Page 44 of Defiant Queen (Mount Trilogy 2)
Mount
The growl of the Chevelle’s engine is exactly what I needed, but instead of driving around aimlessly, it takes me somewhere I haven’t been in a while, and that’s something I need to rectify. The majority of my life is lived in the shadows. People whisper my name, as if afraid saying it out loud will bring me to their doorstep. Sometimes, it does.
But luckily for me, there are a few places that border the shadows where I can go without being bothered and still make the connections necessary to continue to expand my empire. The Jackson Club is one of those places.
It’s rumored it was started by Andrew Jackson himself in the early 1800s, but I couldn’t care less about the club’s history or pedigree. All I care about is that the membership is exclusive, and there’s a known rule that it’s neutral territory. A hitman could see his target in the club, and if he made a move, the penalty would be death. Every member has the right to enforce that rule. It’s the only way to maintain order in the club and allow some of the most powerful men in the world to feel at ease behind its hallowed doors.
I’ve heard the waiting list to be granted entrance is years long, but a few things get you to the top in a hurry—like a shitload of money, a blueblood pedigree, or some kind of celebrity status. Luckily for me, I own this town. They would never deny me entrance. In addition, the current manager is an acquaintance. Quade Buck keeps this club running efficiently, and no matter how many times I’ve tried to lure him away to run my casino, he turns me down. I can’t blame him.
I wouldn’t want to work for me either. One major fuckup can easily cost someone their life.
Quade greets me from behind the bar as soon as I enter the dark-paneled room. The club is updated annually, and our dues reflect it. It’s a masculine refuge from the outside world. Heavy wooden furniture dominates, and a tinge of cigar smoke not captured by the air-filtration system hangs in the air. Although I see plenty of familiar faces as I scan the large room, I choose to head in Quade’s direction behind the bar first. A drink is definitely in order.
“When are you going to quit pulling shifts behind this bar? If you worked at my place, you wouldn’t have to serve another drink as long as you live.”
Quade’s gruff laugh is the same response I get every time. “I don’t mind slinging drinks. I’m not too proud to work. Besides, this way I get to keep my finger on the pulse of the club and what’s happening with everyone in it. You drinking tonight?”
“Absolutely.”
When Quade turns to grab what he knows is my preferred brand of Scotch, a bottle on the shelf catches my eye. Seven Sinners whiskey.
Fuck, she even followed me here.
Quade follows my gaze in the mirror toward it, missing nothing. “You changing it up tonight?” He shifts his hand to wrap around the neck of the Seven Sinners bottle, his eyebrows raised in question.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to say that I’ve already had the best Seven Sinners has to offer tonight, but I bite it back. “No. I want exactly what I always have.”
Quade eyes me with interest as he grabs the Scotch and pours three fingers, neat. When he slides it across the bar, he leans against the thick, aged wood. “What brings you in? It’s been a few months since you’ve been around.”
“Been wrapped up with a few issues.”
He pushes off the bar and crosses his arms. “Issues? Thought men at your level didn’t have those.”
A huff that’s half laugh, half grunt escapes my lips. “Wouldn’t that be nice. I’ve got them handled. No other option.”
“Scorched earth, right? That’s what you’re known for.”
“Doesn’t work all the time.”
Quade tosses the towel in the sink and watches me for a few moments before speaking again. “Word around the club is that V has been spending a lot of time driving back and forth between your compound and a certain distillery in town.” He nods to the bottle of Seven Sinners whiskey on the shelf, as though his statement needs clarification.
J’s warning was right. People are noticing and talking, and that’s not good.
“Who the fuck cares where he’s driving?”
Quade crosses his arms again. “Plenty of people, apparently. It’s not like you’re known for putting your mark on a local.”
“What are they saying?” I need to know, because maybe scorched earth will become necessary to shut down any gossip.
“Everything from blackmail and extortion to kidnapping and indentured servitude.” He eyes me carefully. “When it comes to you, I don’t have a hard time believing any of it.”
Relief surges through me because my obsession hasn’t become part of the conversation.
When I don’t reply, he asks, “You gonna tell me what’s really going on, Mount?”
I lift the glass of Scotch to my lips and take a sip. Immediately, I wish I’d picked the whiskey.
What the hell is she doing to me?
