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

by Hazel Parker

  In fact, Antonio was one of just a few employees my father had brought over from Russia to Las Vegas.

  “I want you to take me to The Red Door,” I said. “I’m not sure that it’s on Google Maps or any maps app, but I know that it’s just over the bridge west of Sahara Avenue.”

  “The Red Door it is,” Antonio said.

  Antonio was also great for not necessarily relying on technology. What I told him was almost certainly going to be enough for him to figure out where to go.

  As we left the driveway and headed out, I couldn’t help but wonder what had gotten into me. It wasn’t so much going to the red door as it was an interest in that man, Richard Peters. Was it the man, or was it the rebellion against my father that mattered so much? If my father weren’t so insistent on picking a future husband for me, would I have looked at Richard the way that I did? Was it that I was attracted to Richard, or that I was attracted to the idea of him rescuing me?

  That’s why you’re going there, Natasha. So that you have time to figure out which is true. There’s no reason for you to figure it out now.

  I tried to lose myself in the lights of Las Vegas—the brightness of the lights always wowed me, even after all this time—but not even the glittering, flashing neon casino names could distract me for long. The only good fortune was that I knew that the general location of The Red Door wasn’t very far from where we were.

  The part that I had failed to account for, though, was the area surrounding The Red Door. While I wouldn’t call it sleazy or dangerous, it definitely wasn’t luxurious. For a place that professed high-end service—or for a place which had rumors professing such a thing—it sure didn’t have much of that in the area.

  “Does that look like it?” Antonio said.

  I peered out the side of my window. There was an abandoned-looking building, with scaffolding falling off on the side, and metal wiring of a screen door in front of what was, in fact, a red door, just barely visible on the other side.

  “Seems like it,” I said. “Do me a favor, Antonio, and please don’t leave until you see me go inside.”

  “Of course,” Antonio said.

  I got out of my seat, moving carefully in the limo, and headed toward the metal wiring. I saw a small handle and tried to push it open. Perhaps it was locked. Or maybe the place was closed. It would have made sense, I suppose, for it to only be open on weekends. It’d be harder, but—

  “Name?”

  I hadn’t jumped like that in ages. The man came out of nowhere, and the only reason I knew he was there was I could see the slight movement in the dark, a man pulling a clipboard—an actual clipboard, not an iPad or other tablet—up. This place really is off the grid.

  “Natasha Sokolov,” I said.

  The man flipped a page, scanned through, paused for a second, and then shrugged.

  “You’re not on the list.”

  “OK, well, can I get in anyway?”

  The man on the other side of the door gave a short chuckle.

  “Ma’am, there’s a waiting list stretching out about two months to get into this building,” he said. “This is a private club. We don’t take walk-ins.”

  I hadn’t gotten rejected for anything like this… probably ever. In Russia, I just dropped my father’s name, and doors opened like I was walking into a coffee shop. In Las Vegas, I just flashed a pretty smile, and that usually did the trick.

  “Umm, are you sure?” I said.

  I wasn’t trying to be arrogant or flaunt anything. I was just so taken aback by the rejection that I wasn’t yet sure how to react to what had happened.

  “Very,” the man said simply.

  “OK,” I said, deciding I needed to take measures. “Maybe you know my father’s name. Igor Sokolov. He’s one of the richest men in town. He can make things happen. If you let me in, then we can arrange something.”

  The man, amused, came into the light and smiled. He had on sunglasses, sported a black beard… and, confirming that I was in the right place, wore a cut that said “Savage Saints.”

  “With all respect, ma’am, everyone here is a name. We have a no cell phones and no posting rule for a reason. Everyone in that room is someone you’ve seen on TV or read about online. I’m sure your father is a wonderful man, but so is everyone else in there. I’m sorry.”

  I just stared agape. He was serious. He really wasn’t going to let me in.

  And the worst part of it was, I knew human psychology well enough to know that this would only make me want the club even more.

  “What if I lied and said I was the daughter of the president?”

  The man laughed.

  “I’ll admit, I haven’t gotten that one before. But nope. Same rules apply.”

  “Damn, you are serious,” I said. “What’s your name?”

  “That doesn’t matter,” he said.

  I’ve never been stonewalled like this in my life before. It’s like a challenge.

  OK… challenge accepted.

  “You can’t even give a lady your name?” I said.

  “You don’t need it to know you can’t come in tonight,” he said. “If you want to come back when we have space, I’d be happy to take your name and email address, and we can get you on the waiting list. I—”

  “No,” I said. “No waiting list.”

  The way in came to mind as my hand went to my purse. Much as I knew my father would kill me for using his money for this purpose, I didn’t much care. What was… five hundred, six hundred, eight hundred… two thousand…

  What was a couple thousand bucks when your father would make that much in interest in the course of an hour or so?

  “What if I could convince you in other ways?”

  “Is that all you’ve got?”

  Wow! These guys don’t play around.

  “Yes.”

  A long silence came. The man stepped back into the shadows for a second. He then stepped forward, took my money, and counted it. He appeared to hold it under some sort of light, as if testing its authenticity, before I heard the click of a door opening. I smiled.

  Money didn’t buy happiness, but it sure could buy opportunities.

  “Come with me,” the man said as he opened the red door to The Red Door.

  Inside was a small atrium, like a reception area. There were two benches to the right, numerous books in the area, and a curtain leading to what I assumed was the area where everything happened. The music playing was not the kind you’d hear in a club or a strip club, leading me to believe that this was a burlesque club. Or, maybe, it was something else that didn’t even have a name. Maybe The Red Door was a totally unique place with nothing to compare it to.

  “What’s your full name again?”

  “Natasha Sokolov,” I said.

  “Ms. Sokolov, please take a seat.”

  I did as instructed. I assumed the hard part was over.

  It was, but that didn’t mean the longest part was over.

  “We have some house rules that must be followed. Failure to follow them will lead to permanent banishment from The Red Door. Do you understand?”

  I nodded, surprised at how nervous I felt. I had to admit, whoever ran this club did a really good job of establishing a feel of authority and secrecy.

  “Number one: no cell phones. We understand you may be carrying one on you, but do not bring it out at any time. Do not bring it out to make a call, do not bring it out to send a text, do not bring it out to check the time. If you have to check it, come outside. I will let you back in after.”

  Damn. I’ve heard of no photo places, but this is… this is intense.

  “Number two, no posting on social media. We follow all the accounts of people who come in here to ensure that they do not discuss The Red Door. This is a very, very private club, and the privacy of it is what contributes to its atmosphere. There should be no discussion on any online platform that you were here. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  I’m not
going to say anything, anyways. Not like it would be a great look to say I came here with the hopes of seeing the head of the Savage Saints.

  “Number three, do not touch the women or speak to them in a derogatory or crude fashion. Our women are very good at what they do and must have your utmost respect. We have kicked out some very noticeable people from this club before for inappropriate behavior. This is a two-strikes and you’re out rule for saying something, a one-strike and you’re out rule for touching them. Understood?”

  “Yes.”

  “Other than that, enjoy the night, talk to the other guests, and have some drinks,” he said. “You are entitled to up to three free drinks, after which they are normal bar price.”

  I smiled at that. I was going to need a drink or two to calm myself after going through all of this.

  The man stepped aside and moved to the curtain. I rose, making sure that my phone was turned off and tucked into my clutch, and then moved forward.

  “You still didn’t tell me your name,” I said.

  For the first time since I had gone up to him, he smirked.

  “I’ll tell you if you come back, Natasha.”

  How very interesting. How secretive of a place.

  I stepped through the curtain, feeling its breeze as it closed behind me, and I took in the surroundings.

  About two dozen people sat in front of me, broken up into three rows of seven seats, the seats ascending to the back to prevent awkward height differences from being a problem, plus a few bar stools. The entire place was flushed with a dark red that bordered on purple. The curtains, the floor, even the ceiling had this color.

  The place was much smaller than I had anticipated, but it very much seemed designed to foster conversation between guests. There were women performing on stage, women with almost perfect bodies and technique, but only about half the guests were paying attention. The rest were conversing amongst themselves or at the bar.

  The design was brilliant; instead of giving guests every convenience they could ever want, give them some inconveniences they could bond over. It forced people to make connections that could pay off in other ways.

  I tried not to make it obvious I was peering at the crowd, but I picked up a few hockey players and basketball players there. The rest were a semi-anonymous blend of business folk, none of whom I knew personally. There was a very probable chance that I had heard of their last name and vice versa, but so long as none of them knew who I was on sight, I was OK.

  The one disappointment, though, was that I didn’t see Richard Peters anywhere. He either was in whatever qualified as the back of this place or just wasn’t here.

  I headed to the bar to claim my first free drink. A beautiful woman in a red outfit came over to me, smiling and asking me how I was.

  “Good,” I said quietly, still a bit nervous about disrupting the show. “Can I get a cocktail list?”

  The woman nodded, reached under the bar top, and pulled out a placard that had about twenty cocktails on it, front and back. I saw drinks with egg whites, drinks with avocados, drinks with all sorts of fruit and food mixes that I never would have guessed existed. They all had unique names, like “The Snapper,” “Four Score and Twenty Drinks Ago,” and “The Great White Hope.” They all looked incredible.

  It was paralysis by analysis.

  “I… I… do you have any recommendations?”

  “Allow me.”

  It was not the woman in front of me who spoke, but rather, a very familiar man’s voice.

  I had to fight not to let my body not show how excited it was when Richard Peters stood just to my right, towering over me, wearing a casual smile.

  “You should go with The Snapper,” he said. “It’s a nice way to start an evening, especially an evening where you’re going to do things you shouldn’t do.”

  It would have sounded sexual, except for the fact he was right. I wasn’t even supposed to be in here.

  “How much did you bribe Walker to get in here?”

  So that’s his name, huh?

  “Enough,” I said, deciding to play a little bit coy as I smiled at him.

  “Hmm,” Richard said. “I’m going to guess that you didn’t just hand him a twenty and get in.”

  “It was a multiple of twenty.”

  Richard chuckled as he motioned to the bartender to make me The Snapper, a drink with some rum and bitters in it. He then turned back to me.

  “You know, since you were bold enough to come in here without being on the guest list—something that only a couple of people have accomplished in my time owning this place—I suppose I could be bold myself. I saw the way you smiled at me a few days ago, Natasha. You are someone whom I would be delighted to take out.”

  I smiled back, almost blushing at Richard’s words. They felt a little… too good, a little too seductive, almost like something one of the boys my Dad wanted would say. And yet, at the same time, the way Richard said them, they felt much more natural. They didn’t sound rehearsed or over the top. It was actually very smooth.

  “I think we could arrange that,” I said.

  “Good, then have that drink and hurry out of here.”

  “Why?” I said, arching an eyebrow playfully.

  “Do you really want to know?”

  What was this, some sort of game? Was Richard trying to get me to anticipate things more by removing himself so quickly? Was—

  “Do you know who my guest was at our poker game tonight?”

  He wouldn’t have asked that question unless… there’s only one person it could have possibly been…

  Holy shit…

  “My dad?”

  Richard nodded.

  “You’ll want to get home before he does,” he said.

  “I don’t live with my father. I’m twenty-six, not sixteen.”

  “True. Still, he has free reign to come back at any time until the club closes at four in the morning. Your father may be a busy man, but he also is a smart one. I suspect he’ll be back.”

  My eyes went wide. My father had the unreal ability to get by on just two or three hours of sleep. It very much was possible that he was coming back. And if he did, if he saw me with Richard here…

  I sipped on my drink for half a second, taking its taste in before throwing the whole thing back. It was delicious, but damn if it didn’t feel like a waste of good liquor.

  “I’ll find a night you can come back and get a full show in,” Richard said. “You should go now, though.”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  I grabbed a napkin quickly, wrote my number down, and stuffed it in Richard’s shirt pocket.

  “Call me,” I said with a smile.

  I hurried out seconds later, nodding to Walker as I did, texting Antonio. He was less than a minute away, and as I got in the limo, I looked out the window to see that Richard was right. My father was getting out of his vehicle and walking to The Red Door.

  I felt an exhilarated rush leave my body as this all unfolded. I had basically just paid the Savage Saints two thousand dollars for the right to give Richard my phone number. It wasn’t even like I’d gotten the chance to flirt with him much.

  It was perhaps the least efficiently spent two thousand dollars of my life.

  But you know what? For a night that I had thought would be spent ruing the fact that I couldn’t sleep, it had gone pretty damn well. I got the adrenaline rush of sneaking around my father and just barely avoiding getting caught, giving my number to a rugged man that I knew my father wouldn’t approve of, and of getting into a club that supposedly no one got into without waiting a month.

  All in all, I’d call that a damn good night.

  Chapter 5: Richard

  When I told Natasha to leave because her father might return at any moment, I did not actually think that Igor would be returning.

  The poker game had concluded, and while he could have requested it keep going, we had very few guests who would play for so long, and the latest we had ever gone was
five a.m.—and that was with a well-known Las Vegas politician who gave us something much more valuable than money: freedom. Rare was the man who played that wanted to do so just for the sake of the game; most of them wanted the danger of playing with an MC and the thrill of maybe even winning some money, and the networking was more valuable to them, anyway.

  Imagine my shock, then, when Igor stepped back into the club one minute after Natasha had left, leaving me scared shitless that Igor knew I had just asked out his daughter.

  “Richard,” Igor said as he entered. “How would you like to play some heads-up poker at the bar while we watch this show unfold?”

  “I would, uhh, sure,” I said.

  I couldn’t say no. I was a good enough poker player that I knew I could hold my own, but Mama’s words kept playing in my head. Keep in mind his angle. This isn’t enough money for him to care about, so he’s not doing it for just the money. There’s something about me that interests him… but what?

  I ignored the thought, not because it wasn’t relevant, but because continuing to ponder it wasn’t going to do any good.

  We set up shop at the spot where I had gotten Natasha’s number, and I tried to read into if he knew that his daughter had been here just moments ago. He betrayed nothing, though. I gave up on the idea of Igor ever telling me anything and gave us the same buy-in as before.

  Five thousand dollars’ worth of chips. Ten- and twenty-dollar blinds. Dealer’s choice of game—which, for almost every hand, was Omaha, given its extreme variance and swings, although a couple of rounds of Texas Hold ‘Em and Seven-Card Stud showed up as well for the sake of variety.

  At first, Igor remained silent while we played, the two of us taking in the show behind us as we went. That was what it looked like, at least. In reality, I was thinking about Natasha.

  I couldn’t lie, I kept hoping she might be more than just a hot Russian woman. I’d never slept with someone like her before, but she also had great energy and a radiance to her that led me to believe she might be something more.

  I had to get the hell out of my head. I knew that much. At thirty-nine years old, as a man with plenty of great women, I just needed to get out of my head. Maybe if I weren’t so estranged from Paul and his daughter, it wouldn’t hurt so much. I wouldn’t feel the need to be suddenly feeling so desperate for connection. And yet, here I am—