Luke, was aware of his lifestyle. They didn’t care. I guess when you have access to the best weed in Mississippi, it really doesn’t matter who you share your bed with.

I haven’t seen him in several months, but he seems excited enough to hear from me and assures me he has what I need. Texting me his address, he tells me what I want will be ready when I get there. Once again, I use my bedroom window as an exit to avoid questions. This time, I lock my door before I leave.

Since I’ll be gone a couple hours and there are a few brothers around needing company tonight, I make sure to wear something sexy beneath my hoodie and sweats. When Dallas sees me creeping around the side of the building, she gives me a thumbs-up instead of an inquisitive glare. From her position under her carport she can’t see me, but I flip her off.



Willy Hux lives in The Avenues—a neighborhood consisting of homes built in the twenties and thirties that housed the wealthiest part of Hattiesburg at one time. The east end of the neighborhood is still filled with old money and considered a good part of the town to live in. But the west end butts up against the part of downtown Hattiesburg you don’t want to be caught in after dark. Living on the street that divides the two worlds, Willy is able to stay off the radar and still be within walking distance of his best clients.

Growing up in a neighborhood with a bad name, filled with bad people, I’ve never been scared or felt out of place in areas where crime is more common than not. So there’s no fear when I park on the street across from the apartment building I’m sure more than one criminal calls home. Wrapping my hands around the cash in the pocket of my hoodie, I don’t even bother looking over my shoulder as I walk up the path in complete darkness.

“There’s a face that ain’t easy to forget.” I return Willie’s smile as he holds the door open wider and gestures for me to come in. The place smells like incense and is filled with antiques. Several people sit scattered on the vintage furniture that surrounds an original fireplace that still burns wood. Feeling something warm against my cold hand, I look down to find Willie’s pale, almost translucent hand clasped in mine.

“I want to show you something.”

“Another time? I have to be getting back. I have some entertaining to do tonight.” Flashing him my best smile, I give him a wink. He laughs knowingly, but ignores me and continues to lead me through the living room and into the kitchen.

Despite how much I need to get back, I can’t help but admire the beauty that is his home. The original hardwood floors are lined with rugs that have me feeling guilty for walking across them in my shoes. Nearly every space on the wall is covered in portraits and paintings that each have to be at least fifty years old.

“This was my grandmother’s house. She left it to my mother when she passed, who left it to me. Everything here once belonged to my family. My great aunt, who is now deceased, was also a collector. I inherited everything she had too. But this,” he says, waving his hand around the small kitchen, “is a modern renovation that I’m very proud of.” As he should be.

The electric blue cabinetry is so loud and absurd, it’s perfect. The under-cabinet lighting illuminates the white granite countertops and stainless steel appliances. It’s a completely different style compared to every other part of the house, but I can’t imagine it being any more perfect.