Beyond Regret/Python

Book 6: Serpents MC Las Vegas

by Barbara Nolan

Genres: Erotic & Steamy Romance; Motorcycle Club Romance

Synopsis

Her ambitions are larger-than-life, and so is the biker she’s falling for…

Women, work, and dodging his bookie keep Python on his toes, but the Serpents MC Sergeant-at-Arms doesn’t truly understand bedlam until a case of mistaken identity makes a petite, blonde reporter the third woman in his bedroom during his birthday celebration.

KLAS news reporter, Virginia Swanson, is desperate to build a life of her own away from her influential family, and making a name for herself in broadcast television is part of her grand plan. Interviewing Python about Ecstasy, the Serpents’ strip club, should be the story that fast-tracks her career. Staying focused, however, proves difficult as the thought of the six-foot-five biker’s tattooed muscles seem to invade her every thought.

A showdown with a rival club and a vindictive bookie bent on collecting no matter the cost force Python to push Virginia away, but when the chaos lays Python’s life on the line, it seems only Virginia’s prominent background can save him. As she prepares to sacrifice her new life to return to the old one she detested, can Python conquer his demons to deliver them both to a place beyond regret?

Beyond Regret is a steamy, standalone bad boy biker romance. Although it is book five in the Serpents MC Las Vegas Series, enjoy it in whatever order you like with lots of heat and a guaranteed HEA!

 

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Release date: September 1, 2020

Publisher: Barbara Nolan

Print pages: 294

Sample

Python hadn’t given his birthday much thought. After all, what was the big deal about turning thirty-five? It wasn’t a decade birthday like thirty or forty. Shit, forty. He was five years away from forty. There were times when Python didn’t think he’d make it to twenty-five no less thirty-five. Back then he’d been muscle for hire—waking up at three in the afternoon, busting some heads, partying, fucking random snatch, then blissfully passing out, only to start all over again. Those were the bad old days after he’d done some time in the joint and before he’d hooked up with Cobra to form the Serpents.

Okay, no more deep thoughts—at least not now—not when he had an outstanding brunette named Crystal and a stunning blonde named Tina or Tara or something like that … in his bed.

“Outstanding” and “stunning” weren’t his words. The new ad agency he’d hired used them on the billboard along I-15, advertising Ecstasy Gentlemen’s Club, the strip joint he ran for the Serpents. If someone would’ve asked him, he’d have said that they were both hot as fuck and, right about now, had his dick hard as steel.

“Baby, I don’t like the way he keeps looking at us.” Crystal shifted closer as she eyed Kobi, Python’s black German shepherd, who was staring at them from his dog bed in the corner of the bedroom.

“He’s just jealous.” Python patted the sheets. “This is usually his spot.”

Yup, the ninety-pound German shepherd acted like a big baby anytime Python entertained.

“He’s making me nervous,” she squeaked. Crystal had a beautiful face, killer body, but a voice like an ice chipper. Sharp and screechy.

“He’s harmless.” Python slung his arm around her. “It’s me you gotta worry about.” He waggled his eyebrows and when she laughed, he kissed her. She couldn’t squeak while they kissed.

Python could overlook her voice. He’d never been too picky and loved all types of women, sometimes too much. His biker buddies were always up his ass for lending women money. As sergeant-at-arms for the Serpents MC, he handled the muscle, which meant he busted heads when needed. Nobody would’ve suspected the six-foot-five, hard ass biker to be a light touch, but give him a sob story and he fell for it—every time. Can’t make rent or your ex is late with the check? Call Python. Your kid wants the latest high-tech toy? Call Python.

Crystal sat up in bed and the sheet fell away from her bangin’ body. Python smiled at who he was sure would be Ecstasy’s next headliner.

“I was thinking about what my costume should be. Maybe a harem girl or a female construction worker or maybe even a cop,” she babbled on. “Like … maybe every night I could do a different profession, you know, like the Village People.”

He grabbed up her hand and shoved it under the sheet, but she kept talking. Definitely, ice chipper meets squeaky door. He hadn’t noticed that earlier. Probably since they hit the bed, her tongue had been halfway down his throat.

He glanced at the blonde still passed out on the other side of him. At least she was quiet.

“So, like I was saying, do you have any ideas?” she asked. “Is there some costume you’d like to see? Maybe I could—”

Python leaned in getting directly in her line of vision. “Babe, with your body, you could wear a burlap bag and the guys would be coming in their pants.” He adjusted her hand over his painfully hard cock. “I’m really not interested in conversation right now. I just wanna fuck.”

“Sure.” She cuddled into him, pushed back the sheet, and crawled down his body. As soon as her wet mouth clamped down on his dick, he was a goner.

“That’s what I’m talking about.”

She was good, real good, but once they were employees, it would be hands off. Although he’d hired them last week, technically they wouldn’t start working at the club until tomorrow night; but they knew the rules up front. The club protected the girls and had their back, and the girls showed up sober and on time. He ran a clean place: no hard drugs, no prostitution, just a little money laundering from their less legit businesses. Python took his job seriously, but overseeing a strip club with half-dressed, knock-out women every night?—wasn’t too much of a real hardship.

Life was good. He had his Harley, his club, his brothers, and two hot women in his bed—one who was currently tonguing his dick.

Happy fuckin’ birthday to him.

* * *

“Don’t worry, I’ll be fine,” Virginia said through her phone as she maneuvered the late model Toyota into the parking lot of Ecstasy. A strip club where, according to the sign, All Your Dreams Come True.

“You should’ve taken someone with you. You should’ve taken me with you.”

Virginia rolled her eyes. The last thing she needed was her co-worker, Nicole, with her. She loved the girl dearly, but the frenetic energy that woman exuded could put anyone on edge.

“I know what I’m doing.” She hoped. “Anyway, I have an appointment.”

“Who has appointments at strip clubs?”

“It’s where he works. Apparently, Python manages the place, and Cobra said I should interview him there.”

“And that’s another thing. Who has names like Python and Cobra? Yikes.”

“They’re the Las Vegas Serpents.” 

Truth, Virginia did think it was odd, although she’d never admit that to Nicole. 

“I still think you’re making a mistake going out there alone.”

“Don’t worry.” Virginia circled the parking lot, avoiding the valet just in case she had to make a quick getaway. Another detail she’d keep from Nicole’s prying ears. “I’m here, so I’m going to hang up.”

“But just—”

She turned off her car and the phone disconnected, filling the air with blessed silence. Nicole had been her first friend at KLAS-TV News, serving greater Las Vegas. Six months later, she’d become her best friend, and Nicole’s vivacious, super confident, outgoing attitude was everything Virginia wasn’t.

Psychology 101 told her their friendship worked because they were such extreme opposites, but it was more than that. Virginia liked Nicole’s easy, laidback ideas about life. Even though she might talk a mile a minute, Nicole didn’t stress the small stuff. That was something Virginia admired, especially coming from a family that competed and stressed over every subject, large or small.

Virginia flipped down the vanity mirror, then stared into her light brown eyes and said out loud, “You can do this.” Those four words were used as a mantra whenever her confidence threatened to do a disappearing act. She took a deep breath and then pushed the car door handle with more force than necessary.

Her apprehension had more to do with her career and less to do with entering a strip club at eleven at night. An odd time to do an interview, yes, but then again this was a strip club, or as they like to be called now, “a gentlemen’s club,” owned and operated by bikers. As a reporter, Virginia knew a good story was all in the word choice.

She’d like to say she volunteered for this assignment, but in truth, no one else wanted it, so her editor, Mr. Larson, threw it to her. And that right there was the problem. As the low woman on the totem pole, she covered car dealership openings, restaurant openings, and the latest jackpot winners at the Flamingo. Virginia was now the proud owner of an Audi brochure for a car she’d never be able to afford unless she won the next Flamingo jackpot.

Her three-inch heels clacked along the blacktop of the large parking lot. The shoes pinched a bit, but at only five foot three, the heels added to her confidence as well as her height. Walking into a strip club threatened to push every one of her low self-esteem buttons, even though she made a promise to force herself out of her comfort zone as soon as she’d hit Vegas. And what could be less comforting than stepping into a place where women with perfect figures strutted around half naked? She glimpsed down at her petite frame and modest breasts—no, don’t go there.

Virginia could do this, and she would do this, because excelling would hopefully mean achieving a career she’d wanted since she was a teen, a career she would get on her own without the help of her father, her family name, or their money. It was the main reason she used her mother’s maiden name when she applied at KLAS.

Nicole insisted she needed to break out of her shell and be more adventurous, therefore she stormed forward like Wonder Woman. So, how come she felt more like Dorothy about to step into the Land of Oz?

As she approached the door, she pulled out her wallet. Still getting carded at twenty-six years old annoyed her. Some women might be flattered by that, but to Virginia it was just another way that the world wasn’t taking her seriously—more like her father not taking her seriously—but that was another subject entirely.

The human block of cement standing by the door was easily a foot taller than her, even with her wearing the heels from hell. His narrowed eyes blatantly ran over her body without shame, probably trying to figure out if she was from the same species as the women who danced inside the club. Before she got close enough to show him her ID, he flicked his thick fingers at her and said, “Dancers enter around back.”

“Excuse me?” She stepped back as the double doors swung open and four guys barreled out, followed by the pounding bass from within the club.

The bouncer pointed to the double doors. “This entrance is for customers; dancers go around back.”

She laughed and he furrowed his brow. “I’m not a dancer. I’m meeting Python here.”

His brow knitted further together as if processing what she said equated with the theory of evolution. Either that or he’d been in one too many fights defending the honor of said dancers.

“Hmmm,” he grunted, as his eyes roamed over Virginia and lingered on her chest … or lack thereof. He dragged his gaze back to hers and she offered her ID, which he waved away. Assuming there’d be a cover charge, she dug in her wallet and pulled out some money, but he dismissed that too.

“Sunday is ladies night.”

Great. If, for some reason this night went as disastrously wrong as Nicole suspected, at least it didn’t cost her anything.

He jerked his chin toward the entrance, and his lips twitched into what she thought might be a smirky grin?

After clearing the entrance, she walked about six feet further inside and stopped. Her writer’s mind wanted to take it all in and examine every nuance. Expecting the flashing neon lights and the loud driving music, Virginia was surprised by the upscale furniture. Leather banquets were spaced around the room with smaller tables by the three stages, and high-gloss wood flooring led to a raised granite bar along the entire length of one wall. The clean, fragrant air dispelled all her assumptions of a typical smoke-and-cheap-perfume-filled, sleazy strip club. Even the dancers had an elegant upmarket tone. She’d be sure to include all this in her article. So much for stereotypes.

The Serpents needed a bit of good press after some recent bad publicity. They wanted the story to cover their charitable donations, thus shedding a favorable light on their motorcycle club. Choosing Ecstasy as a meeting place seemed counterproductive, but where else would an outlaw biker conduct business, right?

Virginia walked along the perimeter of the room, then climbed the few stairs to the raised bar. Because most of the men and a scattering of women were by the stages, the bar area was manageable. She found an opening, wedged herself against the black granite, and motioned to the waitress. The female bartender assessed her with her dark almond-shaped eyes.

“Can you tell me where I might find Python?” Virginia asked.

The girl craned her neck around the bar, causing her straight, waist-length ebony hair to fan out across her back, then pointed to the far side of the room. “He’s probably at the back table with Cobra.”

Virginia glanced where she pointed and saw quite a few men at the tables. “I don’t know what either of them looks like.”

She chuckled. “They’re not hard to miss. They’ll be wearing a Serpents cut.” Someone called the dark-haired beauty, and she moved down the bar.

In preparation for this interview, she’d done extensive research on outlaw biker clubs. It proved to be very interesting reading, and because of it, she knew a cut was the leather vest all bikers wore. Knowledge had always been her friend.

She pointed herself toward the back of the room, hoping some divine intervention would make Python or Cobra magically appear.

Her eyes had adjusted to the dim lighting, but straining to see made them water, which wasn’t helpful when trying to pick out a stranger in a place one has never been to before.

Virginia stopped just short of the end of the bar to get her bearings, blinking and swiveling her head. Thankfully, most of the attention was on the stage and she could stand in the shadows and observe.

“Can I help you?” A deep rasp of masculinity said behind her.

She spun around so fast, momentarily losing her balance, that the raspy-voiced stranger gripped her arm to steady her. Damn high heels.

She craned her neck back like a child looking at a skyscraper. The man’s muscled forearms and biceps swirled with colorful tattoos under a black leather cut over a black t-shirt and jeans. She squinted to focus and did some speed reading. A rectangle patch on the right side of his massive chest said Serpents MC, and under that was a diamond patch with a number one and a percentage sign, which meant they were outlaws. On his left side, another rectangular patch said Cobra - President.

“You’re Cobra?”

“Sure am.” His lips twisted into a smirk not unlike the bouncer at the door. It was as though each of them was trying to figure out what she was doing at a strip club. Similar to seeing a baby bird in the middle of the highway, you just know it’s not going to end well.

“I’m Virginia, from KLAS.” She stuck out her hand but retracted it, remembering from her research that many bikers didn’t do traditional handshakes. Most had some secret hand gestures. Oh god, where was her mind going?

Cobra cocked his head like she was an exhibit at the circus. 

“My editor said we had your approval to do a story on Ecstasy, and that I’m to meet with Python, and that he would—”

“Forgot you were coming tonight.”

With all the plundering and pillaging, outlaw bikers probably didn’t have time to check their iCalendar.

“Sit.” Cobra extended his arm to the small round table off to the side of the bar. Virginia followed him and took a seat, happy to be off her torturous shoes. She drew in a deep breath and regrouped, but this intense man staring at her did nothing for her nerves.

He flicked his wrist at a waitress and a bottle of tequila appeared.“Drink?” He motioned to the bottle. 

“No, no. No, I’m good.” One too many no’s there.

“You sure?” Cobra held up the bottle like he was offering her some much-needed medicinal elixir.

“I’m sure.” Tequila and Virginia had a love-hate relationship. The few times she drank it, she loved it—but hated herself the next day. 

Cobra poured himself a shot and downed it like it was water, then slammed the glass on the table and stared at her with the lightest blue eyes she’d ever seen.

Virginia looked over her shoulder. “Is Python here?”

“Upstairs.”

Cobra certainly wasn’t into long run-on sentences. His communication skills were short and to the point. He’d be every editor’s dream back at the station, but for a woman who currently felt like a fish out of water, he was a bit nerve-wracking. Cobra’s phone vibrated on the table, and a second after he answered it, he put the call on hold and flagged over another guy wearing the same leather cut. “This is Rattler.”

Then he turned to Rattler. “Show her around and answer her questions.”

Rattler flicked a look at Cobra that Virginia couldn’t decipher.

“C’mon,” Rattler said, his voice deep and somewhat bored.

Rattler, yes, another snake name, was younger than Cobra, maybe in his mid-twenties like herself, she guessed, and while he stood at least six feet, he had a leaner, rangy build and longish black hair. Rattler turned away from her so abruptly that she hadn’t gotten a good look at his face. She scurried behind him down a wide hallway to the back of the club as fast as her stilettos allowed, barely keeping up with his long-legged swagger.

He stopped at the first door and pushed it open. “This is the kitchen. The dancers get one meal a shift.”

Cooks hustled around the remarkably clean, stainless steel kitchen preparing simple bar food. She suspected most men weren’t there for the food and that the fare was mainly to help soak up the alcohol.

Then they moved further down the hall to another door. Rattler knocked and announced his entrance, then opened the door to another room bustling with sequins, skimpy lingerie, and women in all stages of undress.

Virginia instinctively stepped back until she realized that her presence as well as Rattler’s wasn’t even noticed.

“This is the dressing room.” Rattler stated the obvious as women of every shape and size applied makeup at the long, mirrored tables, adjusted skimpy costumes, or practiced their routines. “You’re responsible for your own costumes.” He patted his pockets and came up with a pack of cigarettes. “You show up on time. No booze or drugs while you’re on stage.” He knocked one out of the pack and stuck it between his teeth.

Virginia started to correct him, but the sheer energy of the room captivated her, and the writer in her longed to sit down with them right now and ask what life was like as an exotic dancer.

Maybe along with praise for the club, she’d add a touch of human interest to give it “people appeal.” Her mind started outlining and inventing questions because she was sure that each of those girls had her own personal story. Probably some were very different than what the public perceived. It could be a breakout report that abolished stereotypes and got to the truth.

Rattler’s gaze raked over her. “Use the back entrance the next time you come in.”

Same thing the bouncer said. “No, I’m with—” No sense in explaining it all to him, she’d just wait for Python.

A stunning brunette in four-inch stilettos sidled up to him, flicked a lighter, and lit his cigarette. She wore a fringed g-string and a western-themed bra that barely covered her enormous breasts. “Hey, Rattler.”

“Hey, darlin’, how’re you doin’ tonight?” Rattler inhaled deep on the cigarette,  seemingly unimpressed and unaffected by the statuesque beauty that stood almost as tall as him.

“Good, now that you’re here.” She ran her hand over his tattooed bicep, but he remained uninterested. Maybe it was like working in a bakery surrounded by sweets everyday: after a while you became immune.

The girl flicked her manicured fingers at Virginia. “Is this one of the new dancers?”

Rattler gave Virginia the once-over, then laughed, and yes, she was insulted because an outlaw biker didn’t think she was an exotic dancer. There was definitely something wrong with her thinking.

The tall, gorgeous entertainer glanced at the clock on the wall. “Almost time to go on.” As she strutted out of the dressing room, Virginia admired and envied her confidence.

“That’s about it,” Rattler said. He eyed her from head to toe. “I gotta say … That’s a great fuckin’ costume.”

“Costume?”

“The whole buttoned-up librarian look. Some guys get off on that.”

“You don’t understand, I came to see Python because—”

“You should've said that before.”

“I’m from—.”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it.” From the expression on Rattler’s face, she and this subject bored him about ten minutes ago. “Python’s upstairs in his apartment.” 

“Oh, I thought he’d want to do it down here.”

He suddenly cracked a broad smile. “Nah, I don’t think so.” Rattler was rather handsome when he smiled. It softened the multiple piercings in his nose, ears, and lip. 

He led her to the end of the hall and pointed to a staircase. “He’s probably waiting for you.”

“Oh, all right.” It actually made more sense. They could talk away from the loud music and maybe set up a future date to interview the dancers.

He mumbled something that sounded like “lucky fucker,” then held up his phone. “I’ll text him that you’re on your way up. Top of the stairs. It’s the only apartment up there.”

“Thanks.”

Virginia hoped that Python was more chatty than Cobra and Rattler, or this interview would be very tedious. She climbed the one flight as Rattler instructed, then squared her shoulders at the top of the small hallway with the one door. If she wanted to be a successful investigative reporter, she had to be bolder, pushier, more assertive.

* * *

Python reached for the joint in the ashtray on his bedside table. He fired it up and sucked deep. The Serpents grew the best weed in Clark County. The thick smoke filled his lungs just as Crystal gripped his thighs and sucked him in deeper. Maybe outstanding did describe her ’cause right now his whole body was tingling. Talk about deep throat.

“Fuck yeah!” His guttural shout rumbled through the bedroom, waking the blonde sprawled out on the other side of him. She rolled over and leaned up on her elbow, then proceeded to suck on his nipple ring. Pain and pleasure at its finest.

Kobi raised his head for a better look, then slowly crossed the room. Python loved the animal more than most people, but if the beast jumped up and interrupted this show, Python would definitely hold back his doggie treats later.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand beside him, and he glanced down at it, barely able to concentrate.

Rattler: I’m sending you up another present. Happy birthday, fucker.

Python glanced down at the two girls draped around him. He’d done plenty of threesomes, but never a foursome. And if the one on her way up was half as good as these two … oh, shit yeah.

He nodded to the blonde. “Go unlock the door. We got somebody else joining the party.”

She scurried off the bed, and a few seconds later she was back. Python stuck the joint between his lips and let his head sink into the pillows. Thirty-five was looking like a goddamn good year.

A few minutes later, the sound of knocking seeped through his smoke-filled brain. He couldn’t wait to see what stood on the other side. A redhead would round out the trio nicely, but he wasn’t picky.

“C’mon in, darlin’,” Python called out from the bedroom. He heard the main door open and close, then footsteps down the hall.

“Hello?”

“I’m in the bedroom.” He panted out. Crystal picked that moment to look up at him, so he angled her head back where it belonged.

The door creaked open slowly and Python flashed his shittiest grin, then waved her toward the bed. “Don’t just stand there, babe. Strip down and join the party.