Ice (Underground Vengeance MC Romance, NOLA Chapter #2)

Chapter 1 Ice

The heavy air of the New Orleans night presses down on me like a physical thing, damp and thick with the promise of things to come. I stand in the shadowed expanse of Voodoo Velvet’s parking lot, my boots planted firmly on gritty asphalt. The neon sign above buzzes and crackles, spilling a riot of color onto the chrome and steel beasts that sleep beneath it. My heart thrums in my chest, not unlike the bass line that’ll soon throb inside the strip club. It’s opening night, and pride swells within me as fierce as the roar of an approaching engine.

A symphony of Harleys shatters the stillness, cutting through the darkness like a knife. Vapor leads the rest of the men of Underground Vengeance MC, his presence as commanding as a general’s. I can’t help but smirk. The man’s a force of nature, all raw power wrapped in leather and denim. His bike growls to a stop, and the others follow suit—Fang, Tank, Diablo, Bones—their engines purring down into silence.

“Ice,” Vapor rumbles, swinging his leg over his ride. There’s a glint in his sharp blue eyes, a shared excitement that needs no words.

“Vapor.” I tip my chin in acknowledgment. “Ready to make some serious money?”

“Always,” he grins, clapping a hand on my shoulder.

Fang hops off his bike next, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. His nerdy shirt-of-the-day peeks out from his cut. It’s written in 8-bit style like the OG video games. The top reads “Jurassic Trail.” Then there’s an 8-bit image of the wagon from the old Oregon Trail video game, with a velociraptor standing over the ox that was pulling the wagon. Was. And at the bottom it reads “You have died of dysentery and velociraptors.”

“That fucking shirt, bro.” I snort.

“Love it?” Fang grabs the hem and holds it out so he can look down at it. “Just got it online.”

“Looks more like swag from that huge nerd convention you went to,” I tease.

“You mean CES?” he asks, referencing one of the biggest tech shows in the world.

“Yeah. That.”

“Nope. Found a new site on the dark web.”

“And that’s the shit they sell?” I arch a brow. “I thought it was all drugs and kids and shit on there.”

“Well, obviously I wasn’t on there looking for shirts, but I found this anyway. Which reminds me, Vapor, I was able to get a possible lead on Vasquez’s next drug shipment.”

“How soon?” Vapor asks.

“Not until next week.”

“Save it for Church. Tonight, we’re focusing on making our new club the hottest new spot in NOLA.”

“Got it, Pres. Consider it tabled.”

“Good.”

“Now, where’s all the hot chicks?” Fang’s grin is filled with mischief and anticipation.

“Inside.” I slap him on the back.

Tank, our newest patched member, dismounts his bike with a grunt.

“The fuck happened to you?” I ask.

“Vicki.” Tank shrugs while the corner of his mouth hitches. He’s trying to hold back a smile, so he doesn’t seem upset about whatever Vicki did to throw out his back. She didn’t get the nickname “Vicki the Hickey” for nothing. Hot piece of ass, but off limits. She’s Tank’s girl, even if he hasn’t bothered claimin’ her yet.

“Let’s light this place up.” Tank’s gaze sweeps over the club before resting on the huge sign over the single story building. “Sick neon.”

“Better be for how much we paid for it,” Vapor says.

“Drop in the bucket. We’ll be rolling in hundies by the end of the week. Those other clubs won’t know what hit ‘em,” I assure him, puffing my chest.

Diablo and Bones get off their rides to join us. Their leather cuts creak as they step in to close the circle of brothers in arms. We exchange handshakes and backslaps, simple gestures to acknowledge our bond. This crew’s weathered storms together. We’ve fought battles, winning more than losing, and tonight, we’re about to celebrate one more victory. Getting the permits for this place took a little palm-greasing and a couple of veiled threats, but I got it done.

“Let’s show ‘em how Underground Vengeance does it,” Bones grins, his teeth flashing in the neon-lit dark.

“Damn straight,” I reply.

Tonight, we’re more than a motorcycle club. We’re kings about to claim our kingdom, with the night as our witness.

Vapor sidles up next to me, his sharp blue eyes scanning the club’s entrance with calculated interest. “Think this joint will pull in the cash we need?”

“Velvet’s got the kind of allure that makes wallets open wide,” I reply, my voice as smooth as the bourbon the bartenders will be serving inside. “And the dancers… They’re the best in NOLA. Gonna be pure Voodoo magic on those stages.”

“Wish I’d been on the hiring committee,” Bones grumbles.

“You’d do more fucking than hiring,” Diablo rumbles.

Everyone laughs because it’s the damn truth. We don’t just call him Bones because he’s into Voodoo shit, but also because he ‘bones’ anything that moves. If it’s got a pussy, he wants to fuck it. I keep meaning to check his protein shakes to make sure he’s not crushing little blue pills into them. The man doesn’t need any pharmaceutical encouragement.

Vapor’s gaze remains locked on the entrance. This is more than just a business opportunity, it’s part of a larger plan to deal with our enemies. Trying to bring down the biggest drug cartel in NOLA is going to take more than just manpower—it’s going to take money, and lots of it.

Tank lumbers over, his linebacker build casting a long shadow in the neon light. There’s a furrow in his brow, and I know what’s eating at him before he even opens his mouth.

“Hey, Ice,” he starts, his ageless face tight with concern. “You sure Vicki’s gonna be all right working here? She’s never danced before.”

“Screened every last performer myself,” Fang says, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Vicki, she’s got spark, knows the game. She’ll handle herself.”

Tank chews on his lower lip, the ghost of a kid who’s seen too much lurking behind his eyes. “Just look out for her. She ain’t like the others.”

“We protect our own, you know that,” I say, a bit annoyed that we’re even having this conversation. I’m the V.P. of the club. I’m as trustworthy as they come. Vapor wouldn’t have promoted me to second in command if he didn’t believe I could do the job. But Tank’s young, still wet behind the ears as far as I’m concerned, so I’ll let this one slide. No point in starting any shit with a man who’s just worried about his girl. In a way, I envy the kid. At least he’s got the same woman in his bed every night. Oh well. Maybe someday.

“Let’s head inside,” Vapor declares, wiping sweat from his brow. “I feel like I crawled up Satan’s asshole after he ate twelve cans of chili for dinner.”

Diablo grunts in agreement.

Thanks to the unrelenting humidity, my own shirt’s clinging to my body like a second layer of skin. “Inside’s cooler than a crypt. I rode the AC guy’s ass until he got the system running right. Took a few days to get him in line. Next time we let men prospect, we need to look for a maintenance guy.”

“Will do. Wouldn’t want the clientele thinking they stepped into hell instead of heaven,” Vapor says.

“Only the best for our guests. After all, we’re not just selling a fantasy, we’re building an empire.”

“An empire with working climate control,” Fang adds.

“Exactly,” I say, leading the way. “And speaking of control…” I jerk my chin toward two huge bouncers standing outside the main door. They’re both patched members of the club. They nod at Vapor as we approach.

“Good to see you, Pres,” one of them says.

“Same,” the second guy adds.

“Nice crowd,” Vapor says, glancing past the men at the crowd of men being held back by a long, velvet rope. I added that touch for fun, and now I’m glad I did. It’s just as functional as it is classy.

The buzz of anticipation from the crowd hits me like a palpable wave. It’s a heady mix of excitement and nerves. The patrons’ eager faces are lit by the neon sign, painting them in shades of electric blues and pinks. The line of bodies stretches around the building—a serpentine testament to the allure of Voodoo Velvet.

“Looks like we’re the main event in NOLA,” Vapor grins, his gaze sweeping over the throng of people.

“Damn right,” I reply, feeling a surge of pride. This is more than just opening night, it’s a show of force, a declaration that our MC reigns supreme in this town.

We push through the doors, and the interior of Velvet swallows us whole. Rock music pounds through the cavernous space, rattling glasses behind the bar. I tested the sound system last week, tweaking it so it’s loud enough to feel in your chest but not so loud that conversation is impossible. The girls still need to be able to hear the customers. It’s a fine line, but I’m used to riding it.

The air is thick with the scent of spiced rum and something sweet, like the promise of sin wrapped in sugar. Stripper smell. It’s all that body spray shit the girls use. They’re like walking clouds of cotton candy and soft-serve vanilla. Makes you want to lick them. There were more than a few I wouldn’t mind banging, but this is business, and I never mix that with pleasure. That’s how shit goes south.

“Sweet,” Tank says, his eyes following the neon lights snake across the walls.

Royal purple velvet booths hug the shadows, offering sanctuary for those who seek the thrill of anonymity. My eyes sweep over the dancers gathering along the edge of the stage. They’re dressed in glittering bras and barely-there thongs.

One girl’s got rhinestones on her panties. They form an arrow that points to her sweet spot. Stole her from another club. She knows how to entice men into opening their wallets. That’s for sure. Almost lost a grand while trying to recruit her. The girl gives one hell of a lap dance. My dick still hasn’t recovered.

“Feels like home,” Diablo murmurs, his voice nearly lost in the cacophony.

“Is that our spot?” Vapor asks, pointing at the VIP booth near the main stage.

“Yep. Lead the way.”

We slide into the plush embrace of velvet, the prime location for tonight’s spectacle. My gaze sweeps over Voodoo Velvet. Neon lights reflect off the polished bar and shimmer across the girls’ faces. They’re flushed with anticipation. No point in keeping them, or us, waiting a second longer.

I pull my phone out of my cut and quickly tap out a message to the bouncers. “Showtime, boys.”

The doors swing wide and patrons flood in like the Mississippi breaching its banks.

“Look at this turnout,” Fang says, leaning back against the cushioned seat, his eyes scanning the crowd.

“Might need to make some people wait outside,” Diablo says.

“That would make the club look even more packed,” Tank says.

“I’m not worried about that. I’m more concerned with having the fire marshal show up and try to shut us down,” I say.

“What’s the capacity?” Vapor asks.

“Two hundred and fifty. I got the boys outside keeping a count. There’s no way I’m letting a stupid technicality shut us down. Relax, boys, I’ve thought of everything.” I stretch my arms behind my head and rest my neck against my hands.

One of the hot bartenders in a skimpy mini-skirt and crop top appears with our drinks. I made sure that every bartender memorized our favorite drinks, and I gave them the heads up that the guys would be joining me today.

After she passes them to each of the guys, I wait for Vapor. I know he’ll want to make a toast.

“To the men we lost in the bombing,” he begins, referencing the bomb that destroyed our clubhouse a few months ago. “Your lives will be avenged.”

“Damn right,” Fang says, clanking his glass against mine.

“We’ll make sure the cartel pays,” Bones shouts over the music.

“They will.” Diablo raises his glass and takes a long swig of the amber liquid.

“There she is!” Tank sits up straighter, riveted by the dancer onstage. I don’t even have to follow his gaze to know it’s Vicki. The girl’s got his balls in her purse. Good for her.

As we settle in for a night of fun and profit, my eyes track the flow of cash as it exchanges hands, fluttering bills that fan the flames of our opening night. My brothers grin and pound drinks while ogling the girls. Well, everyone but Vapor. He’s hunched over his phone, tapping away like he’s having the most fascinating text conversation in the world.

“You texting the wife?” I ask.

“Yeah. She’s not thrilled I’m hanging out in a strip club tonight, but she knows it’s strictly business.”

“Blue would saw your dick off if you so much as glanced at another woman.” I chuckle.

“And she’d have every right to.” He glances up for a second before returning his attention to the phone.

“Never seen anything like this,” Bones yells over the music, his voice tinged with awe. “Ice, you sure know how to throw a party.”

I flash a grin at him, feeling the pulse of the club sync with my own heartbeat. “It’s not just a party, brother,” I reply, my words barely audible above the din. “It’s going to finance a war against the cartel.”

“Shit, I’ll drink to that!” He tosses back the rest of his whiskey before motioning to the waitress for another one.

The air is thick with the scent of success—a cocktail of spiced rum, perspiration, cotton candy, and raw ambition.

Vapor leans in close, his face split by a wide smile. “If the first hour’s this hot, can’t imagine what the rest of the night will bring.”

“Profit,” I say, watching the dancers weave their magic, entrancing every set of eyes that dare to follow their siren-like gyrations. “And power.”

Just as I’m about to raise my glass to toast to our imminent victory, a discordant note strikes the electric atmosphere. Two patrons, fueled by too much alcohol or too little sense, start to exchange heated words. Their argument slices through the thumping bass, drawing unwanted attention.

“Dammit,” I mutter under my breath, my gaze narrowing.

The escalation is swift. Postures stiffen, fingers jab the air, and voices rise trying to drown out the rock anthem blaring from the speakers.

“Looks like trouble,” Tank observes, his concern barely concealed by the casual tilt of his head. His protective nature is always at a simmer, ready to boil over at any sign of conflict.

“Let ‘em talk,” Diablo says, but his hand inches towards his cut, instinctively ready for whatever comes next.

“Keep it cool,” I yell, my eyes locked on the brewing storm. To the men at my side, I add, “We don’t jump unless we have to.”

“Since when do you shy away from a fight?” Fang asks, eyeing me suspiciously.

“Since I started running a legitimate business, not an underground fight club,” I snap back.

Bones shifts uneasily, casting a wary glance towards the agitators. “Sure you don’t want me to step in?”

“Not yet.” I keep my eyes fixed on the pair. Their quarrel has become a spectacle, just a hair’s breadth away from an all-out brawl.

“Give it another couple of seconds. See if they can work their shit out,” I suggest, but my hand hovers near my sidearm.

The air crackles with tension, thick as the humidity outside. I watch as what started as a harsh exchange of words between two boozed-up patrons suddenly explodes. A fist rockets through the air, connecting with a sickening thud against someone’s cheekbone, and like a spark to gasoline, the Voodoo Velvet erupts.

“Here we go!” Vapor slides out of the booth, quickly followed by the rest of the men.

“Fuck!” I’m on his heels as we rush into the melee.

The punch-drunk symphony of grunts and curses, the shuffle of feet, and gasps from onlookers become a discordant melody that thrills something primal inside me. It’s been a long time since I’ve been in a bar brawl, but it’s time to reset the clock.

Coming out swinging, I’m ready to show everyone in NOLA that you don’t fuck around in one of our clubs unless you want to get your face bashed in. By morning, people will know that Voodoo Velvet isn’t like most clubs, and we sure as hell aren’t like most owners. This brawl might be bad for business tonight, but it will be good for our reputation. After tonight, no one will dare fuck around in our club again. But first… I’ve got some faces to pulverize.