Novel & Cerita Poor Devil Saloon

She'd given birth to the devil. The devil had just embarked on a journey of betrayal. He was the client, he was the devil, he was Sal - the best friend of Harvey Rhett.

She ran away and left her alone in the hands of this demon. She looked at Eric who had a devilish smile on his face, then stared down at her stomach. ‘Maybe you were meant to be a mafia after all.’

From a life of luxury and comfort, they had been thrust into poverty and hardship. Margaret remembered the shame and humiliation of being splashed across the front pages of every newspaper. The headlines had been merciless, detailing their financial woes and personal struggles. She had been unable to bear the shame, feeling like she was living in a nightmare from which she couldn't awaken. The constant attention had been suffocating, making it impossible for her to escape the pain and humiliation of their situation. Margaret’s eyes dropped, the memories still painful even after all these years. But as she looked up, a steely determination burned within them. She would make sure that Edward H

But I wasn't giving up that easily. "Think Matilda" I stared at my laptop hoping to conjure some answers from thin air. "Where can I get information about a loan shark biker gang that's anonymous and headed by a Man named Gideon?" Ugh. Dad the ruiner. Fucking up my life even in his death. How the hell did that drunk bozo get entangled with a biker gang? The only places he went to were the casinos and the bars. The casinos and the bars. I searched up on any casino or bar that had ties to a Gideon.

After driving for what felt like an eternity, the sleek, tinted windows of Mother's saloon car shielded us from the torrential rain pouring outside, but they did nothing to dull the neon lights glowing through the storm. The car pulled to a smooth, heavy halt right along the crowded curb. I leaned forward, my breath fogging the dark glass as I stared out at the bustling establishment in front of us. Music thudded through the chassis of the vehicle—a deep, dirty bass that vibrated straight through my leather seat. Drunks spilled out under the awning, laughing and shouting over the storm, holding heavy beer steins. It was a low-tier pack tavern that seemed to lie well outside Mooncrest territo

The kind of name that makes old men drink harder when it’s spoken. I close the message and stare at the wall. The fire crackles in the hearth behind me, each pop and spark sounding too much like gunfire. I pour another drink, the amber liquid trembling slightly as it hits the glass. “To the man I used to be,” I mutter. The whiskey burns down my throat, but I don’t stop. The pain reminds me I’m still human. Barely. Isabella’s voice slides into my memory, soft but trembling. “You’re changing, Adrian. I don’t know if it’s for the better.”

“I’d rather be a bitch than an asshole cheating on my sick wife.” Ah, was a good one. She rolled her eyes. “Sorry, I don’t have time to stand here and argue with an ignorant woman who makes minimum wage working at a strip joint, and besides, I don’t touch underage women old enough to be my kids.” He grabbed his change through the window slot, walked away. Heading to the bar, Dale took an unoccupied stool, whirling toward the barkeeper. “What’ll you have, Dale?” “Gin on the rocks, Paul.”

“Oh wow, come this way to the club house.” We both followed Cherry to the back of the club and up the stairs to the second floor. The club house reminded me of a very over lavish bachelor penthouse. As we walked through the door we were met by a small petite blonde, with light green blue eyes, and looking very sexy even for her size. “Hi Mr. Baphomet, Mr. Demogorgon, my name is Tequila and Angel will be right back with the cigarettes. So, are there any drinks that either of you would like to start off with this evening?”

I had thought coming to Picasso’s Bar to cover a quick shift for Avery’s cousin would help me relax; give me something mundane to do so I wouldn't lose my mind. But seeing Dickson again made me realize that Willow Creek was still a crazy town; just as I remembered. I could count the days on one hand that I wasn't tormented by Dickson and his pack of thugs back in the day. The bar was blasting heavy, distorted rock music, the bass vibrating in the floorboards, but even the volume couldn't drown out the nastiness of the customers who had flooded in as the sun went down. Near the pool tables, a group of girls were grinding against each other, their movements were desperate and messy. I just sig

“Yeah?” “You know that new guy I’ve been seeing? He works at the bathhouse, and he overheard some cartel guys talking.” Her eyes were wide, a mix of excitement and fear. “There’s going to be a drug trade tonight at that new club—and it’s going to get messy. Like, a bloodbath.” “What new club?” I asked. “Uh… what’s it called again? Yeah—Ortega.” Something prickled at the back of my mind. Where had I heard that name before?