14. Chapter 14
Dray hadn't given him the heads-up about the bikes.
Andre's eyes were drawn to them, a formidable lineup of around thirty machines gleaming under the harsh sodium lights of the parking lot.
They were arranged with military precision along the southern wall of the building, their chrome bodies throwing back distorted reflections of the surrounding area.
He found himself counting them, an old habit that had been ingrained in him over fifteen years of service.
The same instinct that had him mentally noting exits in any room he entered, a silent tally that ran in the background of his mind.
But all those years, all that training, hadn't prepared him for a situation where his badge was a liability rather than an asset.
The building itself was a cipher from the outside.
A repurposed warehouse, its brick facade was unremarkable, blending seamlessly with the other structures in this part of town.
Every window was painted black, a stark contrast to the warm brickwork, and there was no sign to indicate what lay within.
If it hadn't been for Dray at the wheel, Andre would have dismissed it as just another nondescript building in a forgotten corner of the city.
But there were telltale signs that set it apart: the meticulous upkeep that contrasted with the general disrepair of its neighbors, and of course, the phalanx of bikes standing guard out front.
Andre's heart pounded a steady rhythm in his chest as he took it all in, his senses on high alert.
The scent of oil and rubber wafted over from the bikes, mingling with the faint tang of city grime.
The distant hum of traffic was punctuated by the occasional siren, a reminder of the world beyond this clandestine meeting place.
He could taste the anticipation in the air, a metallic tang that sat heavy on his tongue.
His fingers twitched at his side, itching for the reassuring weight of his service weapon. But tonight, he was unarmed, a sheep walking into a den of wolves. He swallowed hard, steeling himself for what lay ahead.
"You good?" Dray asked, killing the engine. The headlights cut out and the lot went dark except for the yellow bug light over the clubhouse door.
"I'm a cop walking into a clubhouse full of felons at midnight. Define good."
"Define midnight." Dray checked his phone, the screen throwing blue light up under his chin. "It's 11:40."
Andre didn't answer that. He got out of the car. The door creaked and he winced at the sound of it in the empty lot, then shut it soft with his hip.
Two men were posted at the door, arms crossed, cuts on over hoodies, and neither of them moved as Dray and Andre came up the walk.
The gravel under their boots was loud in the quiet.
Somewhere behind the building a generator puttered and quit.
The bigger one had a beard down to his sternum, black going gray in patches, and eyes that did a slow pass over Andre, jaw to boots.
He took his time with it, unhurried, like he was reading a menu. Assessment, not hostility. Not yet.
"Dray." The bearded one said it flat, no warmth in it, but no edge either. A fact, stated.
"Tank." Dray's voice was easy, no strain in it, like he'd walked through this exact door more times than Andre could guess. "He's with me."
"He's a badge." Interesting that he didn't default to the epithet 'pig' like the other clubs in the city.
"He's with me."
The second man was younger, leaner, wearing a gray hoodie with the sleeves shoved up past his elbows. He hadn't said anything yet. He looked at Andre the way Zain had the first night in the safehouse: jaw set, eyes doing slow and careful calculations of the outcome if this went sideways.
"You know what this door stands for," he said.
Not a question. Not the door itself, which was quite the statement.
It looked like it belonged in an ancient castle…
or perhaps a romanesque church. Black painted, heavy wood banded in rough iron and a heavy handle.
It could have easily stood guard over a dungeon from which there was no escape.
He also knew what it meant to walk through it wearing a badge.
"I've stood at worse doors than this one," Andre said. "I'm not here on law business."
"That's what they all say."
"Flex." Tank's voice again, quieter this time, a correction more than a rebuke.
He was still looking at Andre, arms crossed over a chest that strained the seams of his shirt.
A tattoo started at his collarbone and disappeared under the fabric; Andre couldn't read it from here.
"He vouching for you?" A jerk of the chin toward Dray.
"So he says."
"That gets you through this door. It doesn't get you a seat at the table.
" Tank uncrossed his arms, finally, and the movement felt less like permission than like a temporary hold on his impending death.
His forearm had burn scars on it, old ones, shiny and puckered in the yellow light. "You're not carrying."
That wasn't a question either. Andre had left his service weapon locked in Dray's glovebox before they'd even reached the lot, Dray's one condition, stated flat in the car, no negotiation offered.
The glovebox key was still in Andre's jacket pocket.
He could feel its small cold weight against his ribs.
"No."
Tank studied him another beat, mouth flat, eyes moving from Andre's face to his empty hands and back, then stepped aside.
Inside, the noise hit first, then the smell of it: leather gone soft with wear, spilled whiskey soaked into old wood, the ghost of cigarette smoke that had never quite left the rafters.
A bar along one wall, backlit bottles three deep, a room full of low light and the particular register of men familiar enough with each other to trust the room.
Pool balls cracking off to the right, the sharp report of it cutting clean through the bass line under everything.
A drum kit on a stage at the back, dark now, waiting for a set that wasn't tonight's.
The Edison bulbs that lit the space were set low, casting flickering shadows over a man’s brawny forearm where it flexed around a woman’s throat where he had her in his lap on one of the couches.
His calloused fingers were knotted in her bleached-blonde hair, yanking her head back hard enough to make her gasp, not in pain, but in hunger.
Her hips rolled in slow, obscene circles over his lap, riding his cock with the lazy confidence of a woman who knew exactly what she was doing.
The leather couch creaked under their combined weight, the sound lost under her breathy, fuck-drunk moans.
His free hand was shoved down the front of her corset, groping her tits with rough, possessive squeezes, her nipple hardened painfully between his fingers as she rode him faster, whimpering.
Her skirt was rucked up around her waist. His belt buckle clinked every time she ground down, taking him deeper, his cock had to be huge, the way she winced and gasped with every inch.
"F-Fuck-!" she slurred, back arching as he pistoned up into her, his grip on her hair tightening until she was panting, drooling, her smudged lipstick staining his knuckles.
At the bar, things were no less depraved.
One of the men, fuck, he was built, had his hand wrapped around the back of his partner’s neck, shoving him down onto the table with enough force to make the glasses tremble.
The other man groaned, legs splayed, his jeans already shoved past his thick thighs as the first crouched behind him, spitting into his palm before slicking it over his cock.
"Gonna split you open," he growled, before shoving in with one brutal stroke.
The slap of skin-on-skin was downright nasty, each thrust making the booth shudder.
The man underneath yelped, fingers clawing at the sticky wood as he got pounded, his ass reddening under the assault.
His partner didn’t let up, just gripped his hips and hammered into him like he wanted to ruin him for anyone else.
God, you could smell the sweat, the sex, the fucking heat of it all.
Andre barely glanced their way, but the air was thick with it, the musk of sweat-slick skin, the wet squelch of cock sinking deep, the low, filthy groans of people lost in pure fucking need. Nobody gave a shit who was watching. Nobody was supposed to.
"Eyes forward," Dray said, low. "Don't linger on anyone. Don't nod at anyone you don't know. You're not here to make friends."
"I wasn't planning to. I probably should have expected the live porn, but I dind't."
Dray just chuckled low inj his throat. "We brough Jaz here once time and ran a train on him. Pretty thing couldn't walk for two days but loved every minute of it."
Andre blinked in surprise. "You… shared him with the Club?"
The laugh Dray let out was ringing. "Fuck no. Cass would have put a bullet into anyone's head who touched our sweet dancer. Nah, just me, Cass, and Ro. Fen and Mika haven't made their move yet, but they will. We're good as long as it stays in the house. Boy's insatiable and we love it."
Andre filed that little bit of information away for later. He'd suspected, but this was more conformation than he'd been expecting when he wasn't in Dray's circle. Or… maybe tonight meant he was.