Secret Son for the Savage Bikers

1. Nora

NORA

The studio apartment always smelled faintly like old grease and coconut conditioner no matter how much I cleaned it.

The grease came from the burger place downstairs that used the same fryer oil for too long, and the conditioner came from Valentina buying salon products she couldn’t afford, because she said if she had to live broke, she at least wanted good hair while doing it.

I stood on the tiny counter beside the sink, reaching to shove our last clean plate into the cabinet while the swamp cooler rattled hard enough to sound like it might finally give up and die.

Outside, Vegas heat pressed against the windows even though the sun had started dropping.

The apartment never really cooled off this time of year.

It just became less miserable after dark.

“You’re ignoring me on purpose,” Valentina said from the bottom bunk.

“I’m working.”

“You’re putting away one plate.”

I shut the cabinet harder than necessary before stepping down from the counter. “And now I’m done.”

She grinned immediately like she’d won something.

Valentina always looked too alive for this apartment.

Too sharp. Too bright. Even sprawled sideways across thin Walmart bedding in a sports bra and tiny black shorts with one leg hanging over the edge of the mattress, she looked like she belonged somewhere expensive.

Her skin carried a warm olive tone that never burned no matter how much Vegas sun she soaked up, and her dark hair spilled over the pillow in thick waves she dyed nearly black every few months whenever the auburn started showing through again.

Hooded brown eyes tracked me lazily while she twirled the employment flyer between two fingers.

I hated that flyer. Mostly because I’d already read it six times.

Luxury private gala event. Two-day contract. Housing included. Eight thousand guaranteed plus tips.

It sounded fake. Or dangerous. Usually both.

“You know what your problem is?” she asked.

“I’m sure you’re gonna tell me.”

“You think every good thing is a scam.”

I grabbed the dish towel hanging off the oven handle and wiped down a counter that was already clean. “Because most good things are scams.”

“That’s depressing.”

“It’s realistic.”

Valentina sat up, crossing her legs beneath her. “Nora. Eight thousand dollars.”

“I know how much eight thousand dollars is.”

“That’s literally five months of work.”

“Closer to four if we both pick up extra shifts.”

“Still depressing.”

I tossed the towel toward the sink. “You don’t know these people.”

“You don’t know the people at the Mirage either and you still let drunk businessmen slap your ass for twenty percent tips.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“Because I know where the exits are.”

She barked out a laugh at that, loud enough that someone banged on the wall beside us.

“Sorry!” she yelled automatically before lowering her voice. “You know that’s crazy, right?”

“No,” I said honestly. “I know it’s smart.”

Her expression softened a little around the edges then. That happened sometimes when she looked at me too long. Like she remembered things I tried hard not to think about anymore.

Black Rock. The foster house. Locked pantry doors. Punishments for stupid things like talking after lights out or eating too slowly or asking questions.

I grabbed the stack of folded uniforms from the crate beside the table just to give myself something to do. Black work pants. Black fitted top. Non-slip shoes. The Mirage logo stitched into the sleeves.

Our lives fit into crates because neither of us trusted permanence enough to buy furniture.

The apartment had a folding table, two metal chairs, the bunk bed, and a tiny TV Valentina stole from a motel three years ago after they refused to pay her for bartending a private party.

That was basically it.

“You know what I think?” she asked.

I sighed quietly. “No, but I bet you’re gonna tell me that too.”

“I think you’re scared to enjoy things.”

I snorted before I could stop myself. “That’s dramatic.”

“It’s true.”

I folded one of the shirts tighter than necessary. “I enjoy things.”

“You enjoy balancing spreadsheets.”

“We don’t have spreadsheets.”

“You know what I mean.”

I did. Unfortunately.

Valentina slid off the bed and walked toward me barefoot, stopping close enough that I caught the scent of cigarette smoke and vanilla lotion.

We looked nothing alike standing beside each other.

I was blonde where she was dark, pale where she was golden, quiet where she was practically vibrating half the time.

But people always assumed we were sisters anyway.

Maybe because we moved like a unit. Maybe because we always had.

“It’s two days,” she said more gently. “That’s it. Rich people party. Fancy clothes. Free food. We walk away with enough money to breathe for once.”

I kept folding.

“Nora.”

“We already have jobs.”

“Jobs that barely cover rent.”

“We cover rent.”

“Barely.”

I hated when she said barely, like it wasn’t still an accomplishment.

Most months felt like walking a tightrope over concrete. One bad week and everything collapsed. One injury. One missed shift. One asshole manager deciding to cut hours.

Stable mattered. Even shitty stable mattered.

Valentina leaned back against the counter beside me. “The second night’s your birthday.”

I looked at her flatly. “That’s not helping your argument.”

“You’re turning twenty-one.”

“And?”

“And you’ve never done anything fun.”

“I do things.”

“You reorganized the supply closet at work for fun last week.”

“It was messy.”

She stared at me for a second before laughing so hard she doubled over.

I tried not to smile. Mostly failed.

“You are eighty years old,” she managed finally.

“I’m responsible.”

“You’re traumatized.”

“That too.”

Her grin faded just slightly then. “I’m serious, Nora.”

I looked down at the shirt in my hands instead of her.

Valentina knew better than anybody what happened when I lost control of situations. I liked schedules. Predictability. Knowing where I needed to be and when. I liked jobs with clocks and uniforms and routine, because routine meant survival.

The flyer sitting on our table represented the opposite of that.

Private estate. No phones during event hours. Luxury accommodations. Exclusive guest list. Mandatory uniforms. Transportation provided if needed.

It all felt too controlled by somebody else.

Still. Eight thousand dollars.

I could replace the transmission in the Honda before winter. We could move somewhere without roaches. Maybe even somewhere with actual bedrooms.

“You know what I could do with eight grand?” Valentina asked quietly.

I looked at her then.

She shrugged one shoulder. “I could stop counting every dollar before buying groceries.”

That hit harder than I wanted it to because she joked more than I did, so people missed things sometimes. Missed how often she skipped meals before rent week. Missed how she always magically “wasn’t hungry” if we were low on money.

I noticed because I did the same thing.

“We don’t even know if it’s legit,” I said weaker this time.

“They interviewed us already.”

“Over Zoom.”

“And?”

“And serial killers have internet access too.”

She rolled her eyes dramatically. “You think every man with money is secretly harvesting organs.”

“I think rich people are weird.”

“That’s fair actually.”

I rubbed at the center of my forehead. “The whole thing feels off.”

“Why?”

“Because nobody pays twenty-year-olds sixteen thousand dollars total to carry champagne unless they want something.”

Her expression shifted for half a second. Gone fast. Too fast. But I still caught it.

“Okay,” she said slowly. “That part maybe.”

I crossed my arms immediately. “Val.”

“No, listen to me first.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means maybe the guests flirt.”

“That’s not what the flyer said.”

“The flyer also didn’t say mandatory masquerade masks after seven p.m., but apparently we’re doing Phantom of the Opera now too.”

I stared at her.

She sighed. “I asked the recruiter questions after the interview.”

“Of course you did.”

“She said the event’s exclusive and immersive or whatever. The guests like fantasy.”

“That sentence alone makes me want to stay home.”

“It’s Vegas, Nora. Rich people are always doing weird shit.”

She wasn’t wrong. I’d served drinks at bachelor parties with tiger cubs and watched a billionaire pay a girl twenty grand because she looked like his ex-wife. Vegas stopped shocking people pretty fast.

Still, something in my stomach stayed tight.

Valentina must’ve noticed because she nudged my shoulder lightly with hers. “We go together. We leave together. Worst case scenario, we steal some rich people liquor and disappear.”

I huffed out a quiet laugh despite myself.

“There she is,” she said immediately.

“Don’t start.”

“You smiled.”

“I regret it already.”

She grabbed the flyer off the counter and waved it in my face again. “Come on. Please. For my mental health.”

“You don’t have mental health.”

“Exactly. Help me build some.”

I took the paper from her, finally, scanning it again even though I already knew every line.

Arrival Friday evening. Training Friday night and Saturday morning. Event begins Saturday 7:00 p.m. Mandatory stay through Sunday morning. High-end clientele. Luxury attire provided. Compensation distributed immediately upon completion.

The number at the bottom still looked unreal.

Eight thousand dollars.

I thought about the envelope under my mattress with exactly four hundred and twelve dollars inside. Thought about my car making that grinding noise every morning. Thought about turning twenty-one in the same apartment where I’d spent twenty.

Then I looked at Valentina.

She was trying not to look hopeful now.

That got me more than the money did because she only stopped pushing when something mattered.

I exhaled slowly through my nose. “If this turns out to be a cult, I’m blaming you.”

Her entire face lit up instantly. “Oh my God, you said yes.”