Grady, our Sergeant at Arms, fought Pop on leaving the clubhouse unprotected. He eventually proved his point, and we’ve had at least one prospect here at all times since. At least now I don’t have to open the gate my own fucking self. Pulling up between Tall’s brand new Sportster and Duke’s Softail Convertible, I cut the engine and give the kickstand a nudge, then swing off my girl. She’s the longest relationship I’ve ever had because she’s never bitched I’ve been riding her too long. I take off my helmet and set it on her handlebars, then follow Tall into the clubhouse.
The short amount of time I was able to relax from the house to here does nothing for how fucked I feel about Alex. Every time she asks me questions I can’t answer, it just pisses me off. Every time she asks me to explain or apologize for something I’ve done, or haven’t done, there’s this pit in my stomach that I think might eat away at my soul. It’s so fucking lame to think about it, but that’s all I’ve been doing. This stupid chick who Ma’s been crying over ever since I met her turns out to be Alex, who isn’t the sweet, kind, little girl Ma’s been passing her off to be.
Thoroughly pissed off, my shoulders tense, and my fists ache to hit something—anything. Inside the clubhouse, the walls are a mixture of exposed brick, wood paneling, and painted gray sheetrock. Industrial-sized fluorescent lights hang in long rows overhead, half the bulbs cracked or burnt out. The main room of the clubhouse is dimly lit with old, tattered furniture scattered around the space. Straight ahead is the bar, a two hundred-square-foot space that’s sectioned off by a change in flooring from the basic concrete slab of the rest of the space to a faux-wood finish.
I grit my teeth at the sight before me—Duke, his left elbow resting on the bar with a beer in hand. One of the Lost Girls, one I think I’ve fucked, stands between his legs, her hands rubbing his jean-clad thighs. Her trashy bleached-blonde hair hangs over her shoulders, spilling down her bare back to her absentee bra line. One look at her bare tits, rounder than normal and defying gravity, and I remember that we had a go a month or so back. I never forget a decent pair of tits.
Duke turns his head toward me and takes a pull of his beer, completely ignoring the bitch in front of him. Noticing his diverted attention, she faces me with a smile. Her lipstick has half worn off, and her eye makeup is smudged. She’s one of the nastier bitches I’ve had around my dick, but she was so persistent. I’m a gentleman—I hate to turn a lady down.
“Ryan,” she says with a purr, turning to face me. She places one hand on her hip, just above the top of her jeans, and cocks her head. Her tits still look like something I’d like to suck on, but she’s one stupid bitch. She already tried to convince me to ride her bare once. I ain’t going down that rabbit hole again. Still, looking at her, I think I’m going to need to find a way to release some tension.
“Who’s here?” I ask her. Her smile falls, likely realizing I’m not up for fucking her a second time.
“Chel’s in the palace,” she says in irritation. I grin at her, feeling like it’s my lucky day. As I pass, I gently give one of her tits a pat—a show of appreciation for the work she’s had done—and veer off to the right, down the main hallway to the palace, which is the second door on the left. Inside, the walls are painted black on three sides with a floor to ceiling mirror covering the entire fourth wall. Two long couches face three evenly spaced stripper poles which are bolted in place.
Curled up on the corner of one of the couches is Chel. As per club instruction, she’s wearing as little clothing as possible—cut-off jeans shorts, a midriff-bearing tank, and sandals. Her fake tan looks fresh, but the dye job she’s got on her bright red hair needs a touch-up. Without thinking twice about it, I pull two hundred dollar bills out of my wallet and toss them on the book in her lap. A screech flies out of her mouth as she looks up at me. Her face is free of make-up, with the exception of the cherry-red lipstick that’s painted perfectly on her lips. The lack of make-up makes her facial piercings—a nose stud and an eyebrow ring—less obvious against her pale skin.
“Ryan,” she says with a smile on both her face and in her voice. She gathers the bills in her hands and waves them at me. “What’s this for?”
“Get your hair done.” I hate when she does this shit. She knows I don’t give a fuck what she uses the money on. “Or your nails. Buy a dildo. I don’t fucking care.” She lets out a heavy sigh and shakes her head at me.