One
Razor
Our club dabbles in a lot of shit—some legal, some not. The strip clubs we’ve made into a franchise are the most lucrative, they’re also a fuckin’ nightmare with the way dancers can’t seem to keep their goddamn noses clean. And I’m not talking about the lap dances where things go a fuck of a lot further than they should, that’s to be expected in any kind of strip club. I’m talking about blow. There’s a lot the club doesn’t mind dealing with. Cops coming in and doing a random search in our dancer’s lockers aren’t one of them.
Which is why I’m in Ward, Texas, to check in on one of our most lucrative strip clubs. Apparently, the manager has had to fire a few dancers lately and needs help to sort through the rest, look for new employees, and go through a few reports. The only upside to this trip is the talent that’s associated with it. I back my Harley—matte black in color, chrome throughout—into the spot that’s reserved around the back. There’s only one thing I love more than my bike, and that’s my dick. Before walking inside, I pull out a pack of cigarettes from inside my cut, using the palm of my hand and packing the nicotine, forcing it to move closer to the filter, wanting that smoother flavor, then I’m lighting my cigarette. A couple of hours on a bike will make anyone need a damn smoke after the traffic that I just drove through. I’m lighting up my cigarette when the back door opens. My senses go on high alert. The fucking club shouldn’t be open yet, not for dancers anyways. Even Mack said he wouldn’t be here for another thirty minutes or so.
“The fuck you doing here?” I question, taking my first inhale of the nicotine, the menthol coating my throat. Not sure who gave this chick the right to be here, but I know for damn sure only Mack and I have a set of keys.
“I work here. You must be Razor. Mack called me at the ass crack of dawn and asked if I could come let you in. He’s running a couple of hours late. Now that you’re here, can you give him the keys?” She rambles on without taking a breath of damn air.
“No can do, spitfire. You’ll have to wait it out with me. Don’t know you, don’t know if you’re pulling some kind of shit or not. But I’m not playing games.” The dark-haired woman takes a deep breath of air, and I’m almost afraid she won’t shut up with what she says next.
“Yeah, that’s not going to work. I was here until three o’clock this morning, only to be woken up after getting two hours of sleep. I’m going home since, you know, I’ll be working here again tonight. You wouldn’t want one of your dancers to fall asleep on stage, would you?” Fuck, this woman is mouthy.
“Call Mack, tell him you’re not leaving until he gets here.” I’m not fucking around with this shit. There’ve been too many instances in the past that make me second-guess shit.
“Fine, I’m going back inside though. No need in sweating my ass off while you have a hissy fit.” I take her in— dark hair, long, messy in a way that it could be from a lover’s hands fisting it through the night, gray eyes that are full of mirth, porcelain skin in its milky complexion, and lips that are red and plump. She’s wearing a white shirt hanging off the edge of her shoulder, a red bra strap showing what’s holding up her killer rack, and you know they’re real by the way they move while she’s talking up a fuckin’ storm. And her mile-long legs in a pair of black glued-to-her-body leggings.
“Lead the way.” I throw my cigarette in the container by the back door, my eyes glued to her ass the entire fucking time, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d say she put a sway in her hips that would have any man on his knees, head buried between her thighs while his hands are full of her peach-shaped ass. My day just got a shit ton more interesting. Maybe being in Ward for a bit won’t be too bad after all.
Two
Raven
I’m going to kill Mack. He swore I’d be in and out of here in no time, sleep being my main focus. Of course, the minute Razor opened his mouth, my hackles rose, and that meant my mouth got the best of me. It shouldn’t have. For all intents and purposes, Razor’s my boss when Mack isn’t here. I mean, it’s the Diamondback Motorcycle Club’s business, so of course, technically, anyone from the club is above Mack.
I move to my bag on the bar top, digging through the ridiculous monstrosity. Leave it to me to use a bag bigger than my head. It’s basically become my carry-all, and my phone no doubt will be in the one area I can’t reach without looking like a flaming idiot.