Todos los capítulos de Claimed By The Biker King: Capítulo 31 - Capítulo 36

 JarekThe phone rang once.“Santos,” came the voice.“Talk,” I said.“I’ve got movement—black SUV, tinted windows, parked a couple houses down like they’re trying to pretend they belong here. But that shiny ride? Beacon that screams suburb money in a neighborhood with rusted-out swings and broken porch lights.”I straightened from my desk. “How many?”“Two. One’s leaning on the railing like he owns the place, the other’s pacing like his boots are trying to start a fight with the sidewalk. I scoped them through the binocs—cut sleeves, heavy tread, something tucked under their jackets that sure as hell looks like leather and ego.”My grip tightened. “What club?”“Couldn’t see the patch, but I’d bet your left hand it’s Jones. The build fits. Scar on the neck. Always scan

SableProspect work was supposed to be grunt shit.Patch tires, clean tools, organize garage stock, haul your weight and keep your mouth shut.So when the three of us got told to organize a fundraiser before the end of the year—on top of everything else—it felt like a setup.Except Nixx and Smitty jumped at it like dogs fighting over a bone.“A pool tournament,” Smitty declared. “New Year’s Eve. We’ll turn the bar into a full-on bracket showdown. Booze, bets, music. Boom. Profit.”“And tits,” Nixx added. “Because nothing makes people open their wallets like cleavage and cue balls.”I didn’t argue. Didn’t even flinch.Let them have their brofest.Because while they were busy dreaming up testosterone-fueled chaos, I already had my own shit rolling.Something better. Smarter. Bigger.See, the instruction was to “organize a fundraiser.” Period. Not what it had to raise funds for. And while they’re throwing together a party that’ll line the club’s coffers, I’m thinking longer game. Bigger

SableTen minutes later, we were curled up on opposite ends of the wide couch in the clubhouse lounge. The lighting was low, just a couple warm lamps flickering against the wood-paneled walls and a small electric fireplace kicking off heat in the corner. The smell of motor oil still clung faintly to the air—underneath the popcorn, of course.Hannah had brought two bowls of popcorn, each absurdly full. One was golden, classic, with a glisten of real butter. The other was a chaotic mess—dark chocolate drizzled over the top and pickles chopped so fine they blended into the curls of corn.I dunked one of the sticky-sour monstrosities into my mouth and caught him staring.“Don’t judge me,” I warned, crunching defiantly.Jarek tilted his head. “Too late. I’ve already made funeral arrangements for your tastebuds.”I shot him a look. “You’re just scared to try it.”“I’m scared for humanity if that ever becomes a real craving trend.”He tossed a throw blanket across my lap without comment, set