Spades: Motorcycle Club Romance (Savage Saints MC Book 5)

by Hazel Parker

  Except, apparently, for this murder—but even then, we didn’t have an individual to go after yet.

  Mario came back to me a few seconds later, hands on hips.

  “We’ll probably need to talk to you at some point about what happened whenever Vladimir came to The Red Door,” he said. “Don’t worry. We’ll keep the place hush-hush. But it’s going to happen, Richard. I have a job to do.”

  “I understand,” I said. “But I take it this means we can go now?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “You got everything you needed out of this?”

  I looked down at the Russian, thinking about what this act by the Sinners meant. I thought about how much more involved the Sokolovs and the Russians were now going be. I thought of the daughter, Natasha, and what her getting tangled up in it might mean.

  It was a lot to think about. But there wasn’t much else to add to it.

  “I’m good,” I said.

  With that, I gathered up the rest of the Savage Saints and had us on our bikes within a minute. I took just a second to relax on the bike before revving the engine and roaring out of the Wynn, taking a right onto Las Vegas Boulevard.

  Living in this city did a funny thing to a man’s mind and his psyche. “Normal” became a very relative term, and things that other parts of the world would have seen as sinful or disgraceful were looked upon as incredible in Sin City. It really was the city of sex, booze, drugs, and gambling.

  Perhaps living in this city for two decades was playing a major role in making me look at Natasha the way I did. It was probably a little strong for a first impression, I couldn’t deny that. I barely knew what her voice sounded like.

  But no one, not even the loosest of players and the most ardent single men, could live in Las Vegas for their entire lives and not question their lifestyle at some point. This city had been very good to me for the past two decades, but the past year, especially with my niece getting married and me being estranged from it all, left me questioning many things. Perhaps, in questioning things, I was like a pendulum, swinging from one extreme to the other in an attempt to understand where the middle ground was.

  But if Natasha was the far side of the pendulum, it was a pretty fucking sexy side to swing to. It was hard, at least on paper, to do better than the daughter of a Russian billionaire who had the looks of a model.

  Chapter 2: Natasha

  The benefit of having parents who loved me as much as they did was that I never had to worry about wanting for anything.

  The downside of having parents who loved me as much as they did was that they never let me get the chance to want for anything.

  On this night, for the first time in my life, I saw a murdered body with my own eyes. I’d seen relatives in caskets before, but I had never seen such a gruesome sight. And while I was grossed out, it wasn’t like I couldn’t handle it. I just wanted my parents to believe that, at twenty-six, living on my own, and with the intellect and resources to do things on my own, I didn’t need to be coddled every single moment.

  It was also kind of a pain in the ass because, goddamn, that Richard Peters man was some kind of handsome. He had a certain ruggedness to him with his beard and slicked-back hair, but it wasn’t sloppy; it was almost like he was rebelliously refined. He was not the clean-cut man that my father always seemed interested in setting me up with, but he also wasn’t such a slob that my father would groan immediately upon seeing him.

  Though he wore a nice black button-down shirt and some well-fitting jeans, I also noticed that he had on a jacket with sleeves missing that had the words “Savage Saints” on the back and two patches that said “President” and “Founder” on it. I had no idea what they meant; maybe it was some sort of gang? Except my father seemed to know who he was and didn’t express any trepidation about approaching him, so it seemed unlikely that he was in a gang. Maybe it was a club of some kind; I didn’t know.

  In any case, as our valet driver drove us back to my parents’ house, I felt a rising sense of dread that I’d have to go back and talk to Oscar. It would be an even more disappointing experience in light of the fact that I had seen a man as handsome as Richard. It wasn’t just looks, either; Richard, just from standing there, had an air of confidence about him that was unlike anything else.

  As soon as we pulled up, the first thing I tried to look for was to see if the lights of the house were still on. They were, which was a bad sign; it was likely that the party was still ongoing. Next, I listened for any remaining music playing. I could hear it, which was a worse sign. I prepared for the worst sign of all—for Oscar to actually be there.

  But when I opened the doors to the house, leaving my father to comfort my mother, I was pleasantly surprised to see that almost everyone had left. Oscar was nowhere to be seen; only a few cousins and family members remained, and their expressions did not indicate any interest in continuing to party. News of Vladimir’s death had probably spread, killing the mood for everyone except the unaware DJ and waiters.

  I wasn’t going to say I wasn’t affected by the news, but I never knew Vladimir that well. My father was strangely distant when it came to introducing us to his family; he had a way of treating everything like a business transaction, even family itself. I think the one time I had seen my dad show emotion was at my graduation from Harvard, and even that was punctuated by him saying I could finally work in the family business.

  And, speaking of…

  “I would have thought the Americans would have moved faster than that,” he grumbled as he walked in. “American police are supposed to be fast for the rich, not slow. How in the hell did some associates of his get there first?”

  “What do you mean, Dad?” I said.

  I knew exactly what he meant. I was just curious to hear what his choice of words was for the men who wore the “Savage Saints” jacket. Maybe he knew what that group was better than I; maybe it was a military unit? There was much about American culture that I didn’t understand.

  “People that I would never associate with in public just showed up as if Vladimir’s death was a public casket,” he said. “Goodness, those men needed a good shave. And some better clothes.”

  “I liked it.”

  I put my hand over my mouth and quickly went somewhere else before my Dad could say anything. Dad may have loved me, but he didn’t like me a whole lot when I kept rejecting his choices for suitors. It was a significant source of contention between us at the moment, but there was only so much that my Dad could do.

  And besides… he had said he’d only refuse to associate with such people in public. Maybe in private, it would be different.

  I hovered around the party for a little bit longer, sipping on a vodka drink by the bar as my father and mother made the rounds with those who had stayed. My mother waved to me a few times to come and join, but I was just happy to have the party over. I was far more introverted than my parents wanted to believe, and I liked that for just a spell, I could sip on my drink, watch others interact, and not have to engage or contribute.

  When the time finally did come, I went over to my mother and hugged her goodbye. She was trying to forget what had happened by talking to everyone. My father, meanwhile, was going on and on about the stupid American police and how they had taken so long to show up. I gave him a brief hug before I went out to our driver, Antonio, who would take me home to my apartment about two miles up the road.

  When I finally got the chance to be away from the music, away from the decorations, away from everything, I began to feel sadness about what had happened with Vladimir. The problem was—or perhaps better said, just the reality of it was—it was more of an intellectual sadness than anything poignant. My father and his brothers weren’t very good at showing their love; they treated love as a checklist to run through, and so I didn’t have an especially strong connection with any Sokolov.

  I felt sadder for the fact that Vladimir had died than at the feeling of loss or anything like that. I tried to think of some good mem
ories of him, but the closest I came was him giving me a nod at my graduation. We didn’t play together, we didn’t do any sports, and we didn’t have any deep conversations. It was honestly the equivalent of if a business associate of my father’s had passed away.

  I think that was one thing my father missed about me. I didn’t want to marry just for business reasons, no matter how much wealthier it would have made me. There was nothing my family or I couldn’t afford at this point. What I wanted were things money couldn’t buy—intimacy, an emotional connection, a real tie to the person across from me.

  I needed a man who could have a tough conversation, could laugh and cry in the span of an hour, and could ask me about my goals and hopes. Thus far, if any of the men my father had introduced me to could do that, they hadn’t shown it. The closest that I had ever come was in college, and that was because I knew the guy before my father introduced me at one of his parties in Russia; nothing, though, had come since.

  As soon as Antonio dropped me off at my house, I began researching everything that I could about that Richard Peters character. Maybe I was putting too much stock into a man I hadn’t even had a conversation with, but if nothing else, talking to a man like him would at least make me better understand what was and what wasn’t out there.

  I started by looking up the first thing I remembered. “Savage Saints Las Vegas” with Google auto-filling “Las Vegas.” There was also a result that said “Green Hills,” but I ignored that; I had no idea that a place called Green Hills even existed, let alone where it would be or what it would look like.

  “Do the words ‘motorcycle club’ scare you? They shouldn’t.”

  “Saints? Yes. Savage? Only in Mercy.”

  “They’re Saints—And It’s Not Ironic.”

  I read through the headlines, pleased to see that the “motorcycle club” was a well-known and well-liked part of the city’s culture. I had never heard of the term “motorcycle club,” but seeing that it was simply a group of men who liked bikes and had something of a rebellious streak was nice. Of course, some of the results were about such clubs being a haven for crime and drugs, but by and large, the results for the Saints were quite positive and encouraging.

  In fact, the more I read about the Saints, the more it seemed like they were unique. The Saints appeared to operate out of an abandoned building. Rumors abounded that there was actually a secret nightclub in there, but they were only rumors. Other tales spoke of it being a strip club, a burlesque club, and many other things that all hinted at something dirty and risqué.

  The Saints also dressed very well and apparently had a taste for the finer things in life. When spotted out and about, they tended to opt for fine dining, expensive liquor, and get bottle service at the more exclusive nightclubs. I read a couple of interviews that Richard had conducted, and throughout, he described a desire to be better and to enjoy the finer things in life.

  Well, Richard, I thought. I can see why. A man like you? You probably earned the finer things in life.

  The most interesting part to me, though, was that they somehow seemed to be both open and out there and secretive. For all the articles I read about the good deeds, all of them had at least one section where club members declined to comment on something specific. Most notably, when asked about what went on in the building with the red door, no one said a word, simply replying with the phrase “club business.”

  Furthermore, the club seemed very small, maybe only a dozen or so members in total. What wasn’t to like with a small group?

  I had to admit, the word that came to mind when I thought about this group was a little ridiculous, but I couldn’t help it.

  Naughty.

  I felt like I was defying every convention by taking interest in a group of men who would rather ride motorcycles than drive Lambos, who would rather get tattoos than suits, and who would rather grow out a beard than be clean-shaven for a professional photo. My father would freak out if he found out that I had gone on a date with one of them, and the thought gave me a little bit more delight than I wanted to admit.

  I still had a little bit of his attitude in me, though. If I was going to go on a date with any of them, Richard was definitely the target. Of all the ones I had seen there, he was the tallest, the most naturally confident, and the most at ease. There was one other who had been staring at me with a wicked smile, but he seemed more like the type to hit and run than get to know me. I might have been willing to stretch some boundaries, but that didn’t mean that I was willing to break them completely.

  I decided that I had to see what all there was to this supposed nightclub or strip club or burlesque place. Where there was smoke, there was fire, and there had to be something to this place that the journalists weren’t picking up on. I knew secret societies, though a bit overhyped and exaggerated, were a real thing, and I wanted to find this place badly.

  Screw it. The next night that I’m free, I’m going.

  So…

  I looked at my calendar.

  Thursday. Get here as quickly as you can.

  Chapter 3: Richard

  Four nights had passed, and despite there having been a murder, the officers and I were pretty relaxed, all things considered.

  We sat around our meeting table, with me at the front and then in counterclockwise order, Barber, Mama, Pork, and Dom. Dom and Pork had always wanted to expand membership, but Mama and I were staunchly against it. The Savage Saints of Las Vegas worked precisely because we were a small, exclusive club, and then went for all the layers. Not only did we want to keep our total membership numbers down, but we also wanted to keep our officer numbers down.

  It also had the side benefit of making the five of us quite the tight group, and that was on full display right now. Dom, Pork, and Mama were bantering, with Mama giving those two shit for their recent choices in women. Dom, apparently, had met a porn star on Tuesday night and had begged her to come to one of our party nights. He’d succeeded… somewhat. Apparently, she had come over, but by the time she had shown up, Dom had already taken a woman to bed.

  I say apparently over and over because the previous two nights, though I had been present, I kept finding myself in my head, thinking about Natasha, and the thoughts that had plagued my mind when Mama had said I couldn’t have her. It was amazing, considering I was surrounded by about two dozen women that would have been the hottest girls in just about any situation that they walked into, but I couldn’t find myself interested in any of them. I slept with one almost by default on Tuesday night, but on Wednesday, I found an excuse to go home early while the rest of the club raged.

  Interestingly enough, the only member who didn’t give me shit when I made that decision was Mama. I still hadn’t expressed my feelings to her, but I think she was starting to pick up on the fact that I was having some questions in my head, and they weren’t very easy to answer, especially in the presence of women with D-sized breasts and waists less than thirty inches around.

  Barber, meanwhile, mostly kept to himself, interjecting occasionally into the conversation between the other three officers, but mostly looking like he was in his head as well. I suspected that it had less to do with a woman and more to do with the murder at hand. He just seemed like he was debating ideas in his head rather than stressing about it.

  “Hey, Rich,” Dom said, snapping me out of my distracted state. “You want to take part or are you going to fantasize about the porn you watched last night?”

  “Oh, fuck off, Dom,” I said. “I don’t go to porn sites anymore. For how many girls you’ve slept with, you’re probably going to pop up on Pornhub someday.”

  “Yep, and you know what comes with that? Instant fame,” he said, laughing. “I’ll have to make a career out of pleasing women!”

  “And I’ll make a career out of counseling them on their disappointment,” Mama said, slapping his shoulder. “A little respect for the ladies, would ya?”

  “Hey, I’m good to the girls here,” Dom said. “Even if the
y all want a piece of the Dom… inator.”

  “OK, and on that note,” I said before this conversation could get derailed any further. “We do have an actual issue to focus on.”

  “Who, Natasha?” Dom said with a smile.

  My joking humor ended really fast. Mama slapped him again, and Dom protested, but when he saw the glares from both Mama and me, he had the good sense to shut up. He still smirked, but I don’t think torture could have wiped off the smirk from his face.

  “We’ve ignored the Degenerate Sinners for some time now, in part because the police could take care of them and they didn’t pose a real threat to us,” I said. “But their murder of Vladimir Sokolov has sent a clear signal. If they can’t attack us, they’ll attack our clients. It’s a risk we’ve been able to manage for several years now, but it’s one that we need to take on in full force. We need to discuss some ideas for retaliation, ways we can get them to stop pulling this. Thoughts?”

  “Hold up,” Mama said as she pulled out a cigarette. “We need to think about this before we do anything.”

  “Uh, yeah, that’s what we’re doing,” Dom said.

  “You know what I mean, smartass,” Mama said. “I mean we need to consider if violence is even the best answer. See, unlike all of you assholes, I pay attention to MC violence and rivalries elsewhere.”

  “So do I,” Barber said.

  “That’s true; sorry, baby,” Mama said. “But I know for certain you three don’t. And let me tell you, once the violence starts, it’s really hard to stop. I know we have to do something, but we better be careful about what we do. I’m not going to put my girls in the way of violence.”

  “Yeah, cuz chicks dig violence and—"

  Mama smacked Pork before he could finish.

  “Alright, Mama,” I said. “I know that we’re a club that works best when we’re not getting dirty. We have our hands in a lot of high-end luxuries, even when not accounting for The Red Door. So I know we need to do something that stops the violence and aggression in its place before anything bad happens. Are we all in agreement there?”