Free REIGN: A Motorcycle Club Romance Novel by Meg Jackson Page B

out of bed before noon?” she asked
before turning to pour out a very, very stiff drink. Kid sure looked like he
needed it.

 
    “ Ain’t my bed. Got kicked out,” Reign said,
taking a long swill from the drink and smacking his lips together. “Sure glad I
didn’t brush my teeth first.”

 
    “You spent the night with someone?” Honey asked, more surprised than
anything else. “I thought that was one of your rules, never spend the night?”

 
    “Yeah, well, the girl was so good, I wanted to get it again when I
woke up. But we never did get to sleepin ’,” Reign
said, somewhat bashful. He realized that he was slipping back into a more
comfortable vernacular, and thought about how much he’d wanted to impress
Gabriella. Even after she’d let him do whatever he wanted to her body, some
part of him still wanted to impress her mind. He kept his eyes away from
Honey’s as she looked him up and down.

 
    “You’re not talking about that curvy piece what was in here last
night, huh? The one with the shiner made her look like damn Mohammad Ali?”

 
    “That’s the one. C’mon, Honey, that bruise was gnarly but those
hips…whew!”

 
    “I like girls, too, Reign, but girl like that means trouble. The way
she was clutching that bag to her like it was her baby…someone’s looking for
her, most likely,” Honey said, idly wiping at the bar.

 
    “Yeah, a cop,” Reign said with a half-smile. Honey stopped wiping the
bar, put her hands on her hips. “Her hubby is Colorado PD.”

 
    “You think that’s something to smile about? You fuckin’ think that’s a
joke? We ain’t exactly selling flowers here, Reign.
Jesus, I though thirty-year-olds were supposed to have a little more going on
between the ears, but you provin ’ me wrong, boy,”
Honey said, visibly agitated.

 
    “Aw, she’ll be movin ’ on soon, I reckon. She
sure plans to. Though I hope not too soon…”

 
    “Damn right she will be. I’m kickin ’ her
out. We don’t need that kinda trouble around here,”
Honey said.

 
    “You’re not doing any damn thing like it,” Reign said, suddenly no
longer playful. Honey turned to him, eyebrows raised, as he stared at her. She
felt ice plunge into her heart. He meant business.

 
    And she couldn’t exactly argue with him, not with him being the likely
next president of the Black Smokes. Reign kept his eyes glued to hers as he
pulled out a pack of cigarettes, rapping it against the table. Two coffin nails
popped out and he brought the pack to his mouth, holding both between his lips,
never breaking eye contact. With a flip of his other wrist, he lit his zippo,
both cigarettes lighting at once. He puffed on one while grabbing the other,
holding it out to Honey.

 
    “Smoke up,” he said. “And don’t you walk around sayin ’
you’re gonna kick people out. We all been in that
girl’s place, you know. She needs a place to hideout, this one is as good as
any. We’ll smell that pig coming miles away. We always do, don’t we? And make
sure you spread the word that she ain’t here. We
never seen her. Never even heard of her.”

 
    “Uh huh,” Honey said, taking the offered cigarette and indulging in a
long drag, blowing the smoke above her head, eyes closed as she tried to shake
the bad feeling that was trying to settle in her bones.

 
    Women’s intuition , she thought. Reign wouldn’t get it, but she
just had that notion in her heart that this girl was trouble. She seemed sweet enough,
and Honey didn’t wish her any ill, but that didn’t change the fact that
battered women with mysterious duffel bags and cop husbands were never going to
be anything but bad news.

 
    “Why don’t you drink with me, Honey?” Reign said, dropping his death glare
and offering a truce in the form of one of his famous, knee-knocking,
panty-dropping smiles.

 
    Honey’d been down that road before, most of the chicks had, and knew exactly how much
of a man Reign was.