Layla’s POV
So here I was, in The Rusty Nail, trying not to look like a lost lamb at a wolf convention. Chloe was plastered to my side, her nails digging into my arm.
And then I saw her.
A stripper named Cinnamon—at least that’s what the tiny, sparkling pasties over her n*****s spelled out—detached herself from a group of grinning men and made a beeline for Jax. She moved like smoke, all smooth hips and practiced smiles. Her eyes were glassy.
Jax was talking to Grizz and another biker, his back to the room. Cinnamon slid right into his space, her hand landing flat on his leather-clad chest. My own chest tightened.
“Jaxy-baby,” she slurred, her voice a sugary drawl. “Missed you, boss man. Long time no private dance.” Her fingers traced the Reaper patch on his cut. “You look stressed.
