Page 14 of Mile High With the Bikers
“Our apartments are upstairs.” Diesel kicks the stand down under his motorcycle and pushes it up on them with a familiar ease. “But we can get in through the Roost, and we need to let some people know we're back. Eagle-eye probably won't be there, but there's usually an officer around.”
“Eagle-eye?”
“Club president.” Shrapnel answers as he locks the bikes away. “If you meet him, you'll understand.”
Hopefully I won’t need to meet the president of a motorcycle club. Staying here tonight is a temporary measure. I like these guys, but I’m not exactly a biker chick. All I want right now is some sleep, maybe a shower. And if they have somewhere safe to do that, I’m happy to go along.
At first I think I'm seeing double. Twin bikers guard the door. They're huge, like Bull, with short dark brown hair and neatly trimmed short beards. One of them watches us closely, his big arms crossed over his chest, while the other has a friendly grin, casually leaning against the door frame. His eyebrows go up when he sees me. “Hey boys, you’re home. Pick up something in duty-free? Did you bring enough for everyone?”
“Fuck off, Lightning.” Shrapnel gives him the finger, but there isn’t much heat behind it.
Diesel puts his big hands on my shoulders and guides me past them. “You wouldn't fucking believe the day we've had.”
“You fucking look it,” the more serious twin rumbles, getting out of the way.
The Eagles' Roost is bigger than I thought from the outside, deep and widening the farther back you go. The thick scent of leather, beer and tobacco washes over me. The stools along the bar are packed, and groups of men fill up the raised booths on the left. You can't turn around without running into a big guy with tattoos and a biker vest. The most common logo I see is the Screaming Eagles, but not everyone.
But it’s not all men. There are women too, sitting in their laps, or leaning at their sides with arms around their waists as the men talk. They remind me of groupies at a rock show. And they're all dressed for attention. Miniskirts and crop-tops are everywhere, along with tube tops and booty shorts. One girl is wearing a long T-shirt that I'm not convinced has anything under, and not to be outdone, she’s with a friend who has her breasts out, laughing as she swings her shirt over her head. One of the guys they’re with cups her breasts in his big hands and nobody seems at all bothered by it. Especially not the girl in the oversized shirt who leans in to kiss her.
My face warms, but I can't look away. I think I see why Shrapnel said what we did wasn’t exactly an orgy.
“Giving you ideas?” Diesel whispers right into my ear as he puts his hands on my hips and leans in close.
It feels a little kinky that we’re standing here watching together. I don’t know if I like it, but I don’t hate it. “Just surprised, is all.” I glance back at him, realizing it's just us two. “Where are Bull and Shrapnel?”
He laughs, sliding his rough fingers underneath the hem of my shirt so he can caress my side, skin on skin. “They spotted Viking and Ripper and went to report in. You're stuck with me for now. Want something to drink, or just go upstairs? You can crash at my place.”
His touch is distracting. For a moment my brain plays with the idea of doing more than just crashing, but no. I feel like a dishtowel, wrung out and hung to dry. The only reason I’m not having a complete breakdown is because I’m too overwhelmed to process everything that’s happened today. “Can I take a rain check?”
“Yeah, of course.”
I lean into him, my eyelids drooping. “Drink later. Crash now.”
“Alright, sleepyhead. Come on. Let’s get you tucked in.” He takes my hand and pulls me along, plowing through the dense crowd so that all I have to do is keep up.
In the back, the space opens up to reveal a lowered seating area around a stage. A gorgeous woman in booty shorts cut so high they're venturing into bikini territory twirls around a pole. Her tight mesh top does little to hide a pair of breasts that has the attention of every man in the audience below. And honestly, most of the women, too. She struts around the pole with a seductive swivel of her hips, then grabs it with both hands and with the kind of athleticism that I could only ever dream of, swings her legs up until she’s hanging upside down. The musclesflex in her supple thighs as she peels her top off and tosses it into the audience.
“Sure you don't wanna stay for the show? You seem to like it.”
It's tempting. The way she moves is hypnotizing. I’m far too straight to be her target audience, but it’s still beautiful and impressive in its own way. “No. Maybe another night.”
He grins. “I think I’m going to like cashing in this rain check. Come on, let's get you in bed.”
We go deeper into the bar, but along the outside edge instead of down into the booths around the stage. There's a door with a security pad. Diesel pulls out a little plastic fob that he waves close to the panel, then punches in a quick code. A little light turns green and he pushes the door open, holding it for me.
“Fancy for a biker strip club.”
“We take security pretty seriously around here. Believe it or not, we aren’t exactly universally loved.”
I smile, keeping it to myself that while I’m definitely not the most dangerous person here, I might be the biggest security risk.
“We own the whole building and rebuilt it a while ago, after… well, after one of the reasons we need security. Gives us some room outside the clubhouse.” The door clicks shut behind us and I hear the lock kick in with a mechanical whir. “No elevator, unfortunately. Old building, and it wasn't practical to try to install one in the middle of it. Third floor.”
He opens the door to his apartment the same way as downstairs, and shows me into a small apartment. I was expecting the worst, but it’s actually pretty cozy. Very much still a guy’s space, though. Leather couch and a huge TV dominate the livingarea, with several game systems and controllers underneath. Motorcycle pictures and artsy nudes on one wall, and a frame with a picture of a pretty woman and a redheaded boy on the TV table. His mother, maybe? Pretty sure that might be him as a boy, maybe ten or twelve. The kitchen area is tiny but clean aside from a couple of empty beer bottles pushed together at one end of the counter.
“Bathroom’s over there, and the bedrooms through the other door,” he explains, gesturing. “That’s the grand tour. Nothing fancy, but the water pressure’s good and the sheets are clean. Take a shower if you want, and I'll find you a spare towel.”
I put my backpack down on the floor. “That sounds amazing.”
