Hounds of Hell MC 6: Razor

He was nearly done with his burger and fries at the corner booth of the diner when he spotted her for the second time that day. Outcast’s younger sister caught his attention like a neon sign in the dark. Barely five feet tall, her vibrant purple hair gleamed under the harsh fluorescent lights, making her impossible to miss. Razor couldn’t help but grin as he watched her stride to the counter, shoulders back, head high, confidence radiating from her petite frame.

Dressed entirely in black, her puffy winter coat covered her upper half. It didn’t do much to conceal the short leather mini skirt, fishnet stockings, and sleek boots beneath. Those legs—the kind that could make a man’s thoughts stray into dangerous territory—gave him pause.

Razor wasn’t a saint and never pretended to be. He’d sought pleasure when he wanted it, a way to keep his life uncomplicated and free from the weight of an old lady. Commitment had crossed his mind a few times over the years, but no one had ever measured up. Not to Vanessa. And as tempting as the little enchantress at the counter was, he knew better. Pushing fifty and entertaining ideas about the sister of one of his Hounds? That wasn’t just a bad look—it was a disaster waiting to happen. And yet…

He had been about to gather his wrappers and make for the exit when a movement drew his attention. Looking up, he froze. There she was, standing beside his booth, purple hair tucked behind one ear, luminous eyes fixed on him.

“Want some company?” she asked, smiling and full of sass. Her lips were painted a deep rose color, had him wondering what they’d taste like.

“Sure,” Razor said, grinning. It probably wasn’t the best idea, but they were just talking.

She set her tray down on the table with a casual air, tossing her purse onto the bench seat across from him. As she unzipped her coat, Razor’s gaze was momentarily snagged by the deep purple blouse she’d been wearing earlier at the tattoo shop. The wrap-style top hugged her figure in ways that made it nearly impossible not to notice her curves.

As she slid into the booth and got comfortable, Razor couldn’t help but appreciate the view. She moved with an unintentional grace. For a moment, he had to remind himself to focus on something other than the enticing sight in front of him.

“I’m Deva,” she said. “Jackson’s younger sister. You’re Razor?”

He nodded, watching her peel the paper from the plastic straw and push it into her drink cup. She unwrapped her burger in no particular hurry. 

“Thanks for this. It hasn’t been the best day,” she said. “It’s nice to have some company for dinner.”

Razor loved a confident woman, content to sit with her as she grabbed the ketchup bottle from down the table and literally drowned her French fries in it. Shaking his head, he asked, “You want some fries with that ketchup?”

The sexy little smirk the question earned him, only made his growing interest worse. “Don’t judge. Ketchup is one of my few vices.”

“What are your other vices?” Razor felt compelled to ask.

“Ink,” she said. “Chocolate, diet soda, shoes.”

“Shady shit,” he said, teasing.

She nodded and took a hearty bite of her burger, attacking it with enthusiasm. He rarely saw anyone eat like that outside the Hounds, and it made him grin. Maybe she was just that hungry, but there was something undeniably endearing about her lack of pretense—it was real, unfiltered, and cute as hell.

“Why was your day so bad?” he asked, since she introduced the topic. 

Deva finished her bite and dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. “This actually started yesterday. Someone left a really nasty review online, and I just happened to catch it. I replied, tried to be polite, but their response to my reply was even worse than the original review. I didn’t see their follow-up until today.”

“Do you know who the client was?” Razor asked, his tone serious.

Deva shook her head, her voice steady but laced with frustration. “No idea. The username didn’t ring a bell. That’s the thing—they claimed they came in the week before Christmas, got a small tattoo, and it got infected because our shop is dirty, our staff is rude, and we don’t clean our instruments. Total bullshit. The only clients we had that week were regulars working on big pieces or sleeves. None of it adds up.”

“Damn,” Razor said, his hazel eyes narrowing. “I’m sorry you’re dealing with that.”

“I can handle a crappy review. Honestly, that’s part of the business,” Deva said, her voice steady but edged with frustration. “The real problem was the health department showing up this morning to investigate complaints. Yeah, they went that far. Apparently, someone reported that we don’t sterilize our equipment and a bunch of other lies. It took over two hours of my morning, and it was stressful as hell. We passed, though. The inspector even said we’re doing everything right. He did warn me to keep documenting everything just in case these were false claims, like something a competitor might cook up.”

She paused, her eyes narrowing. “I told him I didn’t think it was the competition because, until today, I thought we were the only tattoo shop in Mercy. That’s when he dropped the bomb—another shop is opening in a few weeks. I wasn’t expecting that.”

Razor leaned back slightly, processing her words. The idea of another tattoo shop in town caught him off guard. Normally, he had a pulse on everything happening in Mercy, and this was news to him.

“Sounds like you’ve had one hell of a day, Darlin’,” he said, his voice low and warm, the nickname rolling off his tongue naturally.

“I told Jackson, and I think he’s still processing everything. I guess…” When Razor smirked at her use of Outcast’s birth name, she put her burger down. “What?”

“We call your brother Outcast,” he said. “It throws me off a little when you call him Jackson.”

That sly grin returned. “I’m not calling him Outcast. I really don’t care why he has that name and I’m not calling him that.”

“Any particular reason?” Razor followed up.

“Are you asking to make conversation or do you really want to know?” Deva asked.

“I think I want to know.” Razor watched her wrap her lips around the straw of her drink, finding her movements way more mesmerizing than he should. 

“I’m his sister,” Deva explained. “Jackson may be Outcast to all of you. To me, he’s my dorky older brother who thinks he looks cool. Yeah, he’s quiet and broody and plays the part. But he’s horrible at karaoke, can’t cook to save his life, and he collects Pez dispensers. Did you know that?”

Razor had to laugh at that. Outcast sure as hell did fit the part but like the rest of them, he was an ordinary guy. Hell, would she be laughing at him, the club’s president, if she knew he could cook and was a pretty solid baker?

“I asked Jackson if there was any way the Hounds could dig around and find out who’s behind this mysterious new shop and when they plan to open,” Deva said, her tone carrying just a hint of exasperation. “But, as usual, he just grunted at me all noncommittal, like he always does.”

She paused, her gaze locking with Razor’s, a spark of determination in her eyes. “But since I’m sitting here with the president of the Hounds himself, I figured I’d cut out the middleman. So, let me humbly ask—any chance you guys could help us out? Maybe find out who we’re dealing with?”

“I’ll bet he did grunt noncommittally. He’s not allowed to talk about the club to anyone not in it.”

“I know.” Deva’s gaze locked with his. “First rule of Hounds of Hell is don’t talk about Hounds of Hell, right?”

“Something like that,” Razor said. “But yes, we’ll find out who is moving in here. Do you know anything else about them?”

“I know they are supposed to be close to the sheriff’s office,” she said, gnawing on a fry. “I’m planning to drive by there when I’m done here and see what I can find out.”

“Why don’t you let me handle that for you?” Razor suggested, his tone calm but firm. “Just to play it safe.”

Deva rolled her eyes, clearly unimpressed. “Jackson already told me to be careful. I’m just planning to drive by, not case the joint.”

Razor couldn’t help but admire her fire. It was one of the first things he’d noticed about her, and at times, it reminded him of Vanessa. But where Vanessa’s confidence had often been more of a mask—a fake-it-until-you-make-it kind of courage—Deva’s strength was real, steady, and unshakable. Vanessa’s quiet determination might have grown into something equally formidable, but life had taken her too soon.

Deva, on the other hand, carried strength with an effortless confidence Razor respected, wrapped in a petite frame with striking purple hair, captivating curves, and a whole lot of sass. She’d carved out such a strong sense of herself, running her own business alongside her brother. Deva also didn’t mince words—she was as blunt and straightforward as any man Razor had ever met, and he couldn’t help but appreciate that about her. She had a fire that made her unforgettable. 

“Humor me,” he said, his voice softer but still resolute. “The sun’s down, and you’re planning to go alone without knowing what you might walk into. If they’re the ones targeting your shop, chances are they already know what you look like. Let me handle it for you—I’d rather check it out and keep it from turning into a bigger problem.”