Twist the Knife (Lost Kings MC #24)

“I’ll be in the prep room if you need me.” Remembering my manners, I turn toward Daniel and force a polite smile. “Don’t hesitate to reach out of you think of anything else.” I don’t want to make the offer again, but my father will strangle me if I’m rude to a client.

Rubbing my wrist, I hurry down the hallway to the prep room.

Hours later, I’m finishing what will be Mrs. O’Leary’s final look. I glance at the reference photo, pleased I recreated the same hairstyle. The lip color is still bold but not as bright and I found a peach blush to complement it.

“Perfect,” I whisper.

Footsteps in the hallway alert me to an incoming visitor. I continue working until it sounds like my father’s entered the room.

“Dad, I’m almost finished with Mrs. O’Leary. I chose a slightly peachier blush. I think she’d like it if—” I glance up. Dad’s not alone. The appointment. People who want to “invest” in our family funeral home. My father had been scant on details. Even though I have a lot of ideas on how to expand our business to make up for the general decline in our industry, the finances aren’t my business.

I pull my mask down, snap off my gloves and step away from Mrs. O’Leary.

Four tall, muscular men in jeans, T-shirts, and black leather vests adorned with similar looking patches are with my father.

I recognize the tall, lean blond biker from previous visits—Marcel, I think. But the other three men are new. A red-headed, burly man with a full beard looks like he should be outside dropping trees with an ax, not touring a funeral home. The taller, broader blond biker must be related to Marcel—an older brother, maybe. The patch over his heart says he’s the president.

Well la-di-da.

The fourth man leans down to whisper something in Marcel’s ear. A bolt of frustration or annoyance creases Marcel’s handsome features.

My father nods at me and holds out one hand. “This is my daughter, Margot. She’s our mortuary cosmetologist.” He doesn’t bother giving me their names which is fine, I wouldn’t remember them anyway. Not with the last one staring at me like he’s trying to drill a hole through my skull with the power of his eyeballs.

My heart skips double-time.

In the sea of bikers invading my workspace, he stands out. Not just because of his height. All the men are well over six feet. It’s not the leather vest with the patch that reads Road Captain, either—although that title is intriguing.

It’s his eyes. The sharp way they dart around, observing and inspecting everything. Although, maybe it’s fear, not interest in his surroundings. Few people are comfortable down here where we keep the bodies. A man like him, a biker who exudes raw masculinity, wouldn’t admit to anyone that he’s afraid of the dead. Or that he fears death.

The other three men seem keen, but their interest in my workspace is perfunctory. They’re more focused on speaking with my father.

The road captain is focused on me.

Our eyes meet. His lips curl into a seductive smile. A jolt of electricity vibrates through my body—something I thought only happened in books or movies. He lifts an eyebrow, drawing attention to the scar running through it at an angle. He’s so focused on me, heat burns over my skin like acid.

I whip around, forcing my attention back to my workstation. My heart pounds wildly, everything around me blurring into a shiny, metallic haze..

A few seconds later, the hairs on the nape of my neck prickle and a wave of warmth presses against my back.

“Margot.” The deep baritone voice behind me resonates in my chest.

I twist to face him. He’s so close, my shoulder brushes against his chest. My lips part as I stare up at him. Brutal—the only word that comes to mind. Brutal in the most handsome way. His eyes. So intense. He hasn’t had an easy life. But he’s confident. Cocky even.

My tongue ties itself into a knot.

He touches the fingers of his right hand to his chest. “Everyone calls me Jigsaw.”

My eyebrows squinch into a frown. “Are you introducing yourself or inviting me to put together a puzzle?”

Did I really just say something so stupid to this man who looks like he probably throws knives as a hobby?

Sweat breaks out on my forehead and the strength seems to drain from my legs. I brace my hand against the smooth, cool counter. Dad told me this deal is important and here I am insulting one of the bikers within five seconds of meeting them.

One corner of Jigsaw’s mouth quirks. “You’re fun.”

The memory of dealing with Daniel earlier still holds my emotions hostage. According to him, there’s nothing fun about me. I’m no more exciting than dear old Mrs. O’Leary.

“You’re the first person who’s made that mistake.” My voice comes out barely above a whisper.