Page 22 of Femme Fatale
Spade tossed her a water bottle. The blonde unscrewed the cap and drank like she was at a tasting, small sips, careful not to drip. When she caught me watching, she smiled with just her mouth.
“Name’s Simone,” she said. Her voice was smooth, maybe a little hoarse from the collar, but confident. “Thank you for the rescue. If you hadn’t come, I think they would have sent us all south. Or worse.”
Joker lit a cigarette and offered one to Tina, who took it with shaking hands. “You got family, Simone? Anybody we should call?”
Simone shook her head. “No family in the city. My boss will be furious, but he can wait.”
I didn’t buy it, but I let it ride. Aces was already at the bikes, checking the gas, her eyes flicking between us and the highway.
Nines kept her distance, hood up, hands deep in her pockets. “We need to move,” she said. “Those SUVs had Metro scanners. If they find us here, we’re all going in cuffs.”
Glitz came up behind me. “One of them said something weird on the scanner. They called the girls ‘hot property.’ Like, in a way that made my skin crawl.”
“Doesn’t matter now,” Tempest grunted. “We’re not leaving them behind.”
We mounted up, this time with the girls riding pillion. I took Simone. She slung on behind me without a word, arms tight, not afraid but deliberate, as if she was used to being driven by strangers.
We cut through the desert, the line of bikes splitting the night. No lights behind us, no pursuit, just the low growl of engines and the far-off glitter of the Strip.
Simone leaned in, close to my ear. “You Harlots always rescue people you don’t know?”
“Depends what they’re worth,” I said. “Or who they’re running from.”
She laughed, low and real. “I wasn’t running. I was collecting. The deal went bad. My boss won’t like this.”
“Your boss got a name?” I asked, just to see if she’d say it.
She waited until we hit a smooth stretch, then spoke over the wind. “Jack Smalls. My father.”
I almost dumped the bike. Every nerve in my spine iced up, and my jaw clenched so hard I thought I’d crack a molar.
Simone didn’t flinch at my silence. She just squeezed tighter.
Joker pulled up next to me at a red light. “Problem?” she mouthed.
I shook my head, but my brain was racing. “What’s Smalls’ daughter doing in a brothel’s basement?” I hissed, barely audible over the rumble. I nodded at Simone.
Joker grinned, wild-eyed. “Fuck.”
We ran the rest of the way in silence. No one spoke, not even Tina, whose head rested on Joker’s shoulder, eyes half-closed but safe. Simone never let go.
At the clubhouse, the crew filed inside, locking the door and double-barring the windows. We made beds from sleeping bags and busted pool floaties. The girls huddled in the corner, but Simone just sat by the window, watching the dark.
I poured a shot of bourbon, handed it to her. She drank it neat, wiped her lips, and said, “He’ll be coming for me by tomorrow.”
I nodded. “He’ll come for all of us.”
She smiled. “Then we'd better get some sleep.”
I looked at Joker. She looked back, her eyes wide with the thrill of it, like we’d just rolled the dice on the biggest table in town, and for once, we didn’t care if the house won.
Chapter Five
Zeke
Irolled in with the sun not quite up, red rock and scrub shadowed and sharp in my mirrors. My Harley, all custom bars and chromed hardware, let out a final cough before settling into sullen silence. I let it tick down, sat astride the machine, and took in the fortress. The Harlots had claimed an old mining lodge and built it up like they expected the Mongols to return. The place had floodlights, three lines of chain-link, razor wire that shone like wet bone in the pre-dawn. Raw lumber weathered to gray, windows inlaid with reinforced mesh. Heavy steel door painted in club colors, the Harlot emblem dead center, so you couldn’t mistake who ruled here.
Rows of motorcycles filled the lot, each one modified, not for show but for reliability and intimidation. No two were the same, but every one was branded. At the near end, I counted three scouts, posted up and watching me with the boredom ofapex predators denied a kill. They wore leather cuts over faded black, faces sharp, expressions sharper. Their eyes tracked me, then the gate, then each other, hands never straying far from the weapons at their hips.
