Ace: Sin City MC Oakland Chapter, page 1
Ace
Sin City MC Oakland Chapter
Tamika Brown
Copyright © 2023 by Tamika Brown
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
Blurb
Stanton 'Ace' Jacobs has always been catered to. Always been told how to act; how to dress; who to socialize with, by his grandfather who raised him after his parents were killed in an accident. When his grandfather passes away, he became the sole heir of the Jacobs fortune, and seized the chance to get away from the life of privilege. Seeking a sense of belonging and family he never had, he found the brothers of Sin City and sunk his money into something that was totally his, not attached to the
Jacobs name. Sinful Desire was his baby and he'd do what he could to protect it, and his brothers, including crushing kneecaps of World Series Champion catchers. But when Jevry Demery crashes into his life, something about her takes a hold of him and suddenly, his protective instincts are activated. But with police down his back at every turn, can he afford to tackle whatever she's running from? His heart is saying yes, but his head is steering him away. Will Ace go against his logic and go with his heart?
Jevry Demery is on her way to Oakland to start her new life, but before she can even make it there, someone is trying to kill her. She's been ran into a ditch, not to mention the unexpected visit and yelling match with her ex at her apartment complex parking lot. She has no idea who would do this to her or why. Crashing into a light pole in the parking lot of a club, she wakes up on the couch of the owner, Stanton Jacobs, who for some reason has decided he needs her protection. But Jevry has always taken care of herself and doesn't need an outlaw to watch after her. But with the escalation of the attempts on her life, a curt, no nonsense biker may be just what she needs to make her not regret her decision to move to Oakland. Can Jevry and Ace find out who and why someone is after her? And in the process can she protect her heart as well as he's protected her body?
The members of Sin City MC never leave before all the cards are played.
Contents
1. Chapter One
2. Chapter Two
3. Chapter Three
4. Chapter Four
5. Chapter Five
6. Chapter Six
7. Chapter Seven
8. Chapter Eight
9. Chapter Nine
10. Chapter Ten
11. Chapter Eleven
12. Chapter Twelve
13. Chapter Thirteen
14. Chapter Fourteen
15. Chapter Fifteen
16. Chapter Sixteen
17. Chapter Seventeen
18. Chapter Eighteen
19. Chapter Nineteen
20. Chapter Twenty
Epilogue
Chapter One
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also By Tamika Brown
Chapter One
"We’ve got a problem,” T-Bone says, opening my office door without knocking. He’s one of my brothers, a patched member of Sin City MC.
I stop flipping through the fucking paperwork sitting on my desk that I hate doing and wait for him to tell me the bullshit that’s happening. I blew out a frustrated breath. I’ve told the guys so many times to fucking knock when the door is closed, especially when I’m doing paperwork because I have to concentrate.
If it’s not a customer getting handsy with one of the girls on stage or my bartenders, somebody’s trying to get over on us at the Gameroom. It’s our gambling establishment in the back of my club, Sinful Desires. Typically, the Prospects manning the games can handle things on their own. I only step in when it’s something serious.
“What the fuck is it now?” I growl.
Just once, I want things to go right in this place at night.
“It would be better if I just showed you.”
T-Bone doesn’t wait for me to respond and makes his way back the way he came. I stand and follow him out of my office and down the hall.
I briefly peek my head into the main showroom just to look things over. Chaos and Devil, two brothers who help out here, kept their eyes on the floor and bar.
T-Bone makes a left past the girls’ dressing rooms and the bathrooms. Now I know it’s some bullshit happening at the tables.
He presses his thumb to the reader, and the door opens with a push of pressurized air. Only Sinners can access the Gameroom and come and go as they please. I used the money from my trust fund to open one of the best damned establishments in Oakland. Everything I earn from this place goes to the club.
I step inside the room, and T-Bone closes the door behind us. The place is buzzing with excitement as loud music bumps through the speakers. I move deeper into the room to see Digger, a Prospect, has someone hemmed up in the corner while Slim, another Prospect, has a gun aimed at his head.
“What the hell is going on?”
I can clearly identify the man as Digger steps away from him.
“Ahh, shit.” I run my hand through my hair. “What the fuck happened?”
This shit just increased my anxiety another level. There’s always something.
“This motherfucker thought he could cheat us by counting fucking cards,” Digger explains. “Then when Slim called him on it, he took a gotdamn swing at ’em.”
“You’re fucking lying,” the man spits back. “Do you know who the fuck I am?”
I do know who he is. Brantley Garfield. The All-Star catcher for the Oakland A’s. He’s a big motherfucker too, and the last thing we need is problems with him. If this got out, the media would be all over this shit, putting more eyes on my place. But there’s no way in hell I can let this slide.
Always some shit.
“We do know who you are. And I don’t give a fuck. You tried to cheat us out of our money. Do you have a fucking death wish or something?”
“I wasn’t counting no cards,” he implores.
I assumed the woman screaming his innocence is his date. I cut my eyes to her, and she shuts her trap; then I turn my attention back to the asshole before me.
He says he wasn’t counting cards, but I know better. All of us do. He should be glad we don’t fuck him up right here and now.
I move into his face. “Are you saying my guy here is lying?”
“I said I wasn’t countin’ no cards,” the slight tremble in his voice reveals the fucker is lying, and he knows it too.
“Do you have a death wish, bitch?” I spit.
“I’m telling you the truth,” he pleads on deaf ears.
He should really shut the hell up because he’s pissing me off. Slim has yet to remove his gun from this son of a bitch’s temple.
I face Digger. “Where’s the money he won?”
“Still on the table,” Digger answers.
“Get it,” I say without turning away from Garfield.
Digger comes back and hands me a wad of cash. At first glance, there has to be more than five grand. Now, I’m no dummy. There’s potential to win a shit load of money in our games, but not that much.
“Give me my fucking money!” Garfield growled.
I laugh. Hard.
“Your money? Motherfucker this is our money. Now get the fuck out of here before something happens to those knees you need to make those millions.”
Garfield swallows so hard that his Adam’s Apple bobs in his throat. It's a feat in itself, seeing how thick his neck is. Then his eyes hardened, and I could see his fingers twitching before he clenched them at his sides.
I smirk because he wants to buck. And I want him to. I’m itching to bust this fucker’s kneecaps wide open. His eyes flick to the money, contemplating even with Slim’s gun to his head.
My fists tighten at my sides. I’m ready for the motherfucker to get froggy. I have to admit, he’s got guts if he thinks nothing will happen to him.
“Fuck this,” I mutter, then punch him square in the ribs. Slim moves away as Garfield bowls over. Then I kick him in his left knee; the crack echoes within our circle. A hush settles over the crowd briefly before the murmurs start when he hits the floor in pain.
“Get him the fuck out of here!”
Digger grabs Garfield under one arm, and Slim grabs him under the other, dragging him out the back door with the sobbing woman trailing behind them.
“Fuck,” I mumble and stuff the money in my pocket, heading out the door with T-Bone behind me.
“You gonna call King?” he asks as I head back to my office.
“Don’t have any other choice, but I don’t think Garfield will run his mouth. Not if he knows what’s good for him.”
“Of course, he won’t,” T-Bone chuckled. “Then he’s got to explain being in a Sinners’ establishment.” T-Bone follows me to the door of my office.
“Take Chaos and do a round outside and in the parking lot. I want to make sure that fucker is gone.”
“And if he’s not?”
“Take out his other knee.” I shrug, pushing the door open to my office then kicking it closed. It doesn’t matter to me one way or the other if Garfield can play.
I slump in my office chair, then lean my head back, blowing out a cleansing breath before I have to explain to King why a fucking baseball All-Star now has a fucked-up knee, possibly two fucked up knees.
I pick up my cell to dial King’s number. “On second thought, I think I’ll just text him. I’m not in the mood to have this conversation.”
Quickly, I type out what has happened and then let King know Brantley Garfield is banned from Sinful Desires.
Who the fuck is that?
I snort and shake my head because who the fuck doesn’t know Brantley Garfield. Apparently, King.
Oakland A’s starting catcher.
What happened?
Card counting. He won’t be playing baseball for a while, either.
Shit. Is he going to be a problem?
It’s a fair question. He’s well-known in California, shit, perhaps across the nation, but I believe Garfield cares about his reputation, so he’s not going to say shit.
Nah. I’m sure he doesn’t want the media to know he was here at a strip club stealing from one of the girls.
That’s exactly what I will say to anyone who pokes their nose around Sinner’s business. There’s no need for anyone to know about the Gameroom.
As long as you take care of it, King adds.
It’s handled.
I end the text. The shit load of paperwork on my desk is getting smaller. I need to finish it all before we close for the night and make sure the girls get home.
Then I need to be right back in the morning for a shipment of beer that’s long overdue and conduct three interviews for a new bartender because the bartender quit for no damn reason. Well, other than he’s a weak fuck. But the son of a bitch will be easy to replace. There’s always someone looking for a job. In the meantime, Trick, one of the brothers who bartends on the side, agreed to man the bar until I find someone. I’m grateful, but that big motherfucker can’t stay behind my bar for too long. He scares all my customers away, except for the ladies, of course. And yes, we get plenty of ladies frequenting the place.
It’s almost three in the morning. I just want to lay my ass down, but there’s a knock at my office door just as I’m keying in the last of the numbers for the week. I key in the final digit and turn off my computer.
“Come in,” I call out without looking up.
“The girls are gone,” Devil informs me as he shuts the office door. “And we had to kick a trucker out for getting handsy with one of them.”
I grunt in acknowledgement.
“Money from the tables tonight,” he says, laying the moneybag on my desk.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I’m not counting that shit tonight.”
“Doesn’t matter to me,” Devil says, shrugging.
“You all head out.” I blow out a tired breath. “I’ll lock it in the safe.”
Devil nods and turns to leave.
One thing I can say about Devil is when he says it doesn’t matter to him, it really doesn’t. I hear the soft click of the door closing behind him.
I still have a few notes to jot down for my records before I can call it a night. I glance at the clock, drop my pen on the desk then stretch.
It’s been forty-five minutes since Devil dropped the money off. I’m so ready for this night to end. The pops and cracks of my joints are enough to tell me I can’t do many more of these late nights.
I stand and swipe the money bag from my desk and make my way to the safe tucked away in a nook at the back of the room, then shut the door to the safe, allowing it to rearm itself.
What happened tonight with Garfield isn’t normal for Sinners’ establishments. Most people aren’t stupid enough to try anything like he did. I try not to make a big deal of it and push it to the back of my mind.
“I’m getting too old for this shit,” I mutter.
I’m forty-five, successful as hell, and have to do my own damned books. That’s not sitting well with me. I’ve been thinking about bringing someone in to do the books. But for obvious reasons, there’s a need to be careful who comes and goes from this place.
Finally, I push myself from my desk and head out of the office, flicking the lights off but leaving the hallway lights on from the girls’ dressing room.
“You headed home or to the clubhouse?” Chaos asks, following me out of the front door.
“I told Devil you could leave.”
Chaos grunts but doesn’t say anything and continues to follow me out. I get it. We watch one another’s backs, so I don’t give him shit for waiting around even though I don’t need it.
I lock the door and swap the keys in my pocket for my bike keys.
I smile as I walk towards my custom-painted Indian motorcycle. The chrome shines under the parking lot lights, highlighting the turquoise and cream paint. I love this fucking bike, and no one rides it but me. Hell, even the club whores I enjoy every now and again do not get to touch my shit.
I’ve had a few offers to buy it, but there’s no way in hell I’d do that. I point them to Frenchie’s Wild Road Indian motorcycle dealership if they want their own.
“I’m heading home.” I throw my leg over the seat and settle behind the bars.
“See you at the clubhouse tomorrow, then,” Chaos says, hopping on his bike.
I turn the ignition, and my baby purrs. The rumble vibrates in my chest, and calm falls over me. This is what it’s all about: the roar of the engine and the wind blowing in my face and through my hair.
I give a two-finger salute to Chaos and slip my shades on as I pull out of my space and head to my house on the outskirts of town, away from the constant bustle of city life. For once, I’m proud to make my way to Jacobs Manor.
Chapter Two
My bike climbs the hill and winding road leading to Jacobs Manor. The lights lining the driveway illuminate an otherwise pitch-black space.
The house and its luscious green grounds surrounding it are impressive, especially in the daylight. My grandfather always ensured the grounds were impeccable, and it’s how I’ve kept them for no reason other than looking good. The house sits at the top of the hill with nothing but green trees and shrubs surrounding it. I’d get lost for hours in the woods when I was little. It was my escape from the chaos that happened inside this place.
My bike slowly creeps into the twelve-car garage. The echo of the engine rumbling is like music to my ears. I close my eyes momentarily, relishing the sound echoing off the walls. I have three other bikes, but none sing to my soul like this one.
I take a deep breath, then cut the engine. My body is exhausted, but my mind is speeding a mile a minute thinking about the repercussions and impending interviews I’ll have to endure the next few days about Bradley Garfield. It will take a tumbler of whiskey and a little bit of the Devil’s Fruit Cake, the Sinners' strain of weed, to mellow my mind enough to get any kind of sleep tonight.
I push the kickstand down and slide off my bike. I run my hand over the leather seat and the chrome on the handlebars before I stroll to the wall where a bike cover is hanging and pull it off the hook.
I cover this baby after every ride.
With that task done, I close the garage doors and walk to the door leading to the sunroom. To this day, I toe my shoes off at the door, like I did as a kid.
My mother hated when we wore shoes in the house.
Just as I emerge from the sunroom and step into the kitchen, my stomach growls. I hadn’t eaten since this morning. Most days, things are too hectic at Sinful Desire to stop and eat, especially today.
I amble over to the refrigerator and pull the door open to inspect the contents. Esther and Rachel don’t come in for a few hours to make breakfast and lunch. Deservingly so, they had the day off, so no lunch in the fridge for me.
“Turkey and mayo, it is.”
That’s the only thing in there I can make on my own. I chuckle at how sad that is, and push all that self-loathing down.
That’s my parents talking.
Quickly, I make a sandwich and pour a tumbler of whiskey from the bar my grandfather had installed when he built this house. Its cherry wood has been stripped and revarnished several times throughout the years to keep it fresh. But it’s an antique, probably worth thousands, as is most of the furniture in this house.
I pull out a stool and settle at the bar. This entire area is so damn big and quiet. Too big for one person.
The bar was one of those places that was off limits to me until I turned seventeen. My grandfather would settle behind the counter and let me do a taste test. Of course, my mother had a fucking cow when she found out. It was one of the many things she, my grandfather and father argued about.
