Chapter 8
Jo-Leigh
It’s kind of weird starting a new job on a Friday, but it works out. I meet everyone, and they’re all nice. I’m shown my desk. I watch training videos all day. And I get off early.
Back at my apartment, I eat a light dinner and head to my room. After the incident at the grocery store, I didn’t waste time. I went shopping. Retail therapy with a vengeance. And I found the cutest summer dress ever.
It’s black, hugs all the right places, and makes my boobs look amazing. The hem hits just above my knees. It’s flirty but not desperate and I found these gold gladiator sandals that finish the look perfectly. It’s bold. It’s hot. It’s me, now.
The old Jo-Leigh would’ve second-guessed it. Would’ve talked herself out of going at all. But the woman I’ve become? She’s going to that party. And she’s going to look damn good doing it.
After a quick shower where I’m careful not to get my hair wet, I towel off and slip into the matching pink bra and panty set I bought on impulse the same day I got the dress.
I didn’t need them. But I wanted them. The dress comes next.
Black, clingy, confidence in fabric form.
It slides over my skin like it was made for me.
My curves look intentional, my legs longer, my posture straighter.
I leave my hair down, the loose waves tumbling past my shoulders.
It feels soft. Feminine. Strong. My makeup’s darker than usual.
Liner a little sharper, lashes a little thicker, lips a little more daring.
But hey. It’s a party, right? And if I’m going to walk into the lion’s den I might as well do it looking like a fucking queen. That’s why I opt for red lipstick.
My shoes are last. Holy cow. I look good.
Smiling, I grab my clutch and double-check the essentials—ID, phone, keys. Lipstick goes in last. One final look in the mirror. Then I’m out the door.
I pull up to the address at exactly nine o’clock.
Right on time. The building is huge. It’s tucked just outside city limits where rules start to blur, and people stop pretending they care.
Motorcycles line the gravel lot, polished chrome catching the glow of scattered floodlights.
Trucks, muscle cars, and old beaters are packed in between like puzzle pieces.
The skunky scent of weed clings to the air, thick and unbothered. Laughter, shouting, and the thump of bass spill from the open warehouse doors. Anything goes here. Everything will go. And I walk toward it with my chin high and heart pounding like a war drum in my chest.
Pretty Boy is the first person I run into. Literally. We collide at the threshold, his hands catching my arms to steady me.
“Holy shit , ” he breathes, eyes sweeping over me. “You came . ”
I snort. “Yeah.”
His grin stretches wide. “Fuck. This is gonna be great.”
Then he looks over my shoulder, expression shifting into something wicked.
“Prez,” he calls. “Look who showed up.”
Heat flares beneath my skin like a warning. I turn just in time to see Swag making his way through the crowd. People move out of his path without hesitation, like they know better than to slow him down.
His eyes lock on mine, dark and unreadable.
“Jo-Leigh,” he says.
Cool. Distant. Like the name is foreign in his mouth.
I tilt my head, offer him a slow, pointed smile. “Oh. So you did recognize me. I was starting to wonder.”
Pretty Boy chokes out a laugh.
Swag doesn’t blink. Just stares.
And finally says, “No drinking. No drugs. If I see you acting up, you’re out of here.”
Then he turns on his heel and disappears into the crowd, all storm clouds and heat and walls. I stand there blinking.
My lips part. “Who says that?”
Pretty Boy snorts. “The Prez , that’s who.” He waves a hand around the warehouse. “To be fair there’s a lot of both. Take a look around.”
For the first time, I really look around.
And, holy shit, what have I gotten myself into?
The place is wall-to-wall with bodies, sweat, smoke, and chaos.
Every corner of the room seems to host a different kind of debauchery.
People making out like they’re auditioning for porn.
Someone getting a tattoo in the open. A couple of girls dancing on a table with zero regard for gravity or their tops.
There’s a guy passed out in a recliner with a joint still dangling from his fingers. Another one doing shots off a woman’s stomach. I think I see someone handcuffed to a radiator. My cheeks burn. Full-on fire engine red. What in the hell did I get myself into?
Pretty Boy laughs beside me, clearly enjoying the look on my face.
“You good?” he asks, that same amused gleam in his eyes.
I lift my chin, even as heat crawls down my neck.
“Yeah,” I say, voice tight. “Just taking it all in.”
I scan the room again, this time trying to find Swag. I don’t see him, but I do see a group of people involved in what can only be described as an orgy.
“Oh my god.”
Pretty Boy chuckles beside me. “It’s a lot, right?”
“Something like that.”
“Want to know the secret?” he says, leaning in like we’re co-conspirators.
“I’m sure this is going to be good.”
He grins. “Just picture everyone naked.”
“You mean more naked than they already are?” I huff out a laugh. “If I’d known there was a dress code like this, I wouldn’t have come.”
“And that’s what makes you stand out like a goddess among us mere mortals.” He sweeps a hand toward me. “You’re a queen, putting every other woman in here to shame.”
My lips twitch. “Do lines like that usually work?”
“Yup. Is it working?”
I hold up my fingers, leaving a small gap. “Maybe this much.”
“Damn. A challenge. I like it.” His grin widens. “So, Jo-Leigh, what’s a good girl like you doing with a bunch of rowdy bikers?”
“I’m not really sure.” I glance around again. “It sounded like it might be fun. Plus I don’t think Swag thought I was going to come.” I meet Pretty Boy’s eyes. “And I like proving people wrong.”
He sobers, just a little. “Want to know another secret?”
I nod.
“He didn’t want you to come.”
The words land like a punch to the ribs. Quick and unexpected.
“Oh.”
“Hey now,” he says gently. “It’s not what you think. He didn’t want you to come because having you here means something he’s not ready to admit. Not to us. Not to you. Definitely not to himself.”
I blink. “Am I supposed to know what that means?”
He studies me. “Maybe not yet. But I think you’ll get it soon enough.”
I raise a brow. “I think they named you wrong. Instead of Pretty Boy, you should’ve been called Riddles.”
“Riddles,” he echoes, considering. “I like that.”
He holds out his hand. “Come on. Let’s get a drink. I’ll introduce you to some people who don’t bite.”
My lips curl. “That doesn’t sound like a guarantee.”
“It’s not.” He winks. “But I’ll protect you.”
“I don’t know…” I hesitate, the noise of the party pressing in around us.
Pretty Boy leans in, voice low and tempting. “Listen. I like you. A lot . Consider this your chance to get to know me. Who knows. Maybe Swag won’t seem so dreamy once you do.”
I bite my bottom lip, and his eyes follow the motion like a magnet. Maybe he’s right. I’ve been holding on to this… whatever-it-is with Swag for way too long. A crush born out of kindness that never had a chance to become anything real. And clearly, Swag doesn’t see me like that .
Pretty Boy’s handsome. He’s funny. And he wants me.
I nod. “Okay.”
“Atta girl.” He grins. “First things first—we need some tequila.”
Several shots later, my body hums with heat and laughter.
Pretty Boy leads me through the crowd like he owns the place, introducing me to people with a confidence that’s contagious.
Most are friendly, if a little intense. One man muttered something about Pretty Boy having a death wish, but he just laughed and threw an arm around me like we’ve known each other for years.
And still?—
I keep looking. Scanning shadows. Watching corners. Waiting for him.
Pretty Boy glances down at me. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah.” I force a smile. “Just thinking we need more shots.”
“Excellent idea.”
He grabs my hand, weaving us toward the bar.
We’re almost there when I hear a high-pitched, throaty moan that’s undeniably sexual.
My head turns. And I freeze. A brunette kneels on the floor, completely naked, her head bobbing in practiced rhythm as she works a man over with absolute confidence.
She’s loud. Brazen. Putting on a performance like she’s on stage and the crowd is roaring.
My gaze drags up against my better judgment and lands on Swag.
Sitting back on a worn leather couch like a fucking king . And he’s watching me . Not her.
Me.
His jaw clenches. His eyes are on fire. And he doesn't stop her.
My mouth drops open, breath caught in my throat. I spin around before I can fall apart. My face burns. My chest aches.
Pretty Boy doesn't notice. He grabs a bottle of tequila and leads me back to our spot, talking easily, laughing. I follow numbly, but I feel Swag’s gaze like a brand between my shoulder blades.
Is that why he didn’t want me here? Because he knew this was going to happen? Knew what I’d see? Hot tears sting my eyes, and I blink them away. I won’t cry. Not here. Just another moment where I should’ve listened to my gut. Where I let hope blind me.
“Hey,” Pretty Boy says, sinking next to me. “I don’t like the look on your face. Where’d you go, inside that pretty head of yours?”
I let out a watery laugh, trying to play it off.
“I thought you were the pretty one?”
Pretty Boy doesn’t smile this time.
“Jo-Leigh,” he says gently, voice dropping low. “You can talk to me.”
I shake my head, blinking fast. “I think I should leave.”
His gaze flicks across the room.
“Ah,” he says softly. “I understand now.”
He leans in, voice still calm. “If it makes you feel any better she’s a club whore.”
I blink. “A what ?”
“They’re women who hang around the MC just to fuck,” he says casually, like he’s talking about the weather.