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I’m that girl.
They want their title.
My name is Winter Tews.
And this is my story.
Damn right she’s not that girl.
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JINX—ONE YEAR AGO
“Hey brother, can I get you a beer?”
I stare up at the hang around, fighting the urge to tell him I’m not his fucking brother. Instead, I shake my head and dismiss him with a look. It still amazes me how completely unrecognizable I am without my cut. To everyone here, I’m just another guy attending the party. Little do they know I am the enemy. They’ve let a Devil’s Renegade come into their home just because he wore a white bandana and a hoodie that says, “I Support Madness MC.”
But as an added precaution, I’ve made sure to stay in the shadows. Seated out of sight. Knowing if I stand, I’ll be a head taller than everyone else and draw unwanted attention to myself. Not that anyone would really question who I am. Even if they were brave enough to approach me, I’d just come up with some bullshit about being the dope man’s nephew. They’ll believe it. They’re too stupid not to.
From my corner, I have the perfect view of the upcoming show. Madness’s infamous cutslut will be making her appearance at any moment. Cocks will swell. Jaws will drop. Mouths will water. She’s the complete show-stopping package. But I’m not here for a hard on. I’m here to collect. She took something that belongs to me. I aim to get it back.
The door opens and a hush falls over the crowd. Cain, president of Madness, walks in first. He doesn’t have to speak to deliver the threat. With a warning glare, we all hear him loud and clear, “Don’t fucking touch her.” When he’s confident the message has been received, he steps aside and there she is.
It’s easy to get sucked into the thunderstorm of sex appeal she emits. With long, tanned legs, a slender waist and an ass you can sit a champagne flute on, she’s the epitome of sexy. Her short sleeveless dress shows off her toned arms that are covered from wrist to shoulder in colorful tattoos—making her appearance even more erotic.
Endless waves of blonde hair surround her delicate face. Her nose is slightly upturned, chin raised, lips pressed into a permanent pink pout—an expression that says she knows her place. And you damn well better know yours. Some might say she looks proud. Snobbish even. But her eyes tell a different story.
The wide, soft, emerald greens framed in long, dark lashes are so striking I almost miss the imperfection. They’re emotionless. Lifeless. Filled with a nothingness that has me temporarily forgetting why I’m here. For a moment, I want to pull her to me. Tell her I’ve got her. Take her away from this place. Then kill the men who stole her life from her.
Like she stole from me.
The thought is sobering. This girl is not innocent. My urge to protect her is just my natural instinct. I’d feel that strongly about helping any woman whose eyes held that same look of defeat.
Cain’s hand is at her hip and I bite my tongue to keep from growling at him like a fucking territorial Pit Bull. What the hell is wrong with me? This woman ruined my life. Took everything from me. I wonder if the years of my blood, sweat and tears she took paid for the Rolex on Cain’s wrist. Or that expensive designer dress she’s wearing. Those sky-high fuck-me heels.
No. This woman is not a victim. She’s my nemesis. She’s the same bitch who haunts my dreams. Fuels my anger. Quenches my thirst for revenge—a revenge I plan on exacting in due time. Not today. Not tomorrow. But in that moment when she least expects it.
Her name is Winter Tews.
She’s my enemy’s cutslut.
My MC brother’s sister.
But very soon, she’ll be mine.
Standing outside room 421 at the Hard Rock Hotel in Las Vegas, Nevada, I ask myself, “Who is this irresistible creature who has an insatiable love for the dead?”
A guy stumbles out of his room just in time to hear me talking to myself and shoots me a confused look. But his confusion turns to desire when his eyes rake down my body—taking in my fishnet stockings, stilettos and satin bathrobe. I flip him the finger before answering my question.
“Me. Winter Tews. I have an insatiable love for the dead.”
I mean, I must. Right? I’m here. At room 421. Visiting a man who may very well be meeting his death soon—depending on what I find out while I’m here. If that’s the case, it won’t be the first instance where a man living on borrowed time saw me minutes before he died. And just like all the other times, I’m not nervous or anxious. I’m just…here. I’m the girl in Rob Zombie’s smash hit, “Living Dead Girl.”
I swipe the keycard and wait for the light to turn green before pushing inside—leaving the card on the floor outside the door for Cain’s men just in case something goes wrong and I need their help. They may not be here now, but in about ten minutes, they’ll be in the room next to us—waiting for the signal if I decide to give it.