by Cathryn Cade
He was interrupted by a sudden blast of music so loud Sara flinched and clapped her hands over her ears.
Ahead of them, Jack tipped back his head and laughed. Kit threw both arms up in the air and let out a holler—or at least her lips moved. Sara couldn't hear anything over the shriek of electric guitar.
She squinted into the club. The interior was shadowed, but with the doors front and back open to the summer evening, she could see one big room, with a bar running along the right wall, pool tables and foosball along the left, and tables and chairs scattered throughout the middle. Ceiling fans moved lazily overhead.
The walls were covered in an assortment of photographs and motorcycle posters, some of them featuring beautiful, scantily clad women in come-hither poses. A huge black banner with white letters proclaiming this the Devil’s Flyers, Airway Heights Chapter hung in a place of honor on one long, otherwise-bare wall.
The biggest TV screen Sara had ever seen took up a good portion of the back wall, with speakers on either side. Several big leather sofas slouched before it, along with low tables. People sat or stood in small groups, drinks in hand.
Now, everyone was turned to stare as a pair of teen boys vaulted the sofas to escape the area, laughing uproariously, chased by a skinny, bald biker. He shook his head and stomped back to the speakers, but mercifully another man had already reached them. The sound quieted to a normal level, now discernible as classic rock, Bruce Springsteen singing about being 'born in the USA'.
"Thank God, right?" Remi asked, wincing. "Think I'm deaf in one ear after that."
Sara nodded. Her ears were ringing, for sure. But she was busy studying the people thronging the big room
They were a fascinating group. Some surprised with their ordinariness, but most looked like what they were, bikers and their women. Most of the men wore cuts, some with no shirt underneath. Jeans and boots were the norm, which she had to admit worked for them. Also the norm was their air of toughness, and a look that said ‘mess with me at your own risk’. There were a few pot-bellied older guys, but most of the men looked like they spent regular time working out with weights—big weights. Yikes.
The women, no matter their age, mostly rocked the biker chick look, with big hair and earrings, lots of makeup and jewelry, and tight, skimpy clothing from tube and halter tops with tiny skirts or cutoffs. One young brunette wore a play-suit that seemed to be made of bandannas, with nothing underneath. On her, this worked, although Sara considered her ensemble belonged by a pool, not a pool table.
But then so did her own top and mini. The nice thing was, she no longer felt her own look was skanky. She fit right in, in fact her makeup and hair were subdued in comparison to most of these women.
"We'll get some drinks," Jack announced. "You girls wait here."
The men walked away. Kit waved at another woman, who smiled and waved back.
"So what else is in this place?" Sara asked, looking around. Maybe now that the guys were gone, she could get some inside information.
"Well, this, obviously is the club room and bar," Kit said. "Back there, to the north is a big kitchen, and past that the board room, where the Flyers have their private meetings, which they call church—why, no one knows."
"Maybe 'cause a lot of 'come to Jesus' talks happen in there?" Lindi suggested wryly.
"Nah, I think it's because the business that happens there is, for a lot of clubs, unholy. So, inside joke, you know? Anyway, past that, there's a weight room and locker room of sorts, with showers and toilets. And on the other side of the hallway, there are lots of bedrooms, two offices. Beyond the double doors at the end, there's a big open area where they stack crates and stuff."
"Crates of what?" Sara asked.
"Well," Kit leaned in. "The labels say motor parts. But ... who knows? I sure don’t. It'll be locked tonight, to keep everyone out. And beyond that's a garage shop, where the guys work on their bikes."
Sara stiffened. "It's not … illegal drugs back there, is it?"
"No," Kit said instantly. "Some of the one-percenter clubs, yeah, but not the Flyers."
That was a relief, because that would have sent Sara out the door to call 911. Beyond that, she shrugged mentally. She was likely never coming back here again, so she wasn't going to worry about what kind of 'freight' the bikers stored in their locked rooms.
"Ooh, Rocker's here," Kit said happily, pointing to a group of bikers by the pool tables. "He's one you've gotta meet. He's the chapter VP, a laid-back charmer. And T-Bear's a big sweetheart."
“Which one is which?” Sara asked.
“Rocker’s the tall, dark hottie with the short beard and ‘stache. T-bear is the big ginger.”
The two men stood head and shoulders over the group they were with. As Sara watched, the biker called Rocker threw back his head and laughed, and the burly biker with long, red-gold curls and beard shook his head in mock disgust, making the rest of the group laugh too.
"But stay clear of him," Lindi said, grabbing Sara's arm and nodding toward another group. "The big blond guy? Uh-uh, no. That's the pres, Stick. Remember the Titanic, girlfriend."
Sara peered past a group of new arrivals. By the bar, she saw a tall, lean blond man in a cut standing with his arms crossed, his square, high-cheekboned face creased in a smile at something another biker was saying. His hair was pulled back in a short ponytail. He looked kind of young to be the club president, but what did she know? He was definitely attractive, so she got why women chased him.
"Got it," she assured Lindi. "I'll stay away from icebergs."
Anyway, it wasn’t as if she was man-hunting, not here. She was glad her two besties were happy with their biker men, but for her? No way. She'd take a more civilized male, thanks. One who knew his wines, liked to read and would even take her to the occasional traveling Broadway musical without protest. She might be through with lawyers, but she did want a guy who rocked a well-made suit.
“So why motorcyle clubs?” she asked her friends. “Why are most of these people here?”
Kit explained the disillusionment of many Vietnam vets after they returned home to contempt, and how the angriest of them had rebelled, choosing a free-wheeling life one step ahead of the law to trying to blend into the straight-laced America of the times. “The worst clubs were the ones like the Hells Angels,” Kit said. “They were complete outlaws, into anything they could get away with. Drugs, forced prostitution, running guns—they did it all.”
Sara shivered. “Ugh. Sounds like they were a bunch of sociopaths.”
“A lot of them were, from the stories I’ve heard. And maybe the Devil’s Flyers began that way, but over the years, the new guys coming up have changed the club for the better. Flyers are good guys, for the most part. I mean, there’s plenty of macho assholes like Bouncer, but they do not run hard drugs or the sex trade. And no extortion, or Keys wouldn’t be a member. My man would not put up with that shit.”
“Nor Jack,” Lindi added. “For him, it’s the brotherhood. Knowing any of these guys will have his back, no matter what. And he’ll do the same for them.”
“Or for the women,” Kit added. “If any of us has trouble, all we have to do it call, and the brothers will be there, any time of the day or night.”
Lindi nodded, and Sara smiled at her friends. “I’m glad you both have that. I just—”
“Sh-shhh,” Kit hissed. “Here come the guys. We can talk more later, ‘kay?”
The men bore red solo cups brimming with beer for all. Remi held a bar tray with an array of tiny, half-filled glasses.
"Shots," he announced. "Pick your poison. Cuervo Gold or Tennessee Fire?"
"What is Tennessee Fire?" Sara asked warily.
Lindi handed her a shot glass of amber liquid. "Jack Daniels with cinnamon—yum. Come on, bestie. Club tradition."
"Shots at the club," Kit agreed. "And you're on a new path, right? Live a little."
"To the Flyers," Keys called, lifting his shot high, with a look at all of them
.
"Devil's Flyers," Jack called back. "Ride free, live well, and raise hell!"
A chorus of approval rang out around them.
Oh, what the heck. When in biker territory ... Sara raised her glass with the others, and drained it in one swallow. Regret was instantaneous. The whiskey burned a fiery path down her throat and into her stomach.
Holy crap. She shuddered and coughed, struggling to breathe.
"Here." Laughing, Remi pressed a beer cup into her hand. "Looks like you need this."
Unable to speak, Sara nodded gratefully. She took a hasty drink of beer. It was cool and mellow after the whiskey. She took another sip, and a warm glow spread through her, loosening her tension and lifting her mood. "Hoo, that's better."
"Now you're talkin' like a biker chick," Jack told her with a wink. "But we'd better get some barbecue in you girls before you get too wasted."
Since she loved barbecue, Sara had no argument with this. Carrying her beer, she followed her friends out through the open doors. Her eyes widened in appreciation. These people certainly knew how to put on a cook-out.
A big rounded patio was rimmed with smokers and grills. Portable tents shaded, not people, she saw with amusement, but kegs and coolers of bottled beer and other drinks. Picnic tables and an assortment of plastic chairs dotted the shade offered by a row of somewhat straggling evergreens.
Long tables groaned with food, chips and condiments. A thin older biker and three younger ones manned the grills. Several women bustled back and forth along the tables.
More people seemed to have arrived. Looking at the sheer number, Sara decided this must be everyone from the local chapter of Flyers, plus their women and plenty of friends—who included a disproportionate number of pretty young women.
Assorted children darted in and out of the crowd, laughing and playing.
By the time they were seated with their food, dusk was falling and Sara felt mellow as the beer she was drinking, her troubles far away. She giggled at this thought. Yep, all her troubles were over the state line in Idaho, and she was here in Washington.
And if the state line didn't keep trouble away, all these bad-ass bikers would.
CHAPTER SEVEN
A couple of hours later, Sara wiped her greasy fingers on a napkin, licked a stray bit of sauce from her thumb and then laughed as Remi stole the last rib from Kit's plate and the redhead growled at him.
The barbecue and accompaniments had been delicious, and so were the drinks.
And the appreciate looks she’d been getting from various males present hadn’t hurt her mood either. A few had come to their table, wanting introductions. Sara had met bikers named Rocker, who was indeed a dark-haired hottie with smoldering gaze. Bear, who had made her giggle as he waggled his shaggy ginger brows at her. A biker named Blade had scared the heck out of her, so she’d given him the shortest look possible and waited until he walked away. There had been others whose names she’d forgotten.
"I'm getting another beer," she announced, lifting her empty cup. "Anyone else?"
"I'll have another, thanks babe," Keys said, giving her a nod of appreciation.
"And I'll help him drink it," Kit said. "Then I'm gonna dance."
The music was louder, and now they were playing Def Leppard. Definitely dance music, Lindi and Sara agreed with a look.
"You be careful in there," Jack called to Sara as she rose. "Things are gonna get wild now. You might see shit. Don't wanna burn your eyes too bad."
Lindi nodded in agreement, her eyes wide.
"I'll be fine." Sara waved her hand in dismissal. Kit had warned her that once the children were gone she might see openly sexual behaviors, and not always in dark corners. In her current haze of well-being, she couldn’t bring herself to worry about it.
"Okay, babe." Jack sat back, and Sara made her way through the tables, stepping carefully because she was dizzy. No-oo more whiskey for her ... in fact, maybe she should quit the beer, too.
A few couples had turned the open area by the back doors into a dance floor, and two young women in bikinis were dirty dancing together, to the enjoyment of bikers seated at a nearby table. Sara gave the duo a look of amused disgust as she passed. The pair were talented, sure, but they had no inhibitions whatsoever, with those moves.
Maybe they were some of the strippers from State Line that Kit had mentioned hung out here occasionally. Oooh, she'd never partied with strippers before ... but then, she'd never partied with bikers.
From what she'd gathered, the two went together like ... salt and pepper? 'Kay, that was a boring analogy, but she was too tipsy to come up with anything better. Ketchup and mustard? Tequila and worms--yep, that was a good one.
She wove her way into the club house, which now resembled a country bar even more, with the loud music, waves of raucous laughter and voices, and pall of cigar smoke—apparently bikers did not smoke ordinary cigarettes, but preferred a celebratory stogie.
Bathroom first, then the beer, or water.
The women's bathroom was off a long hallway along the west side of the club-house. Farther along the wide passageway, a pair of double doors were closed and chained shut. That secret storage area Kit had mentioned.
Sara wondered briefly what was beyond them, then forgot about it as she walked into the bathroom, which she was relieved to see had two sinks and three stalls, although it could be cleaner. She did her business, washed her hands and then fluffed her hair in front of the mirrors.
She looked pretty good, although flushed and a lot more ruffled than usual. Also, Lindi's top seemed to want to creep downward, which meant even more cleavage was on display than when she'd arrived. Skanky might be in her near future, after all.
Two women pushed into the bathroom on a wave of strong perfume and cigarette smoke, one a blonde, the other a brunette with bright red streaks in her hair. They looked about Sara's age, both wearing more makeup than clothing. They gave her identical assessing stares, then turned back to the mirror to fluff their hair.
"I'm so getting Stick to do me tonight," the brunette announced, tugging her tube top down until Sara feared the woman's breasts would pop out entirely. "That man is hawt!"
The blonde giggled, a nasal sound. "He's hot all right. He loves it when you—" She broke off to glare at Sara, who was frozen with one hand on the door, unable to believe their topic of conversation. "D'you mind? Geez."
Sara shook her head, and opened the door. "Not at all, though if you wanted a private conversation, I was here first. But good luck with your, uh, sexual predations."
"What the hell did that mean?" The brunette asked her friend as Sara left the restroom.
"I dunno," the blonde said. "So anyway, he loves it when you suck his ..."
Mercifully, the door closed, and the loud music hid the remainder of her words, because Sara did not want to know what the handsome, but man-sluttish Stick liked.
She pushed her way through the crowd, flinching as someone tried to grab her ass, then made it to the bar to wait her turn at the kegs.
Feeling a strange prickling on the back of her neck, Sara turned her head and searched the partyers. Her gaze passed over the crowd, glanced over a tall man standing by the other end of the bar, and then returned to him like a compass needle finding true north.
He was big, with wide shoulders, long muscular arms and legs and a stance that said he owned the space around him.
His collar-length, shaggy blonde hair was tucked behind his ears, and his hard, square face was framed with a beard and mustache. He looked like a Viking—except not Scandinavian. No, there was a certain slant to his high, wide cheekbones and haughty tilt to his nose that said Eastern European, or even Russian. Either way, he looked like a sexy marauder.
He was a biker, that much was clear, as he wore the club's black leather vest—with letters on it which she ignored—over a Western shirt with the sleeves cut off, jeans and boots. His heavily muscled bare arms were tattooed with symbols she couldn't make out from here.
And no wonder her gaze had snagged on his—he was watching her with the absolute concentration of a hungry predator. As she gazed back, the corners of his wide mouth slowly curved up.
Why, he was smirking, as if her admiration was expected. Her cheeks firing with indignation and embarrassment—because she had been staring, which she did not do—Sara turned away with a toss of her head.
She really, really wished Kit was beside her so she could ask who he was, because rough and dangerous looking or not, the biker was ... well, he was incredibly sexy, that's what. Probably one of the men Kit would tell her to stay far away from. Not that it mattered—as hot as he was, he no doubt already had a woman, one with nails like talons and a mouth to match. Heck, he probably had two or three.
Since picturing him with other women was a buzz-kill, Sara focused on her mission, pushing her way as politely as she could to the bar to reach for the stack of cups by the nearest keg.
A big, calloused hand and bare, muscular arm reached past to her and plucked one of the cups, then another arm and hand appeared on her left, and pulled the keg tap.
"Let me get that for you," a deep voice said in her ear. She knew it was him. His voice was like the rough purr of a big cat. This close, his chest brushing her back, she could feel the vibrations of his voice clear through her.
Sara shivered, a reaction as uncontrollable as was her breath catching in her throat, and the stillness of her body in the circle of his arms. The voices around them faded away, and her heart-beat thudded through her veins in rhythm with the sudden pulses of heat down through her body, first her breasts, then even lower, so she pressed her thighs together and moaned silently at the need there.
She had never, ever been so aware of a man before, not even on the few occasions she'd had sex. She could smell him. His scent was musky, elemental, that of a male in his prime, with the hint of soap enhancing the pheromones no doubt surrounding him in an invisible fog, ready to capture unwary females.
A low chuckle quivered in the broad chest brushing her back, a deep huh-huh of sound that was as utterly male as the thick, cords of muscle in the arms trapping her there, the heavy veins standing up on his wrists, and the coarse golden hairs on his forearms.
