Riding Dirty

by Jill Sorenson

  She was ready.

  Pocketing the room key, she locked the door and walked to the rally across the road. It was just past sunset, too early for the fire. Cole was playing horseshoes with his friends. A group of older men stood near the row of motorcycles, smoking cigars, and a trio of hard-looking women were sitting around a card table. There were a few dozen people milling about, most of them club members. Mia tamped down her anxiety and continued forward, teetering a little in her spike heels.

  She didn’t expect Cole to drop what he was doing and greet her, but he did. His friends watched him walk toward her, laughing and making remarks she couldn’t quite hear. He flipped them the bird over his shoulder, so the words must have been suggestive. When he reached her, he gave her an appreciative once-over. “You look nice.”

  “Nice? That’s the opposite of what I was going for.”

  He studied her cleavage and glanced back at his friends, who were still gawking. She got the impression that he didn’t want them to see so much of her. He had several other reasons to be uneasy about her presence. He was an informant, and she knew it. They were also from different worlds. The guys might rib him all night for bringing an outsider to the rally.

  “What’s your poison?” he asked, gesturing to what appeared to be a horse trough, filled with ice and drinks.

  She had no idea what to choose.

  He lowered his voice. “There’s no pinot grigio here, sweetheart. If you don’t drink beer or tequila, you’re out of luck.”

  “Beer is fine.”

  Smiling, he fished out a Pacifico and popped off the top. She took an experimental sip. Not bad. She wanted to stroll around and check out the tattoos by herself. If she saw the perpetrator, she’d keep her distance. Maybe even feign an illness and leave. Before she could think of a way to get rid of Cole, one of the women at the card table called out to him. “Bring your girl over here, Shank.”

  He led her toward the group. Although she was usually more comfortable with women, she felt a surge of anxiety at the prospect of being interrogated by them. It was a toss-up who she was more intimidated by: the possible perpetrator in the crowd, or these teased-haired, weathered-faced vixens.

  There was a frizzy blonde with an impressive rack, a thin brunette and a graying, sharp-eyed matriarch.

  The matriarch lifted a tequila bottle. “Have a seat, honey.”

  Mia sat in the only empty chair. Cole hovered behind her until his buddies shouted at him to come back to the game. The three ladies stared at him expectantly. Clearing his throat, he walked away.

  “How do you know Shank?” the matriarch asked. She sounded like a lifelong smoker.

  “We met at a bar.”

  “Earlier tonight?” the blonde asked.

  Mia took another sip of beer. “No.” Bitch.

  “It couldn’t have been too long ago,” she said. “He just got out of jail.”

  The matriarch ignored the blonde’s gibes. “What do you do?”

  “I’m a real estate agent.”

  “Are you divorced?”

  Mia rubbed the empty spot on her finger, considering her response. Cole had encouraged her to be vague or tell the truth whenever possible. It would be easier to pretend she was a recent divorcee, a girl gone wild. “I’m a widow,” she said instead.

  Her answer changed the tone at the table. “I’m Sheila,” the matriarch said. “This is Bunny and Patrice.”

  Bunny was the blonde, Patrice the brunette. “I’m Mia. Pleased to meet you.”

  Sheila poured tequila into four shot glasses, not asking Mia if she wanted one. Mia accepted the glass, assuming it wasn’t up for discussion. They took shots and sucked on limes, making bitter faces. All of the women were wearing leather vests in a feminine style. She read the back of Patrice’s vest. It said Property of Tractor.

  “Who’s Tractor?” Mia asked.

  “He’s’s my old man,” she said, frowning as if Mia was stupid.

  “Your husband?”

  “Yes.”

  “He owns you, like an object?”

  Patrice bristled at her question. “He protects me,” she said. “Anyone who insults me answers to him.”

  Mia nodded, even though she didn’t really understand. She got the impression that her ignorance had offended the woman. Mia looked around for Tractor, hoping he wasn’t going to come over and scold her.

  “Let’s play kings,” Bunny said.

  Kings was a card game that required constant alcohol consumption. Each player picked a card from the deck and revealed it to the group. Depending on which card you pulled, you had to drink, make someone else drink, pour booze into the “community cup” in the middle of the table, or do other silly things. For a five card, every player had to raise her hand in the air. The last woman to get her hand up had to drink.

  Mia had to drink. A lot.

  She finished her beer quickly and started another. When there were only a few cards left, she pulled the fourth king. The rules were confusing, and she was already buzzed, but she remembered that the card meant community cup. Mia was about to sacrifice the dregs of her bottle when Bunny stopped her.

  “Last king means you lose,” Bunny said.

  “I lose?”

  “You have to drink it.”

  Mia’s jaw dropped. Patrice handed her the cup with a cackle of delight. Bunny had ashed her cigarette into the liquid, which was a disgusting combination of tequila and beer foam. Mia glanced at Sheila, realizing she’d been set up. They’d played dirty on her, arranging for her to pull this card and lose the game.

  “What’s the matter?” Bunny asked. “Not thirsty?”

  Mia pinched her nose and drank, shuddering. She was aware that she looked prissy, but whatever got the job done. It was the worst, strongest drink she’d ever imbibed. Half tequila, half backwash, with a cigarette butt chaser. When she was done, she set the empty cup down and wiped her mouth. The women laughed so hard at her grimace they almost fell out of their chairs. Sheila patted her on the back.

  “You’re all right, honey. Let’s play another round.”

  “Oh no,” Mia said, rising to her feet. “I’m out.”

  This cowardly retreat erased some of the respect she’d just earned. The women heckled her about being a lightweight, but they didn’t seem surprised. Mia was no dummy; she wasn’t staying to get suckered into drinking another cup of swill. She stumbled away from the table, palm pressed to her stomach. The foul drink didn’t come back up, which was a mixed blessing. Two shots of tequila had been in there.

  Night had fallen like a knockout punch. While she’d been distracted, the crowd had grown larger. The bonfire was blazing, and someone had cranked up a radio to full blast. People were dancing to classic rock songs in an open area in front of the speakers, including two scantily clad girls. Mia searched for Cole but didn’t see him.

  “How about a dance, pretty lady?”

  She glanced down at a man in a wheelchair. He had long white hair, a green bandanna and a beat-up leather vest. She wasn’t sure how he was going to dance without full use of his legs, but what the hell. “Okay, sure.”

  He rolled out to the dance floor and did some flashy spins and wheelies. She laughed, clapping her hands. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d danced. Philip had always liked it when she tried to mimic Shakira, so she went with that, swiveling her hips.

  The man put two fingers in his mouth and whistled. Then he made a swirling gesture, encouraging her to turn around. Mia indulged him with another hip shake, wiggling her bottom in front of his lap.

  Cole joined them when the song ended. “What the fuck is this, Wizard? You stealin’ my woman?”

  The man in the wheelchair shrugged. “If you’re not going to dance with her, I will.”

  Cole was stuck now. He had to stay on the floor with Mia or give her up. She twined her arms around his neck, smiling. He brought their lower bodies closer together, sliding one of his thighs between hers.

  “Are you
drunk?” he asked in her ear.

  “No!”

  “Pace yourself, kitten.”

  “You pace yourself.”

  “I’m not even drinking.”

  They slow-danced to a surprisingly romantic ballad by Metallica. Mia didn’t want the song to end. When it was over, she released Cole with reluctance, and he offered to get her a bottle of water. For an outlaw, he was a conscientious date. She noticed other women watching him. Even in a group of big, strong guys, he stood out from the crowd. He was taller than the vast majority of men, with broader shoulders. Better-looking, too.

  As he walked toward the horse trough, he got intercepted by a pretty blonde wearing a belly shirt and low-rise jeans. She literally jumped on him, wrapping her legs around his waist. He set her down with a smile, not seeming bothered by the ambush. Then he glanced at Mia. The blonde followed his gaze.

  Instead of just standing there, Mia stepped forward to say hello.

  “Is this your girlfriend?” the woman asked Cole.

  “I’m working on it,” he said.

  “No wonder you didn’t come by the club again.”

  Cole looked back and forth between them, his mouth twisted. Mia realized that this was the dancer he’d slept with. She was wearing a Pink Floyd T-shirt with no sleeves, knotted at the waist. Her belly was flat and tanned, her navel pierced. A pair of ripped, stonewashed jeans clung to her curvy hips. She was stunning.

  “I’m Tiffany,” she said, extending her hand.

  Mia hadn’t expected the woman to be so beautiful. She shook Tiffany’s hand, which was covered in chunky silver jewelry. “Mia.”

  After an awkward moment, Cole remembered his manners. “I was on my way to get some drinks. Do you want one?”

  “Sure,” Tiffany said, winking at Mia. “I’ll have a beer.”

  He retrieved two bottles and brought them back, frosty cold. Mia opened her water and drank a few gulps. Tiffany tilted her beer back. Cole seemed to want to stay and control the situation. Maybe he didn’t trust them not to compare notes behind his back.

  “You can run along,” Tiffany said to Cole. “I won’t bite her. Unless she wants me to.”

  Mia smothered a laugh, almost choking on her water. Maybe she was drunk. Cole gave her a warning look but didn’t protest. He went back to his buddies, who were talking in a circle near the bonfire.

  Tiffany had ocean-blue eyes, smooth skin and a body that wouldn’t quit. Mia couldn’t believe Cole hadn’t gone back to her for seconds.

  “Fierce boots,” Tiffany said, nodding her approval.

  “I’m about to toss them into the sea. They’re killing me.”

  “What size are they?”

  “Seven, I think.”

  “I’m a seven.”

  Mia eyed Tiffany’s fringed ankle moccasins. They looked comfy. “Let’s swap.”

  Tiffany laughed at the suggestion. “Okay.”

  They sat in a couple of nearby chairs. Mia groaned as she removed the snakeskin boots. Good riddance. Tiffany checked the label and arched a brow. Mia donned the soft suede moccasins while Tiffany zipped up the flashy heels.

  “Oh my God,” Tiffany said, standing to test the shoes. She did a little pirouette. “These are so tight!”

  “They don’t fit?”

  “No, they’re perfect.”

  “They look hot on you,” Mia said. “You should keep them.”

  “These are Steve McQueen. Mine are from Target.”

  Mia cared more about the person who’d given them to her than the designer. “I’ll never wear them again. And I refuse to give yours back.”

  Tiffany smiled, twirling again. Then she grabbed Mia by the hand. “Let’s dance.”

  The rest of the evening passed in a blur. Tiffany was a fun companion and a fountain of information. She hadn’t been a Dirty Eleven groupie for long, but she knew a lot about them. She said the other women wouldn’t accept Mia because of Cole. Felon or not, he was the most eligible bachelor in the club.

  “Aren’t those ladies married?” Mia asked.

  “Yes, but they want him for their daughters.”

  Mia couldn’t believe it. The young women at the rally were teenagers. “Does he date girls that age?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-six.”

  For the next few hours, they alternated between dancing, drinking and chatting. Mia missed hanging out with her friends on girls’ nights. While Tiffany downed shots, Mia nursed another beer and studied the men in the crowd. There were plenty of tattoos, but no one who resembled the perpetrator. She thought about asking Tiffany, but it was an odd question from an outsider. Mia didn’t want to look suspicious, like a cop. When Tiffany sparked up a joint and passed it to her, Mia took a hit. Why not?

  Soon they were sitting on a blanket between the bonfire and the sea, laughing. Mia forgot all about the wrist tattoo. She was still a bit dazzled by Tiffany’s beauty. Her blond hair glimmered like a halo in the firelight. She had a butterfly tattoo on the inside of one arm and a set of wings on her lower back. Her soft T-shirt clung to her breasts, and she didn’t appear to be wearing a bra. Mia declined another puff on the joint, tearing her gaze away. She was already starting to feel funny.

  As Tiffany smoked the rest of the joint, she scanned the edges of the crowd, glancing into the gloom behind them.

  “Who are you looking for?” Mia asked.

  “Nobody.”

  “Come on.”

  “It’s just a stripper habit,” Tiffany said. “Watching out for the troublemakers.”

  Mia examined Tiffany’s expression with interest. “Is there a customer you’re worried about?”

  Tiffany inhaled another drag. “My ex-husband was paroled last month.”

  “Is he a troublemaker?”

  “He sure is,” she said, her voice bitter.

  Mia experienced a hazy flash of intuition. She understood why a woman like Tiffany would take refuge with Dirty Eleven. Why she’d sleep with someone like Cole, the club’s most eligible bachelor, in hopes of gaining his protection.

  Tiffany finished the joint and stared into the distance, her eyes glazed. Then she straightened abruptly. “Oh shit.”

  “What is it?”

  “White Lightning.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  MIA FOLLOWED TIFFANY’S gaze to a group of men on the other side of the bonfire.

  They looked like Dirty Eleven members, but different. They wore white bandannas and long-sleeved white T-shirts under their vests. When one of them turned around, she saw the lightning bolt patch under the top rocker.

  Mia looked for Cole. He was standing with his fellow Dirty Eleven members, his legs braced wide and arms folded over his chest. It was a threatening stance, suggesting that he would attack if provoked.

  “What are they doing here?” Mia asked.

  “I don’t know,” Tiffany said. “There’s bad blood between them. Shank got his name by stabbing that tall, long-haired guy.”

  Mia studied the man with the ponytail, aware that this was Jesse “Jester” Arno. She’d read the police report of the stabbing. Standing next to Arno was a shorter, stockier man with similar hair and features. His left eye was blackened, and he had a bandage strip across the bridge of his nose.

  “Oh no,” Mia said, her heart sinking.

  Tiffany gave her a questioning look.

  “Cole beat someone up earlier this week.”

  “Dimebag,” Tiffany supplied. “Jester’s brother.”

  “Do you know them?”

  “They’ve been to Vixen,” she said, eyes narrow. “They’re shit tippers.”

  “Are they going to fight, like in a big group?”

  “No. This is neutral territory, so they aren’t supposed to. It would be different if White Lightning came to the Dirty Eleven clubhouse. Then it would be on. Here, the most they can do is one-on-one.”

  “So Jester will challenge?”

  “And
Shank will win,” Tiffany said. “Unless Jester fights dirty or uses a weapon, which I wouldn’t put past him.”

  The last time these two men had squared up, they’d both gone to prison for several years. “How can we stop them?”

  “It’s tricky. Shank can’t walk away from a challenge without losing face.”

  “What if he walks away before the challenge is issued?”

  “He needs a damned good reason, something the other men would respect.”

  Mia racked her drunken brain for a plan and came up with one that seemed brilliant. She told Tiffany in a breathless rush. It wouldn’t work unless the other woman cooperated.

  Tiffany smiled at the idea. “Let’s do it.”

  Mia leaned forward and brushed her lips over Tiffany’s. “Like that?”

  “Like this,” Tiffany said, threading her fingers through Mia’s hair and bringing their mouths together. Their tongues tangled, seeking heat. It wasn’t like kissing a man. Tiffany’s lips were softer, her skin smoother. She tasted smoky and herbal. Mia squirmed against her, feeling a twinge of excitement.

  When they broke the kiss, Mia glanced at Cole. Sure enough, he was watching them. So were his friends.

  “Again,” Tiffany said.

  Mia murmured an agreement. Cole had to believe they were ready to fuck, not just that they were sharing one innocent kiss. Pulse racing, Mia stretched out on the blanket with Tiffany. They were belly to belly, tongues stroking, hands in each other’s hair. Again, it felt pleasant. Mia liked Tiffany’s curvy body and hot mouth.

  Cole took the bait this time. He stormed over to the blanket and stared at the spectacle they were making. He didn’t seem to know whether to stop them or join in. Mia blinked up at him, moistening her lips.

  “Do you have to do this right here?” he asked.

  “We can do it in the hotel room,” she offered.

  Tiffany nipped at Mia’s mouth. “Or we can do it here. I’m easy.”

  “Let’s go,” Cole said, helping Mia to her feet. Tiffany stood also, giggling with glee. Cole put one arm around Mia, as if he didn’t trust her to walk without stumbling. Tiffany ducked under his other arm. He looked over his shoulder at his boys, who were whistling and making obscene gestures.