Vindication: A Motorcycle Club Romance

by Valentine, Sienna

  I pulled the list of clubs from my pocket and used a red sharpie to make an X next to the Funhouse. Strike seven. I’d paid over a hundred bucks already in cover charges and overpriced drinks and I was still no closer to finding Noah Hardy. All the chatter about him or Duke being in town was suddenly gone, and I found myself wondering if I was chasing ghosts out here.

  There were only two more clubs on my list. The list was rated purely by proximity to the hotel, starting close and working my way out to the edges and suburbs of Seattle. The next on the list, the Horned Goat, already had a question mark next to it. I hadn’t been able to find a working phone number for the place and so suspected it was closed, joining many other independent clubs and bars that were folding under gentrification in this city.

  The last bar on the list was the Graveyard Club, and its address wasn’t even in Seattle. It was in some place called Thornwood. My phone GPS put the drive at twenty minutes.

  Tonight had already been such a disappointing bust that I decided to hell with the Horned Goat. If they couldn’t have a working phone, then I wasn’t even going to waste the time.

  The Graveyard Club would, appropriately, be my last stop for the night.

  With the help of the GPS, I drove Seattle’s winding, dark streets until the city was just a distant silhouette in my rear view. The highway exit to Thornwood came out of the depths of the pine forests like a surprise. It was a pretty cute little place in that shiny Americana way, but to be honest, everywhere in the northwest felt like an episode of Twin Peaks to me. The whole place felt haunted, dark, mysterious—and I loved it. So all I could think about behind the pretty storefronts and normal people were their secrets. We all had them, didn’t we? But something about this place made it feel like it would help you hide them.

  It was in a seedier part of town that the Graveyard Club finally appeared, a gray, two-story building on a dangerous curve of road, nestled among the dark pines. The building looked like it had been around since the twenties, but without the care and upkeep of some of the other historical sites. Someone had painted the front side of it a sloppy black, then over that, in the same messy strokes, painted the club’s name in enormous letters I could see from twenty yards away.

  The gravel lot was strewn with vehicles, so I pulled in carefully and took a quick look around after I killed the engine. A glance in the visor mirror made me touch up my lipstick with a heavy sigh. “If he’s not here, I’m getting drunk.”

  The building thrashed with the sound of some seriously heavy music coming from inside that was loud even before I stepped out of the car. Each crunch of gravel under my boots lit my nerves up again, like earlier, back at the hotel. The failed search had turned my anxiety into boredom, but now it was coming back with a vengeance. I stuck my hands in my jacket pockets and tried to ignore it, head high, as I stepped into the Graveyard Club.

  The hardcore music hit me in the face first thing, speakers blaring, shaking the walls. A fat, pale guy in a black t-shirt sat, bored, on a stool three sizes too small for him. I tried not to roll my eyes when he gave me a suggestive smile. Over the deafening music, he signaled for my ID, but when I gave it to him all I could focus on was his gross, sweaty palm beneath mine as he stamped my hand. I tossed him the required five dollar cover charge so I didn’t have to touch him again and hurried to the bar. I definitely needed a shot after that.

  Like many of the other city dives, this place was dark, dirty, and had a smattering of schizophrenic décor gathering dust. Decades of scuff marks from people and equipment pocked the black-and-white tile floor. The club space was sort of split in half, with the bar and tables off to my left, and the stage and open crowd areas to the right. A few ratty booths lined the outer wall, most of which were vacant. A small group of dedicated moshers were going crazy in front of the stage, pushing each other in a circle pit. To an outsider, this ritual looked crazy, but it was just smoke and mirrors: no one was ever out to hurt anyone in a pit. It was good, old-fashioned daredevilry. And there was nothing like watching a good mosh pit to get my blood going. I stepped up to the bar with an eye on the crowd.

  A grizzled old dude with waist-length, salt and pepper hair came up after a few moments. His face was weathered but smiling, eyes betraying he had probably just been blazing a joint in the back room. He leaned over the counter and shouted at me in a practiced voice, “Hi, darlin’! What can I get for you?”

  “Shot of Jameson and a pint,” I shouted back over the music, to which he replied with the “okay” sign. Watching his tan, tattooed arms work, I had a feeling the Metallica shirt with the cut-off sleeves he was wearing was a straight-up original he’d gotten in the 80s, and it made me smile.

  The Jameson burned softly down my throat as I scanned around the room, ready to be disappointed and, eventually, drunk. The lights near the stage strobed and swung, making it difficult to really get a handle on anyone’s face, at least until the band stopped and sets changed.

  The old bartender returned with my beer and a smile. I took a big drink and looked back toward the crowd. The band wasn’t bad, young guys probably just starting out on the local circuit, but something about them had the crowd going pretty fierce for a tiny underground show. This wasn’t a show for the suburbanites, the ones who pay triple digits for nosebleed seats every five years when Neil Diamond comes to town. This was a place for the loyal dogs.

  It was halfway through my beer when I spotted him in the mosh pit. Really, it was a fucking wonder I hadn’t seen him the second I opened the door to the club. Say what you want about the dude’s reputation or his music—but Noah Hardy is a built, attractive man that stands out in a crowd. Like a wolf among lap dogs.

  Noah Hardy, the world-famous rock star. The bad boy. The drunk-in-public, fight-picking, womanizing lead vocalist of Cut Up Angels, right here, ten feet from me in some hometown mosh pit.

  The light glowed across his bare chest and shoulders, exposing his tattoos in little swatches, like works of art being uncovered from the dark. Sweat coated his skin, making his muscles glisten. With his strawberry blonde hair and shaggy beard, his firm muscles, and his whittled waist, he looked like some gorgeous Irish bareknuckle boxer. Like he belonged in some tougher, more violent century.

  Good God, he was the hottest fucking thing I had ever seen in my life.

  It wasn’t like I hadn’t seen Noah before. I’d been to his shows, of course—who hadn’t, at this point? But this was something else. I felt like I was seeing him naked. As he raged in the mosh pit with the rest of the hardcore crowd, it was like I was privy to some intensely private side of Noah Hardy that I hadn’t even known existed.

  When the festival news hit, so did the public speculation. Because Noah had bona fide baller status, most assumed he and the others had jetted off to some private sunny resort to wait out the storm. But that hadn’t felt right to me. The looks I got from around the room when I spoke it out loud almost gave me pause, but I held the line and asked for a flight to Seattle. Something in my gut told me that, in this darkest time, Noah Hardy was going to run home. And I had been right.

  How had I known that?

  I tried not to stare, but I couldn’t keep my eyes off him as he shoved and pulled his way through the band’s set. If anyone in the crowd knew who he was, no one seemed to care or pay him special mind. Just like everyone else in the pit, he got pushed, and he got helped back up if he lost his footing. Watching his firm body move in the strobing lights, hearing the primal pounding of the drums… it was all getting my heart pumping in a way I hadn’t anticipated. Anxiety was quickly being replaced with something hotter, and in that moment, I felt ten years younger.

  I finished my beer in two huge swallows and immediately ordered another round. My gaze drifted away from the mosh pit, but not without a fight. I tried to stare at the bottles lined in a row against an old dirty glass mirror behind the bar. Tried counting them, reading the tiny print on the labels, anything to keep me from looking back over at Noah in the crowd. His m
ind-numbing hotness notwithstanding, I had a goddamn job to do. I spent all night hunting him down, and here he was. I couldn’t blow it now.

  “This is our last fucking song,” yelled the band’s vocalist into the mic.

  Shit, of course it was. That meant I had two, maybe three minutes to figure out how I was going to make this approach. Several plans were on the table, but things like this were like going into a war zone—you just never knew what it was going to look like until you got dropped in the middle of it. The rumors had told me Noah was looking to recruit a new band—a fitting sign that Cut Up Angels might actually be done with thanks to this new scandal. Introducing myself to Noah as a potential replacement musician had been plan A.

  But he didn’t look like he was recruiting tonight. He just looked like a regular dude, enjoying a show. Plan A now looked weird, paranoid; he’d wonder where I had heard the rumors about recruiting, why I was asking. This would be over before it began.

  So I guess I just needed to look like a regular chick, enjoying a show, too.

  In that case…

  I turned back toward the stage. Hell, maybe I would even enjoy myself for real tonight. The pit had died, but the vocalist was in the audience now, and a handful of dudes—including Noah—were gathered around him in a huddle, screaming lyrics into the mic together, butting heads and sweating all over each other. Sweat dripped down Noah’s back tattoos and disappeared down his tight black jeans. Heat rumbled inside me, and I tried to quench it quickly with a swig of beer. Noah Hardy was supernatural levels of hot. Suddenly all I could think about was running my hands up the taut muscles of his back.

  The song came to a smash-cut end, and the crowd erupted into howls and clapping. House lights flicked on, and somebody turned on an old Fugazi album as background music.

  My eyes were still on Noah when he came out of his show trance and started heading toward the bar, where he had left his shirt in a crumpled black heap next to a half-finished beer. The shirt and beer I was slowly realizing I had sat next to when I came in.

  Well, shit.

  He came around the corner of the bar and stopped for a moment, looking at me. At first it was surprise on his face, like he hadn’t expected to see anybody when he looked up. But surprise quickly melted into something else—something softer. I watched his eyes as his gaze ran slowly, painfully slowly, down the length of my body and back up to my face. They stayed there, locked on my red lips, and he licked his own as if he were imagining them.

  A sexual spark lit between my legs. I couldn’t remember the last time anyone looked at me that way—let alone a man as gorgeous as Noah Hardy. I smiled back at him reflexively.

  As he took the last few steps toward me in a much more confident, cocky stride, I realized with a sudden mix of terror and excitement that I had just given myself my “in” to get close to Noah. It hadn’t been my plan—it was never my plan, for this or any job. It was bad form, not my style, but Noah—here’s a guy who was used to taking any woman he wanted backstage and having his way with her.

  Judging by the look on his face, tonight, that woman was me.

  ~ THREE ~

  Noah

  Sometimes it feels like I don’t have a shred of fucking luck left in my miserable life. But other times, it feels just the opposite. Maybe I was just desperate for some luck to count this as a win. Maybe it was just the leftover adrenaline and oxytocin from moshing my fucking heart out to some juicy underground hardcore, giving me a natural high. Maybe I just wanted to lie to myself to get out from under the pile of hot garbage that was my life outside of this club.

  But I didn’t expect to come out of the pit and find her sitting there, like she was waiting for me. I didn’t know who she was, never seen her gorgeous face before in my life, but for a split second, I actually had this thought that someone had pulled the image of the perfect hardcore girl right out of my brain and brought her to life. And here she was, sitting at the bar of the Graveyard Club, eating me up with her eyes. She gave me a shy smile and turned back to her drink, and I took that as a challenge.

  I pushed my sweaty hair out of my face and came up to the bar where I’d left my stuff. I kept my eyes on her as I grabbed the half-full stein of draught and drank it down in two thirsty gulps. I never took my eyes off her, watching, hoping to catch a glimpse of her checking me out. A side-eye sneak.

  Groupies, they ran right up to you. There was no game in it, no challenge. It was like filling up a plate from a buffet and hoping none of it was left out too long to give you food poisoning. They served a purpose, sure, but who wants to eat at a buffet all the time?

  This woman, she wasn’t that. I was almost sure she recognized me, but she wasn’t a groupie. Not a chance. This one wanted to be hunted.

  Lucky for her, I’m one hell of a hunter. And I don’t mind chasing down my dinner.

  Kevin saw me sit down and immediately put another full beer in front of me like the champ he is. Then he glanced over to the beauty at my left and asked her if she needed another.

  “Get her whatever she wants for the rest of the night,” I answered. “On my tab.”

  She gave me that side glance I was waiting for, that sassy, non-committal interest that made my dick twitch in my jeans. Her pouty, gorgeous red lips twisted into a smirk. To Kevin, she said, “Shot of Jameson and another pint, please.”

  Fuck, even her drink order was hot. Kevin put the shot down on the counter and she threw it back without a hitch. I took another glance down her body, not bothering to hide my interest. She was skinny, but still had a nice, plump pair of tits that I couldn’t wait to put in my mouth. More interesting at that moment was the shirt she wore.

  I leaned closer to her, and felt our thighs connect beneath the cramped space of the bar. She didn’t move away. “I like your shirt,” I said, close to her ear. Her flowery scent hit my nose like a dream.

  That half-grin appeared on her lips again, and she tilted her head toward me. When she finally met my gaze, I wasn’t ready for it; not for those big, full blue eyes, like enormous crystal pools you could dive right into. Coupled with her pale skin and bright red lips, she was like a doll come to life. A shock ran down my spine and between my legs. For a moment, my chest was actually too tight to draw a breath.

  She ran her eyes over the tattoos on my bare chest and replied, “I like yours, too.” Her grin went from something shy and curious to a full, seductive come-on that only made me harder than I already was.

  I smiled back at her, and the pale skin on her neck and chest flushed with heated arousal. A delicious future was laying itself out in front of me in my mind. “That’s from their ’99 tour, right?”

  She nodded immediately. “I still have my disposable camera photos. Our stop was the first one after Kip set his hair on fire trying to do that drunk fire breathing bullshit, so he looks like a charred corpse in all of them, but he said it was worth it.”

  Whoa. I did not see that coming. The Rising End was a foundational band, underground but still big enough that normies knew their name. Part of me expected to hear she just swung by Hot Topic two weeks ago to pick up some knockoff version of it. But not this chick. Looking closer now I could tell the shirt was old, loved, well-worn; faded from years of washing; a few tiny holes near the seam where she’d probably had to pull it down when it got messed up in a pit.

  She wasn’t a groupie, and she wasn’t some bullshit poser. This chick was the real deal.

  She had no idea how excited and blazingly horny I felt listening to her talk about my scene like that. I rubbed my thigh against hers, and smiled to myself when the slightest pressure returned. “I would really love to see those pictures.”

  She looked over at my face again and smiled, a sweet one this time. “Is that you inviting yourself to my place? Pretty ballsy.”

  “Oh, I don’t think we need to go that far out of the way to take care of business, do we?”

  Heat rose in my loins when she didn’t retract, but flushed red, her smile growing
. She turned back to her beer, quiet for a few moments, like she was thinking.

  She got me rock hard when she replied in a throaty voice, “It has been a while since I fucked in a club.”

  That was it. I had to have this chick, and I had to have her right fucking now. My dick could barely stand her hotness, the feel of her soft, thin thigh against mine. I stared at her until she turned back to look at me.

  “What?” she said, self-conscious, as I ran my gaze all over her face and neck. When I stopped on her ruby red lips, they pursed in a delicate little o-shape as she let out a knowing sigh.

  I didn’t have a rational thought in my head. I took one of my hands and cupped her jaw underneath her hair. When she didn’t pull away, I urged her toward me until those gorgeous lips met mine, open ever so slightly, teasing me with her hot breath and soft, wet tongue.