Home > Calling the Biker’s Bluff

Calling the Biker’s Bluff
Author: Piper Davenport

For Kathleen Kelly

You’ve been a wonderful friend and ally this year and I appreciate you more than you will ever know!





I HAD A rare afternoon ‘off.’ Meaning, I had a rare four hours where I didn’t have club business, or any other kind of business, and could focus on my metal work. I headed out to the shop and geared up, grinning at my current creation. I was in the middle of a sculpture that I was actually loving. It had been a long time since I’d created something for myself, and although I had a long list of client requests, I’d been inspired last week and ran with it.

I had just lit the torch and lowered my mask when my president, Doc, yelled my name. I frowned, shutting everything off and raising my mask. “Yeah?”

“Jordy’s runnin’ a game tonight. He asked if you’d work it.”

I sighed. Jordy Blain was a man who ran a few illegal games around town. On occasion, our club would help out with security, only because the man paid well.

“I’m in the middle of somethin’, Doc. Can he find someone else?”

“He’s offerin’ you fifty-grand and giving the club ten.”

“Jesus, high rollers?”

Doc nodded. “Sounds like it. He wants your expertise as much as your brawn, I think.”

I had been raised in Vegas by a family of card sharks. I’d learned to count cards before I learned to count to ten, and if I wanted to live a life of poker games and pussy, I’d make millions.

But I didn’t.

I’d visited Savannah over ten years ago and didn’t leave. I’d fallen in love with the southern hospitality and chose Harleys instead of cards, of course, never foregoing the pussy.

“What time does he need me there?” I asked.


That gave me two hours to work, and an hour to clean up and get to the game. “Yeah, tell him I’ll do it.”

“Thanks, brother.”

I nodded, lowering my mask, and relighting my torch.

* * *

Pulling up to the private parking lot under the building, I backed my bike into a spot, then pulled my suit jacket from my saddlebag. Replacing my club leather for Armani, I slid my phone and keys into my pocket and headed inside.

Upstairs, Blurr was booming. I doubted the nightclub patrons had any idea there was illegal gambling happening below them, but Jordy kept a tight lid on both clubs. There were two floors separating the gambling from the dancing and the games were locked down tight.

A bouncer I didn’t recognize stood outside the entrance to the games. Other than the burly man guarding the door, you would think it was a door to a utility closet.

“No entry,” the man said.

“Easton Ottenheimer,” I replied. “Jordy’s expectin’ me.”

My birth name was foreign on my tongue, considering I had gone by Otter for more than ten years.

He pushed open the door. “Right. I’m Vinnie.”

I gave him a chin lift and walked past him into a hallway that was lit with one red lightbulb. I continued straight, entering the code on the panel on the wall, then a secret door slid open, allowing me into the room. Tonight’s set-up included roulette, blackjack, and four coveted poker tables with a hundred-grand buy-in per game.

“Otter!” Jordy greeted me with a huge grin on his face. “I’m so glad you could come.”

“I bet.” I smirked. “Big spenders tonight, I heard.”

He grinned. “One hundred grand buy-in, plus twenty-grand just to get a seat at the table.”

“Who’s at the table?”

“Atticus Artrope and Buford Davis.”

“Are you fuckin’ high?” I ground out. “Do you really wanna get into bed with the Dixie Mafia, Jordy?”

One of the worst things about the Dixie Mafia was that they weren’t organized or loyal to anyone, which meant they didn’t have a moral code. No honor among thieves type thing. There was no honor, period.

“I’m not gettin’ into bed.” He grinned. “It’s just a little over the clothes heavy petting.”

“Jesus,” I hissed. “You’re a fuckin’ mad man.”

He laughed. “I’m a rich fuckin’ mad man.”

“Hey, Dad,” a young man greeted Jordy, virtually bounding into the room. “Are Beau and I in?”

“Haven’t got the final count.”

“But we’re ready,” he whined.

“Tuck, you’re being rude. Meet Easton,” Jordy said. “Easton, my son, Tuck.”

I gave the kid a chin lift. ‘Kid’ probably wasn’t entirely accurate, because he wasn’t much younger than me, but he seemed entitled and immature.

“Nice to meet you,” Tuck said, then turned back to his father. “How long until we know?”

“An hour.”

He huffed. Like a fuckin’ four-year-old. I had to look away.

“Fine,” Tuck said, and stomped out of the room.

“Sorry about that,” Jordy said. “The boy is almost thirty and thinks he’s due everything. His mama’s influence.”

I highly doubted his mother created that mess, but I kept that opinion to myself.

“Let me give you a rundown of the players and their known traits.”

I nodded and we spent the next hour mapping out the room, figuring out the best seating arrangement, making sure to accommodate Atticus and Buford’s need to be close to the bar.

“I think we’re ready,” Jordy said. “I’ll let Tuck know he and his friend are in and we’ll open the door.”

I nodded, taking a minute to scan the room, then another to get to know the servers and bartenders, before standing against the wall by the entrance and taking stock of every person who walked in. They all had their buy-in and their cover charge, which were counted and verified by three bouncers.

Everyone had followed the rules, so Jordy deemed the games open and the men took their seats, while some of the women they’d brought as eye candy played roulette or blackjack.

For the next hour, I walked the room, watching quietly, but noticing Tuck and Beau were up to something, I decided to hover by their table. The little shits were cheating. Not only counting cards but signaling to each other. I didn’t know what they were signaling, but it was neither subtle nor smart.

I caught Jordy’s eye and signaled for him to meet me in the back. We walked back separately in an effort not to raise suspicions, and I closed the door behind us. “Tuck and his buddy are countin’ cards.”

“My son doesn’t cheat.”

“Well, I’m telling you he and his friend are. What you want to do with that information is up to you, but you better hope no one else notices.”

A rather feral scream indicated I’d spoken too soon.

Rushing back into the room, Jordy and I arrived to find Tuck seated in his chair, a knife handle sticking out of his thigh. I didn’t know how long the blade was, considering you couldn’t see any of it.

“Dad!” he screamed.

“This bastard is cheating,” the man with the knife accused. I believe his name was Bobby Joe Waller and he appeared to not only have the ability to use a knife, but also how to hide it from security.

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