Page 7 of Rider Daddies
I’m swept off my feet already.
She smells divine.
Andsoundsdivine.
“Is that an accent…?” I narrow my eyes.
“Italian, yes. I’m from Italy originally,” she says. She looks at me. Her eyes are a beautiful hazel color.
Ash can’t tear his eyes away from her either. Finally, he has found something else to look at other than his reflection in the mirror.
“Look,” he says. “I just came over here to make sure you’re okay.”
The woman glares up at him, projections from the light catching her pupils. “I’m fine,” she says curtly.
“Are you sure?” I look her up and down. “Sweetheart, I hate to state the obvious, but you are wearing a wedding dress. Is today your wedding day?”
“Technically,” she says, consulting the clock on the wall. “It was yesterday.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Ash says.
“Yep,” she says. There’s a sarcastic lilt to her tone. “I’m sure you are. Listen.” She straightens up, chin lifted. “I need to get out of here ASAP. My car ran out of gas and this”—she scans the clubhouse—“looks like the kind of place that could give me a top up. I’m lucky in some ways that my car decided to give up on me outside of a…garage.”
“Oh, sweetheart.” I take a step forward. “You’re in for a treat if you think this is a garage.”
“What’s going on here?” Saint interjects.
Great. Just what we need. Saint fucking making an entrance too.
“You’re supposed to be on the discs, man.”
“And you’re supposed to be at the door.”
“Yes,” I say. “And as security, my job is to question anyone who’s not a patched member or prospect.”
Saint gives me the side-eye. He can continue doing that from afar, back behind his mixers.
“Look,” the woman says. She screws up her eyes, clearly restless from lack of sleep. “I would be grateful if one of you could refill my car with gas.” Her eyes veer over to the bar. “I also wouldn’t say no to a glass of water. Ice, please, if you have.” She grits her teeth. It’s the best smile she can give us. “I don’t have any cash or my Amex, but I’ll pay you back…some…other way.”
I lean in closer. “What kind of way?”
Ash elbows me in the side forcefully. “Hold tight,” he says to the girl. “Glass of water with ice coming up.”
“Thanks.”
“Here,” Saint says, the first to get his arm around her. “Take a seat.” He hurries off to grab a chair, setting it close to the bar. “What’s your name?”
“Um,” she stutters, mouth opening and closing. She does another sweep of this place with her eyes, like her answer to the question will depend on the opinion she has of our clubhouse.
Saint and I lean against the bar, waiting for her answer.
It wasn’t great timing on her part, crashing in here tonight. Things tend to get pretty feral when we host our monthly parties. Right now there are a few members on the tables, swinging belts around like they’re at a rodeo. On one of the back tables, I notice a woman laid over the surface with a strained look, body jerking intermittently. Looking closer, I see the shadowy figure of a man standing behind her, thrusting. Our woman sees it too, lips parting in sheer surprise as she watches.
Some of our clubhouse whores get really into the music, and this often leads to the removal of clothes. As the night thickens, the girls have a tendency to shred their lingerie, swinging around banisters and posts to flaunt their naked bodies. That’s what’s happening now, since we’re a few hours into the party.
The bride gasps, bringing my attention back to her. I follow her gaze and see one particular patched member drawing a knife over one of the clubhouse whore’s bodies, circling the blade over each one of her breasts. Stimulating her nipples.
“Don’t worry,” Saint says. He puts his hand on her shoulder. I expect her to shake it off, but she doesn’t react. “He won’t cut her.”
