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  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.

  Digger went through the rooms, stuffing everything into a duffel bag. More riders arrived and took off with the Dogs’ bikes. Digger left with Deadhead while I returned the keys and informed the clerk her guests had checked out.

  She was still big-eyed and nervous so I handled her with care. “You have Deadhead’s number. Use it if you need help, yeah?”

  Looking uncertain, her chin jerked down in a short affirmation. I winked and grinned. “We’re only scary to the bad guys.” I leaned closer, looking around conspiratorially. “And don’t tell anyone, but Deadhead’s wife and kids think he’s a big ol’ teddy bear.”

  That got a tentative smile and a quick look down before she returned my gaze with a bit more confidence so I added, “Hopefully, you won’t ever need to call, but you’re a friend of the Nightriders now. We take care of our own.”

  Her smile grew before her expression sobered. “Will those rooms need—”

  “No,” I cut her off. “Two of the rooms were empty. The third one will need usual maid turn around. We’re cool.”

  My phone beeped and I turned to read the text and leave.

  “Thank you,” she called after me. I tossed a half-wave in reply as I trotted to my bike. Time to get to work. We had Hell Dogs to question.

  Chapter 4

  Lainey

  GAZING AT THE full-length mirror in the dancers’ dressing room, I was pretty darn impressed with my seamstress skills. I’d found a tiny bikini in a peach color that almost matched my skin tone. Using a couple of yards of fringe, a borrowed sewing machine, and a hot-glue gun, I’d made my first costume. The fringe covered up the fact I wasn’t nude underneath. It left a lot to the audience’s imagination but still provided a place to put money.

  Whew. My modesty would be maintained but I could look sexy enough to elicit tips. Win-win. That was my new motto. Mantra. Battle cry. Win-win. I’d get on that stage tonight and start making enough money to get out of this mess. Win. Once I was out of this mess, I could keep dancing to pay for school. Win. With my degree, I could get a real job and pass my certification to become a CPA. Win. See?

  This was my mindset as I plopped down in front of a cracked mirror to fluff out my hair and apply another coat of mascara to my eyelashes. The other dancers all wore falsies—eyelashes, not boobs. Nope, their “girls” were all hanging out there front and center. The crack in the glass bisected my face, and considering my current mindset, I had no hope of not waxing philosophical.

  Six months ago, my life had been…okay, not wonderful precisely, but on track. My life had never been wonderful, but I was trying my best to get out of the muck and on the road to something normal. Of course, in my world, normal was a relative term. It’s a cliché, but true—if you looked up dysfunctional family in a psychology text book, you’d find my family portrait. Neglectful mom, absent father, lazy older brother, me, and the twin terrors who were my little brothers.

  I worked through high school, worked after graduation, saved up money, and I was finally able to fund my first year of college. No scholarships, no Pell
Grants, no FAFSA student loans for me—not until I could shed the stigma of my family. Just me doing a series of low-paying menial jobs. But I put away enough for my tuition and books, and I continued working so I’d have enough for my second year. And then, just like the mirror I stared into, my life cracked in two.

  Broken dreams. Broken life. But I refused to let misfortune break me. I wasn’t some little “poor, pitiful me” looking for someone to save me. Nope. Not my style.

  “Hey, Lainey.”

  Cookie’s hail pulled me out of the rabbit hole. She stood in the door with a wad of bright blue silk in her hand. “Hoss says he needs to talk to you. Out at the bar.”

  She tossed the cloth at me and I grabbed it. Shaking it out, I discovered a short—as in barely-covered-my-butt short—kimono-style robe.

  “Put that on and get your sweet ass out there. There’s a few customers comin’ in. You don’t want to give it away for free.”

  “Oh, um, thanks.” I slipped my arms through the sleeves and belted it. The robe covered more than I’d anticipated.

  The sound system was pumping out rock and roll but not at a level that would deafen me. I glanced around but didn’t see Hoss anywhere. The guy who’d followed me in that morning was behind the bar. I scurried to the end of the bar closest to the hallway leading to the dressing room and hopped up on a stool. The guy acknowledged me but continued filling a mug with beer from a tap. He set it down on the bar in front of a heavy-set guy with grease smeared across his cheekbone. At least I hoped it was grease and not a bruise.

  The bartender visited with his customer for a couple of minutes while I looked around. I hadn’t paid much attention my first trip through the doors. The place was about the size of a large high school gymnasium. Tables of various heights with chairs and stools filled the space. Maybe twenty-five guys occupied the place, singly or in groups. The bar stretched along one wall. The stage was narrow but long, with two poles, one at each end. There was also an intersecting stage that ran perpendicular and it, too, had a pole near the end jutting furthest into the audience. The stage was lined with bar stools.

  “Somethin’ to drink, sweetcheeks?”

  I swiveled around to face the bartender. He was far too good-looking for my peace of mind. “Oh, uh, sure. Water? And Cookie told me Hoss needed to speak with me?”

  He scooped up ice in a glass and used the bar gun to squirt water into it. “Have you picked out your music?”

  I stared at him. From his cocky grin I figured I looked totally befuddled. “Music?” I was supposed to pick out a playlist?

  He laughed and tapped his finger on the end of my nose like I was a little kid…or an untrained puppy. “You’re cute. Yes, music. Girls on the poles get to pick their own. The regular dancers just dance to what’s on the track.”

  Huh. Who knew? “Oh.”

  The guy laughed again. “You’re way out of your comfort zone, babe. You should figure out a stage name while you’re picking music. And speaking of names, I’m Wizard. I also work the music machine.”

  Wizard? What kind of name was that? Curious, I asked.

  “It’s my road name.”

  “Road name?”

  “I’m a Nightrider, babe. We’re a motorcycle club. It’s tradition to have road names. When we patch in as full members, we forget we have other names.”

  “Ah. I see, said the clueless new girl.”

  “So, music? And I have to say, you’re pretty fuckin’ hot on that pole.”

  I blushed and from the heat radiating from beneath the robe, it was a full body flush. Yippee. “Uh, thanks. I think.”

  “S’all good, babe, though I gotta say, you aren’t the type we normally get in here.”

  “Yes, well. About that. I need to make some money. A lot of money. Quickly.”

  His thick brows scrunched toward the bridge of his nose and he studied me. “You in trouble?”

  Uh oh. I probably should have made up something—like I was studying strippers for a research paper for a sociology class or something. I never was much good at thinking fast on my feet. I was slow and methodical, the type to like numbers and accounting. “No. Not me. It’s a…family thing.”

  He continued to give me a narrow-eyed look but didn’t pursue the topic. I felt like I’d dodged a bullet. “So…music? I admit I haven’t thought much about it. I tend to listen mostly to country music. The song I danced to this morning was good. Do you have more songs like it?”

  Wiz chuckled and shook his head as he ripped the top off a beer with his hand—his bare hand. After a long guzzle, he said, “Most dancers rehearse. Choreograph their routines. Are you tellin’ me you just climbed that pole and did what you did?”

  “Pretty much, yes.”

  “Damn, babe, you’re killin’ me. I’ll pick out a few songs.”

  “Few songs?” I blinked a couple of times, wrapping my brain around that. “I’ll be dancing more than once?”

  “Yeah, babe. Didn’t Hoss explain? You’re on once an hour between seven p.m. and two a.m. Last call is two, but the girls keep dancing until we kick the assholes out at three.” He was flicking through some CDs and got a wicked grin. “You familiar with Dylan?”

  I was counting up the hours up on my fingers, but glanced up. “As in Bob?”

  Wizard nodded. “Yeah. Got your name right here. Lady Lay.” He eyed me again. “And wear your cowboy boots. They’ll go with the fringe.”

  I clamped my mouth shut. The name was as good as any and my boots were infinitely better than those stilts the other dancers wore. At the moment, my brain needed numbers. Math. Yes, math was good. I started counting again. Eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, one… Six. I had to get on that pole six times a night? I yelped softly. Good thing I’d found my rosin bag but my muscles were already screaming. I swiveled around to study the stage. I needed to work on my strutting…maybe working between the poles with shortened routines on the poles themselves, give myself a breather in between the pole work.

  The lights came down and I realized Wizard wasn’t standing there any longer. He and a woman were working up and down the bar. Since we’d been talking, men—and a few women—had begun to fill up the place. I was about to head backstage when a man walked through the arch between the foyer and the club itself.

  My ears buzzed. My mouth went dry. I didn’t breathe for a minute. He was…something. Tall, lean, dark hair, and, given his coloring, probably dark eyes—I couldn’t tell at that distance under the lowered lights. He was gorgeous. And wearing a vest—which I was slowly coming to associate with motorcycle clubs in general, and the Nightriders in particular.

  He might be an instant orgasm in black leather, but he was trouble. Big trouble. The kind of trouble that should have danger music for the soundtrack. He was too much of everything, especially for a girl like me. Nope. I had enough trouble, thank you very much. I certainly didn’t need more, especially his brand of it. His head turned as he surveyed the room. His gaze hadn’t hit the bar yet and I figured I needed to make my escape. Pronto. I ducked through the curtains sectioning off the bar from the hallway. Lady Lay needed to stop hyperventilating before she went on stage.

  Chapter 5

  Hollywood

  I WALKED THROUGH the door and was checking out the crowd when a flash of blue teased the corner of my vision. I saw big hair and a sweet ass ducking behind the curtain separating the bar from the backstage. One of the dancers must have been working the bar for private dances.

  Gravedigger stepped up beside me and nodded toward the bar. Wiz was waving toward two stools he’d just emptied for us. The two guys he chased off looked disgruntled until they caught sight of Digger’n me. Yeah, they were more than happy to give up their seats.

  Wiz tossed a plastic bag full of ice at Digger and he wrapped it around his knuckles. The cuts and bruises would be mostly gone by morning but ice never hurt. Digger had done all the heavy hitting with the Hell Dogs. I’d just asked the questions. We’d stopped by the clubhouse and made
a report to the Russian and Hardy before heading over here for booze, bar food, and some babes. Rumor had it, Hoss had some new blood in the house.

  I killed my beer in a series of long swallows with the second bottle waiting when I put the first down. Digger nursed a double whiskey, one eye on the door, the other on the stage. Two women stepped into twin spotlights and the music cranked up. I had no idea how Wiz could work here night after night with all the noise. I’d been there less than ten minutes and a headache was already banging against my skull.

  One of the girls was a regular, the other new. I watched for a bit then went back to drinking. The beer wouldn’t numb the pain—nor would I get drunk, but it was cold and tasted good. Lolo, the female bartender working with Wiz, slid two baskets in front of us. Big, rare burgers and greasy fries. Bar food at its best.

  Digger dug in and three burgers apiece later, both of us were feeling more like ourselves. Wolves have fast metabolisms. We went through food, booze, and broads in a hurry. I shifted on my stool, thinking about that glimpse of blue I’d caught. I liked long hair. There was just something about fisting it while I slammed into a woman doggie style. Damn. My dick was hard just thinking about it. I’d watch the end of this set then head back to the clubhouse. There’d be a sweet butt or three hanging around who’d take care of that hard-on for me.

  I was about to call it a night when the place went dark and Wiz’s voice ghosted over the loud speaker, the opening notes of Dylan’s “Lay, Lady Lay” whispering just beneath his introduction.

  “Chasin’ Tail is pleased to announce the debut of our very own, Lady Lay…”

  The music changed to something dark and driving with lots of bass and back beat. The spotlight flared to life highlighting a woman standing, legs apart, head down, hands behind her back. She wore nothing but fringe—long fringe that danced with each deep breath she took—and cowboy boots.