Ace (High Rollers MC Book 1) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  PROLOGUE | SIENNA

  CHAPTER ONE | SIENNA

  CHAPTER TWO | ACE

  CHAPTER THREE | SIENNA

  CHAPTER FOUR | ACE

  CHAPTER FIVE | SIENNA

  CHAPTER SIX | ACE

  CHAPTER SEVEN | SIENNA

  CHAPTER EIGHT | ACE

  CHAPTER NINE | SIENNA

  CHAPTER TEN | ACE

  CHAPTER ELEVEN | SIENNA

  CHAPTER TWELVE | ACE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN | SIENNA

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN | ACE

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN | SIENNA

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN | ACE

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN | SIENNA

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN | ACE

  CHAPTER NINETEEN | SIENNA

  CHAPTER TWENTY | ACE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE | SIENNA

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO | ACE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE | SIENNA

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR | ACE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE | SIENNA

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX | ACE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN | SIENNA

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT | ACE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE | SIENNA

  CHAPTER THIRTY | ACE

  About Kasey Krane

  About Savannah Rylan

  Copyright © 2018 by Kasey Krane & Savannah Rylan

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  PROLOGUE | SIENNA

  It was the ultimate cliché: waking up alone in a Las Vegas hotel room with a massive hangover and zero recollection of how the hell I had gotten there. Way to go Sienna. Another one for the books.

  The room was littered with the carnage of a night I couldn’t remember; articles of discarded clothing, empty liquor bottles, an overturned chair...

  My eyes circled around the hotel room, following the scattered debris like it was a trail of breadcrumbs that could lead me to the truth about last night. But instead of truth, each clue just seemed to uncover more unanswered questions.

  My memory wasn’t just a blur… it was non-existent. Like a reel of undeveloped film; just one blank square after another.

  I didn’t recognize the white lace dress that was torn and scattered in pieces across the floor. I didn’t recognize the black pants that were in a pile by the foot of the bed, either. Was the dress mine? Or did I come in here after that had occurred? Whatever the hell that was.

  The empty bottles from the mini bar matched the sticky, honey-sweet taste of whiskey that lingered on my lips, but I didn’t remember drinking them. And then there were some questions that I wasn’t sure I wanted answers to at all; the panties hanging from the bathroom door handle, or the black condom wrappers that littered the floor…what had I done? Who…had I done it with?

  My cell phone rumbled from the nightstand. I snatched it up and stared at the screen, hoping for another clue. Instead, I saw a text from my boss.

  It’s nearly 1 p.m. and you still haven’t provided any updates on your assignment. I want a detailed summary of last night ASAP.

  “You and me both,” I muttered drily. My fingers hovered over the touchscreen as I contemplated how to respond. I was still sifting through possible excuses when a sharp glint of light caught my eye.

  That’s when I noticed the silver band hugging my left ring finger.

  What. The. Fuck.

  Eyes wide and fingers shaking, I dialed a number from memory then pressed the phone up to my ear. My roommate’s familiar voice answered on the second ring, “Hey, is everything okay? You never came home last night—”

  “Everything is fine,” I fibbed. “I just... got caught up with something at work.”

  I wasn’t sure if that was the truth or a lie, but it didn’t matter. That wasn’t why I had called.

  “Listen, I just have a quick question,” I said, keeping my eyes pinned on my ring finger.

  “Shoot.”

  “When people get married… what finger do they usually wear the ring on?”

  I heard muffled laughter through the phone, then, “Seriously? Come on, everyone knows that!”

  “Clearly I don’t. Just answer the question.”

  “Okay, fine. Left hand, ring finger. That’s the second one over from the pinky.”

  I stared at my left hand, silently willing the fingers to rearrange themselves or the silver band to disappear entirely.

  “Why do you want to know, anyway? Do you have some exciting news that I should know about?”

  “Huh? No, of course not!” I stammered defensively. I wedged the phone between my shoulder and ear, then used my right hand to pry the silver band off of my left ring finger. I tugged and twisted and pulled… but it wouldn’t budge. My fingers were swollen and the ring was stuck. Clearly it wasn’t the right size.

  “Are you sure about that?” the voice on the phone teased. “First you didn’t come home last night, now you’re calling to ask about wedding rings. This is starting to sound awfully suspicious…”

  “It’s nothing,” I insisted again, but she was already humming the wedding march through the phone. “Listen, I have to go,” I snapped. “I’ll see you tonight, alright?”

  “Okay, sure, if you say so. Just remember: what happens in Vegas—”

  “Stays in Vegas,” I finished for her. Then I tapped the “end call” button and slugged my phone onto the mattress.

  I huffed out a heavy sigh as I rubbed my thumbs against my throbbing temples and stared absently out the hotel room window. Outside, the Vegas Strip was drenched in blazing white desert sunlight. The casino lights twinkled dully and shards of sun bounced off of the mirrored buildings.

  As I identified the hotels and casinos that lined Las Vegas Boulevard, I uncovered another unanswered question: I didn’t even know what hotel I had woken up in.

  “There has to be a reasonable explanation for all of this,” I coached myself under my breath. “Just try to remember what happened last night. Just try to remember anything…”

  I pinched my eyes shut and knitted my brows together in concentration as I tried to conjure any memories of the night before. Yesterday had started out like any other day. I remembered going to work and discussing my latest assignment with my boss, and then—

  KNOCK, KNOCK!

  I was startled out of my thoughts by the sound of a heavy fist knocking against the hotel room door. Completely caught off guard, I jolted up from the bed and gasped. Then I spotted the “Do Not Disturb” sign hanging uselessly on the inside doorknob, and I released the breath that I had been holding in my lungs. It’s just housekeeping coming to clean the room.

  I quickly bunched up an armful of bed sheets and wrapped them around my torso in a makeshift toga, then I waddled towards the door and called out,

  “I’m not ready yet! Do you think you could come back in a few minutes?”

  Silence.

  “I just need a few more minutes. Five, maybe ten at the most, and then I’ll be gone!”

  I heard the chirp of a key card being swiped on the other side of the door, followed by the metallic clink of a deadbolt unlatching.

  “HEY!” I hugged my bed sheet toga closer to my chest. “I said I’m not ready yet—”

  My voice shrunk back into my throat as soon as the door swung open and I saw him standing there. Him; a blur of black leather and torn denim and muscle. Basically, just a bulge of muscle. He occupied the entire door frame, his broad shoulders and biceps blocking any chance I had of esc
aping. That wasn’t what scared me, though.

  What scared me was that I recognized him. As my eyes darted between his piercing eyes and faded tattoos and scarred knuckles, the puzzle pieces of last night started to assemble in my head.

  I remembered my assignment. I remembered meeting him at the bar. I remembered all those shots of whiskey, and then that midnight ride on the back of his bike… and then I remembered the neon lights of the Little White Wedding Chapel glowing against the black night sky.

  “You’re not from housekeeping,” I said slowly.

  “No, I’m not,” he replied in a gruff voice. Then his lips twisted into a smirk and he raised his left hand, revealing a silver band on his ring finger. “I’m your husband.”

  CHAPTER ONE | SIENNA

  One Week Earlier

  I gave one final tug to the scratchy lace wig cap that hugged my scalp, then I ran my fingers along the faux hairline to ensure that none of my natural strawberry blonde had poked through the silky platinum mane.

  Tonight, everything had to be perfect… and that meant that every last hair had to be accounted for. Both natural, and otherwise. I took a step back from the mirror and inspected my reflection. I barely recognized the girl staring back at me.

  My fair skin and freckles were hidden under a spray tan and body glitter, and colored contact lenses had turned my green eyes a cartoonish shade of lilac. Fake eyelashes were glued to my lids and adorned with rhinestones, and my lips were painted Kylie Jenner pink.

  Then there was my outfit. I wore a vinyl bubblegum pink mini dress that hugged my body like a second skin, accentuating my natural features—like my small waist and curved hips—as well as my unnatural features—like the silicone butt pads I had slipped into my underwear, or my average B-cup tits that had been transformed into grapefruits thanks to the super bombshell sexy angel bullshit push-up bra that I was strapped into.

  To match the vinyl dress, I wore a pair of violet stilettos that had seven-inch icepicks for heels. I looked like a cross between Ariana Grande and a Bratz doll… and tonight, that was exactly the look I was going for. I flicked a curtain of icy blonde hair over my shoulder, then I gave my reflection one last once-over.

  “Give ‘em hell, girl,” I winked at myself, then I spun around on my heel and strutted out of the bathroom and into the nightclub.

  A few years ago, the Black Diamond Lounge was nothing more than a seedy outpost located several blocks away from the Las Vegas Strip. That all changed when the club came under new management.

  The new owner applied an “out with the old, in with the new” philosophy. The club’s old decor, house DJ, and late-night tapas menu were all out… and topless dancers, a rotating schedule of EDM DJs, and bottle service served by cocktail waitresses in skimpy corsets were all in.

  The transformation was a success. Locals and tourists flocked to the club in droves, and seemingly overnight the Black Diamond Lounge became a real Las Vegas establishment. Of course, there were rumors; whispered conspiracy theories that there was more to Black Diamond’s newfound success than trendy decor and strip shows. Something sinister.

  That’s exactly what brought me here tonight.

  The night was young, but the Black Diamond Lounge was already filling up. Round tables dotted the dance floor, blocked off with red velvet ropes and Reserved placards. A few eager early birds had congregated at the bar, sipping on cheap draft beer as they gazed up at the topless dancers who were gyrating mechanically to some Avicii remix.

  In one particularly dimly-lit corner of the bar, a group of older patrons had staked their claim on a leather sofa. They wore mirrored sunglasses and smoked cigars, shooting coils of smoke that laced through the air and changed colors as the strobe lights over the dance floor flicked through all the shades of the rainbow.

  A group of twenty-somethings in plaid button-ups and khaki shorts crowded around one of the reserved booths; tourists celebrating a bachelor party. Their ringleader was arguing with a cocktail waitress over the price of bottle service, and as I strutted by, I overheard him saying, “$500 for one bottle of Grey Goose?! That’s insane! Back in Minnesota, it would cost me $100!”

  I had a smile on my face. I had to present myself as someone who felt at-home in a place like this. Like this outfit, the hair, these shoes—were second skin.

  I sauntered across the dance floor and made my way towards an empty section of the bar. I needed to be alone because I needed to be approachable.

  Before my ass had even touched the stool, the bartender had swooped in front of me. He deposited a paper napkin on the black glass bar top, then leaned forward on his elbows and blinked up at me.

  “Hey sweetheart,” he winked, cracking a piece of gum between his teeth. “What can I do for you?”

  That wink made my skin crawl, but I couldn’t show it. Instead, I pursed my lips into the coy Kylie Jenner smile that I had been rehearsing all week, then cooed suggestively.

  “How about we start with a drink?”

  My fingers had been manicured with gaudy, bullet-shaped acrylic nails, and I had to dig both sets of them into the palms of my hands to stop myself from cringing at the sound of my voice. Sexy was a foreign language to me, and my attempt to sound coy felt as natural as the jumbled-up sentences I used to string together when I took Spanish 101 back in college.

  This was all for show, and I needed to master it if I was going to get the job done. Luckily the bartender was too preoccupied with my unnatural assets to notice.

  “I know just the thing,” he winked again, then he spun around to face the neon-lit shelves stocked with glass liquor bottles behind the bar. It was amazing that he did, because I hadn’t even mentioned my poison. What was he, a mind-reader?

  While the bartender prepared my drink, I let my eyes make another lap around the club. A few new faces had joined the herd at the bar, and the old men in dark sunglasses were still smoking their cigars on the leather couch. The Minnesota bachelor party must have caved and ordered bottle service, because the cocktail waitress was sauntering towards them with a bottle of Grey Goose housed inside a metal birdcage.

  The DJ scratched vinyl as he swapped out Avicii for Nicki Minaj. I recognized the song: ‘Truffle Butter.’ The beat pulsed from the speakers as Drake’s voice filled the club. The strobe lights flicked to blue, casting an aqua-colored glow over the dance floor and shooting neon beams down on the dancers, who were twerking in perfect harmony on the stage.

  “You like what you see?” a deep, raspy voice whispered directly into my ear.

  Startled, I spun around on my barstool and found myself staring directly into a pair of cold, glassy black eyes.

  I recognized him right away. Luis Barva; my target.

  I had never met him before, of course, but I must have seen his photograph hundreds of times; enough times to commit every detail of his face to memory. That wide, pockmarked nose; that dimpled chin; that creepy John Waters mustache…

  Not waiting for an invitation, he tossed himself onto the empty barstool next to me. He plucked the cigar from his lips and exhaled two streams of smoke from his nostrils, then he stared at me expectantly.

  “What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?”

  My heart hammered in my chest. I thought that I would have more time to practice playing coy with the bartender; more time to warm up and get into character. But things were moving faster than I had anticipated, and now I was sitting face-to-face with my target, and I felt like I wasn’t ready.

  Don’t fuck this up! the voice inside my head screamed.

  I took a deep breath, then pursed my lips back into that coy little smile and feigned indifference as I flicked my hair over my shoulder.

  “Hmm,” I made a sing-song hum, then I turned my attention back to the bar.

  The stakes were high and I had just played a dangerous hand. Luis Barva was a powerful man; the kind of man who expected to be recognized, especially in his own night club.

  I tried to catch a glimpse of his face
through the hedge of fake lashes that rimmed my eyes, waiting to see if my gamble would pay off. It was highly likely that I’d made the wrong move entirely.

  After several seconds of stone-cold silence, he tapped out his cigar on the glass bar, then he reached a bejeweled hand towards me.

  “You must not recognize me. I’m Luis Barva,” he introduced himself. “Owner of this beautiful establishment.”

  I had to play dumb. Pretend like I knew nothing about him. Like I was nobody.

  So, I waited a few moments before I turned back to him and plastered on my best blow-up doll face—eyes wide and mouth open in the perfect pink ‘O.’

  “No way!” I gushed. “You’re the owner of this club?!”

  “That’s right,” he nodded proudly. “And you are?”

  He shoved his hand towards me again, and this time I placed my hand in his.

  “Eve.”

  “If you’re Eve, that must make this Eden,” Luis smirked, then he raised my hand to his mouth and kissed my knuckles. I had to muster every morsel of self-control so that I didn’t cringe or keel over on the spot. I hid my revulsion by batting my false eyelashes and pursing my lips together.

  Luckily the moment was cut short when the bartender appeared in front of us.

  “Cotton candy cosmopolitan,” he said proudly, presenting a martini glass filled with a frothy pink elixir and garnished with a tuft of cotton candy. I opened my mouth to thank him, but Luis beat me to it.

  “Hey, can’t you see we’re trying to have a private conversation here?” he snapped.

  “Sorry, boss,” the bartender said quickly, then he slunk away like a scolded dog with his tail between his legs.

  Luis glared after him for a few seconds, then he turned his attention back to me:

  “So, Eve,” he said, drumming his bejeweled fingers on the glass bar top, “I’m going to cut right to the chase.”

  “Oh?” I raised my stenciled-on eyebrows, playing it cool even though my mind raced.

  His eyes gleamed darkly as he stared at me for several seconds. Then he leaned forward so that only a matter of inches separated his face from mine, and he whispered, “How much?”