Page 9 of Never Distract a Biker

Damn, the fucking condom broke. So much for protection. I’d have to get a morning-after pill.

4

Viktor

The pulsing bassline of the music hits me the moment I step inside DanceCheck. The dim lights cast shadows that flicker across the room, revealing glimpses of dancers twirling on polished poles and patrons leaning back with drinks in hand. The air is thick with the scent of perfume and alcohol, an intoxicating blend that clings to the fabric of this place.

I scan the room, my eyes adjusting to the smoky haze that lingers in the air. My presence is inconspicuous; a tailored suit and confident stride don’t draw attention in a place like this. But I’m here for a reason, and my focus sharpens as I move deeper into the club. My eyes roam the place, searching for my target, but land on her instead.

A glint of golden hair catches my attention, and my gaze zeroes in. She’s moving towards the podium like she owns the stage,and she is exquisitely beautiful. The contrast of her sun-kissed hair against the dark backdrop of the club is magnetic, drawing eyes like moths to a flame.

She takes the stage, and the crowd erupts in cheers. My gaze shifts to her, drawn against my will. Watching her now, my emotions war within me. She’s radiant, commanding the room with every calculated move, but it tears at something primal inside me. This life, this stage, isn’t meant for her. Yet who am I to dictate how she lives it? The realization burns like acid.

I settle into a corner booth, but my body tenses as Electra—takes her place on the dancing podium. The spotlight catches her curves, highlighting every inch of her. Her movements are fluid and hypnotic, and I can see her effect on the room. Men lean forward, captivated, their eyes following her every move. My jaw tightens as a sharp pang of something unbidden twists inside me. Anger? Jealousy? I’m not sure which is worse.

Her body arcs gracefully around the pole, her blonde hair cascading like silk as she spins and sways. The crowd is loud, a chorus of whistles and cheers, but my gaze never leaves her. She doesn’t notice me, but her every move seems to call to me, drawing me in like a moth to a flame.

I sip my whiskey, the burn doing little to steady me. My fingers twitch against the glass, the memory crashing into me like a wave—last week, the parking lot. Her body pressed against mine in the backseat of my car, the way her skin felt like fire against my hands, the way her soft gasps turned into a moan that still haunts me. My heart pounds as I remember how her eyeshad met mine, wide and vulnerable, yet filled with a kind of determination that sent my pulse racing.

My hands itch to feel her again, to recreate the way she melted beneath my touch, the way she trembled as she surrendered something so intimate to me. The thought of how her nails scraped against my skin, the way her warm and juicy slit enveloped me—it’s maddening. My chest tightens, and I’m breathing harder now, the memory of her moans, her whispered pleas, consuming me.

She’d given me her first time, and I’m not sure I deserve the weight of it. But the way she made me feel—like the world had stopped turning like nothing else mattered but her—is burned into my mind. Even now, I can feel the echo of her touch, her lips against mine, her body arching under my hands.

Scarlett’s dance grows bolder, her body twisting in ways that make the men around me salivate. I can’t take it. The way they’re looking at her, the way she captivates them so effortlessly, fuels a fire I can’t control. Every sway of her hips, every graceful arc of her body, is mine to remember, not theirs to witness.

I shove the glass aside, rising to my feet and slipping into the shadows. The noise of the club fades as I retreat into the cool hallway. Leaning against the wall, I run a hand through my hair and exhale sharply. She’s dangerous—not because of what she does, but because of what she’s doing to me. And I can’t decide which scares me more: the thought of staying or the thought ofleaving her here. Leaving her to the ravenous eyes of all these wolves.

The Next Night

I meld into the shadows outside the DanceCheck club, my presence unnoticed. Thanks to the club security hoodie I have on. It had taken me days to craft the badge on the left sleeve and it would be impossible to tell that it is fake. I move to a side door that I noticed days back. With a flick of my pin the door yields to me—a child's plaything masquerading as security. Inside, the thumping bass assaults my ears, but I'm a silent specter weaving through gyrating bodies drenched in strobe lights.

"Pathetic," I murmur under my breath, eyes scanning for the blind spots I've already memorized. Cameras blink their red eyes at the crowd, but they're blind to corners carved out by design. I know every inch of this place as a result of meticulous planning and an insatiable hunger for detail.

The air reeks of heavy perfume and sweat, a cocktail that makes my lip curl in disgust. But I push forward, invisible to the intoxicated fun seekers. They're sheep adorned in glitter and sequins; I'm the wolf cloaked in tailored darkness.

Damn fucking amateurs

I think as I bypass what they dare call security measures—a laughable attempt to filter the undesirable. A sidestep here, a pause there, and I'm through, unseen, unchallenged. It's almost insulting, the ease with which I operate within their midst.

My breath is inaudible, my feet, ghosts themselves as I glide into the locker room. The stench of sweat and cologne that clings to the room is now background noise; my focus narrows to one task alone.

"Electra," her name is not much more than a murmur on my lips as I find her locker. I know she dances under this alias, and I can easily find out her real name, but what’s the need?

I slip the envelope I have under my hoodie between sequins and leather costumes. No note, no clue, just the words that speak louder than any words I could offer. This is how I help, from the shadows, because anonymous is the identity for men like me.

Satisfied with myself, I slip out before anyone sees me, the door closing with a whisper of finality.

The night air hits me like a splash of cold water as I emerge into the VIP parking lot. My eyes scan the space—it's all high-end metals and tinted windows. Here, wealth whispers its sort of silence.

I find a dark corner to inhabit and wait. Patience is a weapon in itself—one I wield with precision. Marcus doesn't know it yet, but his time is a sand grain away from slipping through the hourglass.

My mind wanders to Thiago, the cartel leader who had ordered his own nephew’s execution. Well, his nephew by marriage. In the past year, Thiago has managed to escape government exposure twice. Thanks to his network of informants. But after the second attempt, he was sure that there was a ‘snake’ within his inner circle.

True to his word, weeks of meticulous investigation had shown that Marcus was selling his own auntie’s husband to the FBI.

Out of love for his wife, Thiago had kept his findings from her, and instead, he asked me to take care of him and make it look like an accident.

I don't fidget. I don't check my watch. Time is irrelevant; only the mission matters. My senses sharpen, attuned to every footstep, every drunken laugh that spills into the night from the club's entrance. The air hangs heavy with anticipation, but not a single rush of adrenaline. I’ve mastered this act so much that it has become second nature to me.

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