by Skyla Madi
THREE
I Z Z Y
“Drink this,” Chelsea says, tossing a can of citrus-twist vodka at me. “Then get dressed. You’re coming with me.”
I catch it awkwardly in my hands and grimace. “Dad will kill me.”
I’m banned from going to the west side of Exeter where the enigmatic men in leather run wild. If I went to the Devil’s Cartel clubhouse, my father wouldn’t just kill me. He’d use tweezers to pick me apart in tiny increments until my death, then he’d find a way to resurrect me and do it all again. Not a meal went by he didn’t curse their existence and threaten to bury them all. Damon Judge had my father under his thumb, and Dad loathed it, but it was James Creed who really made Dad boil. Maybe he knew about the kiss or that I asked Creed to take me with him. Maybe he’s heard me moan Creed’s name in my sleep whenever he plagued my dreams.
“You’re an adult,” Chelsea states, pulling the skirt of her cherry red dress down her thighs. The shimmery fabric clings to her muscles like a second skin, accentuating the curve of her backside. “Who cares what your dad thinks?”
I crack the seal on the can and take a sip. The lemony flavor tickles my tongue and stimulates my glands as the liquid bubbles and burns at my mouth. “If I’m seen there having fun, how would that look? It’d ruin my father’s whole campaign—”
“Still not your problem.” She exhales, pulling her long, chocolate hair over one slender shoulder, and sits on the bed beside me, taking my hands in hers, spilling a few drops of my drink. They soak into my black jeans. “I’m leaving town, Iz. This is the last night we’re going to spend together for a long, long time. I’ve always respected your decision not to come to the clubhouse in the past, but girl, come on. Just this once.”
I look at her furrowed brow and pouty lips then stare into her round, pleading brown eyes. My thoughts begin to swirl, and my heart picks up in its beat at the thought of being close to Creed again, at the thought of being in his territory instead of the safety of my room.
I catch my lower lip between my teeth then release it, pulling my hands free.
“Fine,” I say, blowing air from my lips. I bring the can to my mouth and swallow two large mouthfuls. “I’ll come, but I’m using you as a scapegoat if he finds out.”
Chelsea beams, pulling her closed fists under her jaw and squealing with delight. “We’re going to have so much fun!”
She lifts off her king-sized bed and dances along the floor to her walk-in closet. I watch helplessly, drinking my drink as she tosses dress after dress onto the floor. I try to focus on what she’s saying—what colors would match my skin tone, what hairstyle would better frame my face—but all I can think about is Creed. Exhilaration runs hot in my veins and lifts fine hair off my skin. My crush on him has only intensified since the last time I saw him—a lifetime ago now—and Pierce and I are on a break. At my discretion, I could have Creed tonight. I finish off my can and reach for another as a wicked plan formulates through the nervousness in my belly.
I will have Creed tonight.
* * *
“Awooooo!” A ferocious howl rips through the air, piercing my eardrums.
I scream, grabbing onto Chelsea’s arm as a group of four rush by us, laughing, eager to get to the overflowing clubhouse.
“Scared me,” I say on exhale, earning a snicker from my best friend.
I release Chelsea’s arm and press my palm to my chest to feel my heart as it slams into my ribcage. I’m so far out of my comfort zone it’s terrifying. Only once has my heart beat this fast.
“Won’t be the last time. These parties get pretty wild.” She peers sideways at me, grinning. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll end up screaming in someone’s ear tonight, too.”
Her implication doesn’t pass me by. I pull a face, but my mind is already traveling down that road. I know I shouldn’t be contemplating tracking down Creed and getting him alone, since Pierce and I haven’t officially broken up, but…it’s Creed. It’s always been Creed for me.
Chelsea escorts me down the gentle grassy slope and onto a wide path of flat gravel that leads to the monstrous clubhouse. I rake my gaze over the huge building that towers over us. It’s a converted warehouse that could fit well over half the town’s population. Chelsea gives me a quick rundown, and according to her, most of the men live here. There are sections of the clubhouse that are off limits, and she rattles them off, but I’m not paying attention. I’m consumed by the giant bonfire in the middle of the field one hundred yards out and the men and women who walk back and forth, dressed in leather, denim, and dark fabrics.
“Don’t ever go in there. No one is allowed in their rooms unless they choose you.”
I nod, though I have no idea who or what she’s talking about. “Okay.”
“Also, there’s a few you need to avoid, like Modo and—”
I zone her out as a tall man with salt and pepper hair winks at me, lifting his drink as he saunters by. So friendly. I follow him with my gaze and suck air between my teeth at the sight of the gigantic devil-skull on his back and the words that circle it. Devil’s Cartel. California. Thrill zips down my spine. I can’t believe I’m here. At their clubhouse. I don’t belong here in my baby pink dress. I should’ve worn the black one like Chelsea suggested, but I thought this would remind Creed of our exchange a year ago.
“If they get handsy,” Chelsea continues, “tell them you’re a member of the public, not a—”
“Mhm,” I hum, flicking my lagging gaze over everything in sight, inhaling the gritty, delightful smells as I go.
Rock music plays, it blasts from speakers mounted on the clubhouse, and the harsh beats demolish the classical tastes my father instilled in me from birth. Mozart who? Beethoven who? Give me the man screaming so hard his vocal cords sound like they’re tearing apart. Give me electric guitars that squeal in pain and drums that pound louder than thunder.
I’m shouldered by an angry man I don’t see, and somewhere in the distance, motorcycles roar to life, the sounds of their engines burying under my skin. Overwhelming tears blur my vision, and I smile as we approach the entrance where two men shout. The tallest man, the one with his leather sleeves cut off, showcasing his umber skin and thick biceps, towers over a shorter man in a faded tee. I don’t know what they’re saying or what a Triumph is, but they don’t agree, and they’re not afraid to make noise.
“And that’s all you need to know,” Chelsea shouts in my ear. “Any questions?”
Questions? “Uh—”
The front doors are thrown open, and a man is hurtled out. Chelsea and I stumble backward as he hits the ground and rolls to a stop in front of our feet, groaning and clutching his ribs.
“I won’t tell you again, fucker!” the biker at the top of the four steps shouts, pointing a long, thick finger at the man on the ground. “You’re not welcome here.”
Excitement crackles in the air and crepitates over my scalp as I gawk at the blond, long-haired biker. The men who live out here, scurrying around in the dark while the rest of us sleep, are something else, and I’m attracted to it, to the lifestyle, to the thought of being an outlaw and having no one to answer to.
“You!” the biker booms, pointing his long, thick finger at Chelsea. “Get your sexy ass up here.”
She starts forward, stepping over the man in front of us, who moans and rolls flat on his back. I follow, stepping over his legs, and snag her forearm out of panic.
“Don’t leave me alone.”
“You’ll be fine if you follow what I told you.”
I widen my eyes. What did she tell me?
“I’ll come find you in a little while and we can spend the rest of the night together.”
She plants a swift kiss on my cheek then rushes up the steps to the tall, handsome biker. Her long, chocolate locks reach the middle of her back and bounce with every step, the skirt of her red dress tightly hugging her curves. The biker forcefully grabs and hoists her like she weighs nothing. Chelsea squeals in delight a
s he throws her over his shoulder and lifts her dress to palm her ass, revealing her black thong. Heat floods my cheeks, and I look away.
Maybe I am out of my depth here…
“You should know,” the man on the ground groans, peeking up my dress. Disgusted, I step away, and he grins at me, still clenching his ribs. “A little while can be hours in patchrider time.”
“Patchrider?”
“Don’t play coy, girl. Clubwhore. Patchwhore. Clubslut—”
I walk away, heading toward the entrance of the clubhouse where Chelsea and the biker entered. Chelsea isn’t a clubwhore. She doesn’t need this club. She’s rich, ridiculously so, and beautiful, and well on her way to running her own haute couture fashion empire. I imagine her obsession with this place is only because it infuriates her father, who happens to be a famous Los Angeles attorney. She’s twisted like that—all my friends are. I guess I am, too. My therapist knows of my obsession with Creed, with leather, lace, loud engines, and burning rubber. He thinks it grew from my father’s overprotectiveness and fear of these gritty men. He thinks it’s a fantasy I’ll grow out of or forget once I try it, but I’m not so sure. It’s probably stupid, a ridiculous notion that’s stemmed from a teenage infatuation, but there’s an invisible thread that ties me to Creed. I want him—bad. I want him so bad I’d give up every luxury I have just to kiss him again, to taste the darkness on his tongue.
I open one of the huge clubhouse doors and step inside, coming face to face with another biker. I gasp, my eyebrows lifting to my hairline, and I flick my attention down her slim waist and wide hips. I look at her big leather boots, skinny denim jeans, and black V-neck tee, then I survey her leather vest. It looks real. It has the scary, circular skull patch on the breast and everything. She’s a part of the gang? Under the warm lights above, her umber skin glows with ochre highlights, and her hair is pulled back tight, her natural curls a soft, elegant ball on the top of her head. I swallow hard. I’ve never seen a complexion so flawless, without a single bump, a single blemish. Like all the club members, she’s intimidating, even more so since she’s a woman in a man’s club. How’d she get here? What’d she do to get in? I read online that women can’t be patched into outlaw clubs like this. I also noticed most clubs only had white members—other Devil’s Cartel chapters included. Maybe Damon Judge isn’t as big an asshole as people make him out to be.
She tilts her head, her face a perfect picture of feigned sympathy.
“Oh, honey, pink?” She reaches out with her slender fingers and touches my dress then my long, blonde hair. “They’re going to eat you alive.”
I frown. “They?”
“They,” she repeats, laughing as she slaps my shoulder and leaves the building.
I turn my attention to the room and feel blood drain from my face. Clashing of glasses, roaring of laughter, stomping of boots, and moaning of men and women alike flood my ears. It’s one thing to hear stories, but it’s another thing entirely to witness the way they live. It’s barbaric. Twisted.
Exhilarating.
I’m pulled from my train of thought by a smack on my ass. I yelp, shooting forward, smoothing my hands over my backside, and I snap my head to look over my shoulder.
“You’re blocking the door, baby,” an old man in a black denim jacket shouts in my ear.
He presses his hand to my lower back and eases me to the side before stalking into the crowd, disappearing completely. What the hell? I take a deep breath, trying to remember Chelsea’s rules. Who am I supposed to avoid? What am I supposed to say? And where do I find Creed?
I stick to the edge of the clubhouse, going unnoticed as I slip by grinding men and women who have no shame fucking where everyone can see. By some miracle, I make it across the giant space unhindered and stop at a large oak bar. Sighing in relief, I place one foot on the rest of the stool next to me and lean on my elbows. I need a drink. The vodka twists I drank at Chelsea’s are quickly wearing off, and I’m losing my nerve.
“What do you want?” a young man demands, rushing toward me from behind the bar, impatience and irritation wafting off him in waves.
He’s younger than most here, younger than me even, and he’s clearly a part of the club, but he wears a brown vest instead of black.
“Oh.” I flick my hand at him. “I don’t want to bother you. It’s fine.”
“Can’t have you standing here taking up space,” he says, his voice tinged with an accent that reminds me of my time in Australia. “Order a drink or piss off.”
Rude. “Okay…I’ll have a cosmopolitan, please.”
Those close enough to hear my order roar with laughter. I frown at them as they look me up and down. I can tell immediately they don’t take me seriously, that they think I’m some dumb wannabe who doesn’t belong. They’re right, but still. Where’s the discretion?
“A cosmopolitan?” the bartender says, throwing a towel over his shoulder. “Are you lost, Barbie? This isn’t the fucking Ten Pound Bar.”
I’m impressed he knows the Ten Pound Bar. It’s my favorite place to go whenever I’m in Beverly Hills.
“Why ask me what I want if I can’t have it?”
“You can have Jack, Jim, Johnny, Jose, or beer—and not that low-carb shit, either.”
“Give me Jack,” I say with absolute confidence, though I have no idea what it’ll taste like.
I’m a cocktail girl. I drink things that have fancy names, come in different colors, and are garnished with fresh fruit. In less than two minutes, he slides a rocks glass of liquid that reminds me of Creed’s irises in front of me. Curious, I lift the glass and peer through the liquid. I don’t need to touch my nose to the rim to smell it. It’s potent, even from a few inches away.
“Where do I pay for this?” I ask, wondering why he hasn’t asked for my card.
“Booze is on the house for patchriders tonight—provided you’re actually out there fucking.”
“Patchriders…”
He thinks I’m a clubwhore. I smooth my features out, deadpanning. This is getting old, fast.
Exhaling, I sit the glass on the bar and pull my credit card from a subtle pocket on the inside of my soft, fabric bodice.
“I said drinks are free for patch—”
“I’m not one of those,” I snap, dropping my card to the bar’s surface.
The bartender, prospect it says on his breast, arches an eyebrow as I scoop up my glass.
“Charge me for three,” I tell him, swallowing my current drink in one large mouthful, gritting my teeth as it burns my throat. “And bring them to me.”
He does what he’s told, and when he comes back, he returns my card and leans on the bar.
“You look familiar.” He holds out his hand. “I’m Kace.”
I place my hand in his, and he grips it tight, a firm shake.
“Isabelle Laurent.”
Flinching, he drops my hand like a hot poker then zips forward to snatch my drinks away. I quickly pull them back, leaning away from the bar.
“What’s your problem?” I demand, my head already spinning from my first glass of Jack.
“I shouldn’t have given you those.” Kace shakes his head then pushes his tattooed fingers over his shaved skull. “You can’t have ’em.”
“Why not?”
“Because your Isabelle-fucking-Laurent and I’m not allowed to—”
“Says who?”
“Judge. Creed.”
My heart rate picks up at the mention of his name. I haven’t seen him since that night. I was beginning to wonder if I’d imagined our exchange, that Creed was a cruel illusion conjured from a bored and lonely heart. “Where can I find him?”
“Judge?”
“Creed.”
Kace cuts his eyes at me. “You should go home.”
“If you tell me where I can find him, I’ll give your drinks back.”
He tilts his head. Kace can’t be much older than twenty. His face is boyish, his eyes kind and inexperienced, much like the b
oys I went to school with.
“And if I don’t tell you?”
Lifting one rocks glass to my lips, I tip the two fingers of Jack into my mouth and swallow, making a rough, gross noise in my throat. “I’ll drink them all, strip naked, and run around screaming your name.”
“You wouldn’t.”
I arch an eyebrow, daring him to try me. He doesn’t budge. Hell, he barely looks phased by my threat. Flicking my tongue along the front of my teeth, I sigh and reach for the strap of my dress. I push it halfway down my bicep before Kace slams his palm against the oak surface.
“All right.” He curses. “Down the hall, last door on the right. Creed should be in his room.”
I smile. “Thank you.”
I turn in the direction of the hall on the other side of the room. Kace clears his throat, and I glance over my shoulder. He holds out his hand, and I roll my eyes. I begin to hand the glass over when a strange apprehension seizes my chest. If I’m going to Creed’s room, in a place where naked whores drip from every fixture, waiting to fuck anyone with a patch, I’ll need this drink. He could have someone with him…
I slam back the alcohol and toss the empty rocks glass into Kace’s waiting hand. He shouts my name, calls me a lying bitch, but I’m already pushing my way through the drunken, sweaty crowd.
In the empty hall that leads to the Devil’s Cartel sleeping quarters, an open door at the far end draws my attention. I catch a glimpse of a skull and flames insignia on a broad back before the man disappears behind a closing door. My heart races, my chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. Everything goes quiet, the sounds of the clubhouse fading to nothing, as the thundering of my pulse becomes the dominate sound. Did Kace say Creed’s room is on the left- or the right-hand side? I rub the back of my neck. I really need to start listening to people better. I don’t imagine these men will be lenient with me if I end up in the wrong place. I glance over my shoulder. What if I see something I shouldn’t? Would they kill me? I gulp and shake the thoughts from my head. I’m only going into a bedroom. What’s the worst that can happen, really? Going against my better judgment, I stroll down the hall to the last door on the left, and with liquid courage in my veins, I open it and slip inside.