Ghost sat at the end of the main bar in Ecstasy, taking it all in. Strip clubs were nothing new to him; a few were like his second home back in Cali. There was something mesmerizing and even soothing about watching a woman move her body in perfect sync to the music, especially at a high-end club like Ecstasy, where the girls were hired for more than just big tits and curvy hips. Here, they sold the atmosphere and the fantasy of what would never happen, and that in itself became the thrill.
The brown-eyed beauty behind the bar slid a shot of Jack in front of him, but he waved it away. Her instincts as a bartender were on point. Biker in a strip club? What else would he drink?
“Make that a club soda.” The daily struggle had eased a bit, but even the bangin’ bartender couldn’t make him break. Ghost didn’t have to concentrate very hard to imagine the smoky whiskey sliding down his throat, even after a year.
She paused for half a second, then filled a tall glass with ice, shot the soda gun over it, then anchored a sliver of lime on the rim.
He raised the frosty glass to his lips, enthralled by the rhythm of her body and how she commanded the crowded space with the same practiced moves as the girls on stage. Only this dance consisted of pulling beers and ringing up tabs while running a steady stream of banter with every guy at the bar.
Ghost’s research revealed that Ecstasy sat among the top-five strip clubs most frequented in Las Vegas. Owned and operated by the Serpents MC, they ran the legit club with attention to detail, as noted by the model-perfect women on stage, the level of service strutting through the club taking drink orders, and the light flirting with all the customers. No drugged-out dancers/hookers grinding guys on the main floor here. If someone wanted that kind of action, they paid for it in the VIP room, and even then, a bouncer stood inside the door making sure the only one taking off their clothes was the dancer. If a guy got too handsy, his ass was out the door.
Even the air had a fresh, slightly citrusy scent—no stale beer, sweat, or sickly-sweet perfume. Nope, this place screamed first-class all the way.
The president of the Serpents, Cobra, and his sergeant-at-arms, Python, had started the club almost fifteen years ago. Word was when the two had first met, they had a drunken brawl behind the Gold Mine, their clubhouse just off the Strip, and after sobering up, had formed one of the most feared MCs in southern Nevada.
Joker, their VP, owned a custom motorcycle shop in Henderson. He moved to Vegas by way of Miami after his New York club fell apart. The cons that he and his now-wife, Daisy, pulled in South Beach were legend.
Their tech genius, Boa, ran security for Ecstasy. Topping out at six-foot-six, he’d hover in the background each time they made their collections from protecting the smaller clubs up in North Las Vegas.
Rattler, the club’s road captain, might’ve been the youngest member, but apparently, his ability to focus efficiently and effectively made their runs to the Mexican border successful and profitable.
The tight group stuck together and had each other’s backs without side deals or backstabbing, entirely different than Ghost’s club, the San Diego Dusters. Hacker, their president, ruled not by respect but intimidation and would fuck a brother over in a minute.
Ghost’s information on the Serpents came from reliable sources, plus his last year as a nomad made him privy to all kinds of intel. Outlaw bikers might be hard-ass and dangerous, but most of them gossiped and talked shit about each other and rival clubs like a bunch of old women.
It was safe to say, with a few exceptions for the deeper details of their personal lives, Ghost’s knowledge gave him all the intel he needed about the Serpents MC and their strip club. He had to be well informed because making this deal meant freedom, amnesty, and absolution—literally and figuratively.
Ghost zeroed in on the sexy bartender’s name tag when she returned to his end of the polished granite bar top. Roxy. Cool name. She must’ve sensed his eyes on her, and when their gaze connected, he leaned in so she could hear him over the pounding music. “Cobra here tonight?”
“He usually comes in right before closing.” Roxy held eye contact for an extra second while she continued mixing the latest concoction in the silver shaker, probably trying to figure out what he wanted with the Serpents’ president.
Unlike many strip clubs in Vegas, Ecstasy didn’t stay open twenty-four hours. They closed at four a.m., which meant he had an hour to kill, so he drank deep and finished off the soda. Roxy placed the cocktail she just shook onto a waitress’s service tray, then immediately refilled his glass.
In another time and place, he’d easily sit there and get smashed as the fiery liquid smoothed out the rough edges, but that life crashed and burned a year ago. What once settled his nerves and quieted the guilt ultimately became a never-ending circle of despair and depression.
Twenty minutes later, Ghost’s eyes were drawn to the back of the club where three men with Serpents’ cuts laid claim to a table while waitresses fussed around them with glasses and bottles of whiskey. Roxy retreated to his end of the bar and nodded toward the back of the room. “Cobra’s the one with his back to the wall.”
Of course, he was. Not only was the president of the most profitable MC in southern Nevada punctual, but he was also cautious.
Ghost paid his tab and pushed away from the bar. He hated giving up his seat, especially when Roxy flashed him a sexy smile, but tonight was about business. No distractions or excuses for fucking up his only chance.
Ghost elbowed his way through the men crowded around the main stage, keeping his focus on Cobra. The flashing, colored lights made it impossible to make out his expression, but his journey came to an abrupt halt when one of the guys at Cobra’s table blocked his way. Ghost quickly examined his patches: Python, Sergeant-at-Arms.
“Can I help you?” Python’s growl translated to Why are you heading toward our prez, and what the fuck do you want?
“Just wanted to have a word with Cobra.” Ghost hated explaining himself. Back in the day, guys cowed to him, but that was before his gambling had sunk his club into debt, and his dick got caught screwin’ his president’s old lady. Those two fuck-ups sent him way down the food chain; even the mangy cats that scavenged around the back of the clubhouse were on a higher rung.
“I know you don’t have an appointment,” Python spit out.
“Ohh, so you’re his social secretary?” Ghost smirked since he couldn’t harness the wiseass in him, but that only caused Python to scowl deeper and move closer.
Something nudged Ghost’s leg. He lowered his gaze to the glittering amber eyes of a huge black German Shepherd, then back to Python. “What’s with the dog?”
“Piss me off, and you’ll find out.”
Ghost wasn’t sure if the growl came from Python or the animal, currently at eye level with his dick.
“We got a problem here?”
Ghost lifted his gaze toward a leaner guy flanking Python with a deadly glare whose patches read: Rattler, Road Captain.
“No problem.” Ghost shrugged. “I just wanna have a few words with Cobra.”
That’s what sucked about losing all his cred. Typically, a meet would be set up for him, but because Ghost fucked up so many times, he had to come at this cold turkey, which wasn’t the optimal way to do business with an outlaw biker club that made protection of their number one a priority.
Python took full advantage of the two inches he had on Ghost in both height and width and gave him a slow once over. “What does a nomad from the Cali Dusters want with our prez?”
“My business is with Cobra, not his officers, so you kinda asked and answered your own question.” Sure, Ghost knew they wanted him to grovel, but fuck that, he might be down, but he wasn’t out.
“Do you believe the balls on this guy?” Rattler sneered. “Strutting his ass into our club, jumping into our space without an invite, then making demands.”
Python shook his head. “Fuckin’ ridiculous.” He lifted his chin toward the dog glued to his side. “I oughta let Kobi take a bite outta him on principle.”
“I guarantee Cobra will want to hear what I’ve got to say.” Ghost waited to see if they tugged on the bait. Was either of them willing to make the wrong decision for their prez? Probably not.
Python and Rattler exchanged a look, and for a split second, Ghost braced himself for a fist to his face or a chunk out of his thigh, compliments of the German shepherd. Instead, Python backed off, rounded the table, and leaned down to his president’s ear. Cobra’s expression remained blank; then, he nodded his head once.
Python rejoined Ghost and Rattler. “This must be your lucky day, fucker.”
Cobra’s nod could mean that Ghost would either be tasting blood in the alley or pitching the Serpents’ president his deal.
“Get going.” Rattler nudged him toward the back hallway. Python slapped his thigh, and the German shepherd obediently fell in step at his side. Cobra had mysteriously disappeared from the table, making Ghost think he might still be heading for a beat-down.
* * *
Roxy tracked the nomad until he reached Cobra’s table, then the crowd shifted, and she lost sight of him. It was amazing what one could pick up if they were paying attention and knew where to look. For example, the patches decorating his cut labeled him a nomad with the San Diego Dusters, and the smooth leather rectangle on the opposite side indicated his road-name patch had gotten ripped off—either intentional or in a fight.
It didn’t matter; Roxy didn’t need a name. For the last few years, she followed a very stringent diet that forbade hot guys in any shape or form. Boring guys or those with absolutely no sex appeal were fine—much better for her overall health and well-being— but muscled, tatted bad boys? No.
In the old days, the more dangerous, the better, but they quickly became her kryptonite, able to take her down in a single bound. Just like the flu, they lowered her resistance and made her vulnerable to loaning money, her car, or her heart. The car and money could be replaced, but she only had one heart, which, sadly, could only be repaired so many times before it broke for good.
Although Roxy had to admit, there was something unique about this guy. He didn’t try to outwardly flirt with her or hand her any corny lines or tired expressions. He focused only on her eyes, avoiding her tits, and his reflection seemed almost sad and resigned—like he didn’t expect too much—even though whatever business he had with Cobra might’ve been a matter of life and death.
Of course, that was the code of an outlaw living on the edge, but the slight tremor in his hand when he reached for his glass surprised her along with the way his eyes constantly darted around the club. After years of tending bar, she became an expert at deciphering little nuances and quirky tells. The next time she had a chance to peer in their direction, Cobra’s table was empty, and the Dusters’ nomad was nowhere to be seen.
Either he got his meet with Cobra or … Roxy had no delusions about the Serpents or how her boss ran their many businesses. Some were completely legit, whereas others not so much; either way, they were all about protecting what was theirs at any cost. Throwing a fist and even pulling a trigger was the price of doing business in the outlaw world, but one thing she knew for certain, the Serpents never preyed on the vulnerable.
What mostly bothered her was centered around the niggling hope that the nomad wasn’t getting his teeth smashed in and just might come back to the bar for another drink before closing. She quickly pushed that dangerous idea away, then chastised herself for even giving the stranger a second thought.
It’d been a long time since Roxy had let herself notice a man. After a parade of bad experiences, she’d sworn off the opposite sex for the foreseeable future and instead made Opal her only priority. That meant putting the nomad’s dark brown eyes and scrolling, colorful tats over bulging muscles out of her brain. She’d also be erasing the sprinkle of salt and pepper in the scruff outlining his chiseled jawline and the tiny lines around his eyes telling her he wasn’t a thirty-something. Not that she had anything against guys in their thirties, but men in their forties knew what they were doing and didn’t mind going that extra mile to prove it.
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