by Silver James
Digger stood up, reached down and grabbed my hand, hauling me to my feet. “C’mon. I’ll buy you breakfast at Momma’s.”
My stomach rumbled. Yeah. A huge stack of Momma’s buttermilk pancakes, a pound of bacon and sausage and a gallon of coffee would fix me right up.
Thirty minutes later, we rolled up in front of Momma’s Kitchen. The place was open 24/7 and served breakfast anytime. Momma was a big black guy who’d spent 30 years in the Marine Corps serving up food in the worst corners of the world. He’d taken his retirement pay, bought a couple of derelict train cars and built this diner. Nothing fancy about the place or the food but every bite was damn tasty.
The bleary-eyed waitress poured our coffee, took our order, and shuffled off for a cigarette break. Momma got pissy when Alice smoked around the food though I remember one night when Mom was gone four of us made bets on how long the ash on the cig jammed in the corner of Alice’s mouth would stay on. Damn if that bitch lasted more than an inch before it ashed out into Digger’s coffee cup. Digger didn’t leave a tip but the rest of us did. It was awesome.
We didn’t talk while waiting for our food. There was nothing to say. We were brothers. We drank, we fought for and against each other, we fucked, though I wasn’t really one to share. Life was good. Except for the Hell Dogs. And some shit about scary black ops types wanting our DNA.
Not every Nightrider is a Wolf. The majority of us are, but it seemed like all the new prospects were Wolves. And there are Wolves all over—outlaws and white hats both. Technically, we’re lupi versi pellis. Literally translated, it means the man who wears the skin of a wolf. We’re wolf shifters, not skinwalkers. There’s an animal half we carry inside us, almost like a separate entity but we’re joined at the soul with our animal. Any time we want a good laugh, we get a keg and do a werewolf movie marathon. The joke’s on Hollywood—no pun intended.
The door slammed open and two cops walked in. Great. Could my day get any better? I’d known the big one for years. He sauntered over like he owned the place.
“Well, as I live and breathe if it isn’t little Eric Hilton.”
Huh. Original. I offered him the smile I save for the bar flies hoping to ride me home. The hair on the back of my neck prickled as Digger sat up and took notice. His snarled message was sub-vocal but Wolves have wolf hearing, even in human form.
“He keeps hassling Nightriders, he won’t be living and breathing long.”
I snorted out a laugh, coffee spewing. “This is a little outside your beat, Officer Gerald.”
“Didn’t expect to see you scumbags out in the light of day.”
I made big, I’m-scared eyes and said, “Ooooh.” Gerald didn’t look impressed so I added, “You want something or are you polluting our air just for the fun of it?”
Gerald lunged for me but his partner grabbed his arm and hauled him back with an urgent, “Not here. Too many witnesses.”
Huh. So the pansy-ass cop had another serious hard-on for me. I wondered what I’d done to chap his ass this time. Alice arrived with breakfast and a gimlet eye for the cops.
“We don’t give discounts,” she drawled. “You want food or coffee, sit your butts down. You just here to hassle my customers, there’s the door. Don’t let it hit you in the ass on the way out.”
Damn. Who knew the old broad had that much fire? Gerald’s partner yanked him toward the door muttering about how they couldn’t afford any more disciplinary actions. Yeah, I needed to look into those fuckers. Digger caught my eye and nodded. We’d find out what that shit was all about sooner or later. First though, Mom’s most excellent pancakes, a half dozen eggs over easy, a pile of bacon, and another cup of hot coffee. I’d hunt cop another day. Next on the agenda was hunting Hell Dogs.
Chapter 2
Lainey
I HITCHED MY messenger bag higher on my shoulder and stared at the front entrance. The building, located in an industrial area on the highway from Mission Springs to Kansas City, didn’t look like much this time of day. Under the hesitant morning sun, the place looked tired and tawdry. Honestly, it hadn’t looked like much the one time I’d driven past it at night. The parking lot had been filled with guy toys—big trucks, motorcycles, hot cars, and bright lights gave the illusion of glamour.
Glancing at the big sign wrapped in dead neon, I swallowed the bile threatening to burn my throat. Chasin’ Tail. Gentlemen’s Club. Only no gentleman would be caught dead here. It was a strip joint plain and simple. The paper taped to the front door mocked me.
DANCERS WANTED. OPEN TRY-OUTS TODAY ONLY.
I squared my shoulders. I had no choice. Snagging the brass handle, I managed to drag the heavy door open and slip inside before it closed. Squinting, I waited for my eyes to adjust from bright sunlight to inky club interior. A bunch of aromas assailed my nose—stale beer, body odor, smoke, both acrid from tobacco and sweet from marijuana. I couldn’t do this. I turned to run but the door opened behind me and a tall man walked in.
He perused me in an assessing way then grinned. “Auditions are that way, babe.”
Crud. Forget rocks and hard spots or any other stupid figures of speech. “Yes, about that. I’ve changed my mind.”
His eyes roamed over me again and some trick of the light made them glint. “That’s too bad. A hot little bod like yours? I’m betting you could rake in three or four hundred a night.”
Stunned, I stared at him from behind rapidly blinking eyelids I’d suddenly lost control of. “Three hundred?” My voice squeaked. “Dollars?”
He laughed, and I was startled by the warmth and humor in it. “Yeah, babe.”
“Well…” My brain whipped through the numbers. “Okay then.” I still had to inhale a few times to steady my nerves, but I pivoted and headed deeper into the club.
A man built like a heavy-weight boxer cloned from a WWE wrestler stood with his back to the door, his attention on the stage. Four girls were up there shaking their stuff. One looked like she might be sixteen, two were in their twenties and the last one was probably close to forty. The older lady wore a G-string and pasties and holy freaking goodness, I swear she had those tassels going in two different directions.
A sharp whistle from the big guy and everyone stopped. “You!” He jabbed a thick finger at the youngest. “Your fake ID didn’t cut it. Out.”
The girl pouted and looked like she might consider a bribe using her mouth on a certain part of his anatomy, but he snapped his fingers and two guys sprang up on the stage to usher her backstage and presumably the rear exit. Both men wore black leather vests with the same patch on the back.
The big guy turned his attention to the woman. “Babe, we both know you’re too old for this shit, no matter how much talent you got.”
Her face fell but she didn’t say anything. Turning, she walked to a chair with a shirt draped over it. She shrugged into it. “Had to give it try. Thanks, doll.”
“Tell ya what, you teach what you know to those two and whoever else I hire and I’ll pay ya a hundred an hour for the lessons.”
I could see her eyes glisten for a moment then she dashed the back of one hand across them. Her smile was tremulous, but her voice solid when she said, “I can do that.”
The two remaining women stared at each other then the guy standing below the stage.
“Does that mean we’re hired?” one asked.
“Yeah. You’re provisional. You learn from Cookie, I’ll hire you on full time.”
They squealed and hugged each other. The men in the room winced and I was reminded of the one and only time my mother forced me to enter a beauty pageant. I still had nightmares.
“Yo, Hoss. We got one more.”
I’d all but forgotten the man standing beside me. He nudged me forward and walked me right up to the big man. Just like my escort, this Hoss person looked me up and down.
“You ever dance before?”
I stared at him. Was he the owner? Or maybe he was the manager. He was tall, wide, also wore a leather
vest, and hadn't shaved in several days. He scared the heck out of me but hey, nothing ventured, nothing gained, right?
“Um…not like this. Exactly.” And I wouldn’t be dancing like this at all if my need for money wasn’t so desperate.
“Like this. Exactly. You mean you’ve never danced naked?
“Wait…naked? I thought the dancers wore G-strings and…uh…bras.”
“We’ll discuss that. Are you a dancer or not?”
“Only recreationally. But I was a gymnast.”
“What’s that mean? Exactly.”
“I’m flexible.” I eyed the stage behind the man. “Watch.” Brushing past him, I placed my hands on the edge and hopped up, like I was getting out of a pool. Planting my butt on the lip of the stage, I sat for a second, getting my nerve up. My fingers brushed over the wooden surface, finding each knick and crack. Unable to stall any longer, I swung my legs around, and stood. Approaching the metal pole like it might bite me, I screwed up my mouth and considered options. I shrugged and tossed a sheepish smile at the guy. “Okay, this might be a little easier with some music.”
“Yo, Wiz, hit the soundtrack.” The big guy bellowed like there was a crowd in the room.
Music belched from a dozen speakers and I clapped my hands over my ears. “Can you turn it down?” I shouted over the noise. Moments later, I could actually hear the music, catch the beat. It was something slow, sensual, with a driving bass that reverberated in my chest. Not what I expected—or was used to—but yeah, I could work with this.
I let my hips loosen and move on their own while I kicked off my cowboy boots. I made a mental note to dig out a rosin powder bag if I got the job. Wiping my hands on my jeans, I hopped, raising one knee high and then charged three steps into a front walk-over. My landing put me next to the pole.
I walked around it—slowly. Slinky. I need to think slinky. With a side of sexy. After another hop, I grabbed the pole several feet above my outstretched hands, rolled my hips and legs until I was upside down, one knee hooked around the pole to anchor me. Too bad they didn’t have aerial silk rigged. Maybe if I got the gig I could talk them into it. Doing an act like that, I wouldn’t have to be naked because I could hide in the cloth.
Using the pole to my advantage, I arched and slithered, twirled and snaked up and down the apparatus. When the song ended, I curved around the pole to land on my hands and did a back walk-over to stand upright.
“Like I said, I used to be a gymnast. This isn’t exactly the balance beam, but I can work the pole.” I glanced down at the manager. Well fudgecicles. He had a woody the size of Cincinnati. “Uhm…I guess you liked it?”
“Damn, babe. You do that naked and you’ll be rollin’ in twenties if not hundreds.”
“I sure hope so.” Dang it. That came out sounding far more breathless and needy than it should have.
“Can you start tonight? One of our regulars called in sick.”
“Oh…I…uhm…sure. I think I can get a costume and stuff. What time?”
“We’ll fill out the paperwork now—”
“Paperwork?” I cut him off. “What kind of paperwork?”
“The business kind. We need name, address, phone number, social security number—all that crap. You make an hourly wage. That’s paid by check and we take out all the applicable taxes. The tips? Those are all yours to do with as you please, though you’d be smart to give a cut to the bartenders and waitresses, especially if you do private.”
“Private?” Yikes. Why did my voice pick now to squeak? “As in…like…alone with some guy in a room?”
“D’uh, babe. Yeah. The real money gets made doin’ lap dances in the suites. You get them to buy one of the packages, you and the waitress make out like bandits.”
“Uh…make out isn’t a euphemism for anything is it?”
“We don’t whore our girls. A dancer wants to do that on her own? That’s her business and it’s done off property. We run a legitimate business here.”
Legitimate? Yeah, right, but if I made the kind of money they were talking about without having do anything but dance, they could be mass murderers for all I cared. “Awesome blossom. Let’s do this. I need to go home and make a costume.”
Chapter 3
Hollywood
DIGGER AND I met up with Deadhead and a couple of his boys at a truck stop outside of Topeka. There were three unknown bikes parked at the motel next door. When we discovered the desk clerk was female, the brothers decided I should saunter on over there to question her. I wasn’t sure I appreciated the rep but whatever. I like women. Women liked me. They went away satisfied. I left with a happy dick. Win-win, right?
When the front entrance doors slithered open, the clerk looked up with a bright smile on her face, until she saw me. She backed away from the desk, her eyes wide and frightened. I held up my right hand, palm toward her in that universal sign of “I won’t hurt you.”
“Easy, babe. Take a breath.” I thought she might actually pass out. “I’m just here for some information. That’s all.” I stayed back from the counter trying to look all shucks and grins. Totally harmless. Easy should have been the one sent on this ride because he wore that look naturally.
After a few breaths, she nodded at me, straining to put a professional face on. “How may I help you, sir?”
I offered one of my charming grins. “I’m Hollywood. The bikes outside, who do they belong to?”
She blanched and her hands shook. Motherfuckers. This was a girl just trying to make a living, but she was scared shitless.
“Were they wearing cuts?”
Her brows scrunched a little and I caught a slight shake of her head, as if the question confused her. I pointed to my vest. “A cut. Colors. Either a vest or jacket with patches.”
Her mouth formed an “O” and for once I wasn’t thinking about how sweet it would feel around my dick. The girl was too scared and that just pissed me off.
“Y-yes.”
I half-turned so she could see the leaping wolf with the comet tail that was the Nightrider patch. “Does their patch look like this?” She shook her head and took a relieved breath. “Ugly-ass dog with horns?” She pressed her lips together and nodded. “They been hassling you?” Wide-eyed, she nodded again. “Okay, darlin’, you don’t have worry anymore.”
I stepped outside to the portico and whistled. The other Nightriders jogged over, leaving their bikes mostly out of sight at the truck stop. They came in the door behind me.
“Topeka is Nightrider territory. These assholes are trespassing. We’ll take care of it.” I pointed to Deadhead, watching the clerk closely. “This is the prez of the local chapter. You have any more problems with bikers, whether they’re wearin’ Hell Dog cuts or some other patch, you let him know. Understood?”
She hadn’t blinked yet, but slowly nodded. “Okay.” Her voice was a scared whisper.
“Don’t get me wrong, babe. We’re outlaws, but we don’t hassle civilians for the fun of it. Yeah?”
The clerk nodded again. “Yeah.” Her voice was a little stronger.
“Now what rooms are they in?”
Glancing over her shoulder into the office behind her, she squared her shoulders. “I shouldn’t do this but…” She glanced at us. “One-thirty-two, four, and six.” She moved to the counter, grabbed three plastic cards. “Hang on a sec.” After doing something with the card keys and a machine, she set them on the counter. “Please don’t break the doors. My manager will get upset and I can’t afford to lose this job. Those are masters.”
Deadhead growled under his breath. “Your job is safe, honey.” He grabbed one of the motel’s business cards and a pen, jotted down a number and pushed it across the counter to her. “You have any trouble, call. That phone is always answered.”
I scooped up the keys, nodded to her. “The club owes you.”
“Yes.” Gravedigger agreed. Yeah, I’d sort of made promises not mine to make, but Digger had a soft spot for soft women. And he was part of the
cadre. His agreement cemented my vow. This girl would be watched and kept safe.
Deadhead, Digger, and I each took a key and prowled across the lobby area. The three other Nightriders headed outside to station themselves by the bikes. When we flushed the Hell Dogs, they’d either stand and fight—thus dying, or they’d run, going through the windows and our brothers would take them down in the parking lot.
I paused at the first door. Sniffed. Listened. Nothing. The room was empty. I moved to join Deadhead at his door. Same thing. Empty. We converged on the third door. Digger smiled but instead of glee showing in his eyes, there was only the red flicker of a feral Wolf.
The stench of our prey filled our noses. Human, all three of them. Muted voices rumbled behind the door and we listened for a few minutes. Interesting. They were hoping to catch a solitary Nightrider to “teach the bastards a lesson.” I wondered if they were here under orders or free-lancing—not that it mattered. They were in our territory and the clubs were at war.
Deadhead used his key and was the first through the door. We caught the Hell Dogs by surprise. They all went for weapons but not one got off a shot. We subdued them—handcuffs and bandanna gags—and waited for Deadhead’s riders to join us. We didn’t want to make trouble for the clerk or the motel. Blood is hell to get out of carpet, not to mention the cops get involved. This was club business. No cops.
We waited to take them outside until a nondescript white van was backed up to the rear entrance, doors open. The Topeka brothers hustled the Dogs inside and the van took off. We’d question them at the Topeka clubhouse.