Chapter 3
Mia
There’s no midday rush in our small town, and the streets are quiet after lunch as I walk.
It’s only May, so the tourists haven’t quite arrived yet.
I meander slowly under the tupelo tree canopies that coastal Georgia is famous for and that our town, Lakeside, is full of.
Turning out of my neighborhood, I head downtown.
With each step I take toward my goal, the better I feel.
I’ve changed into my most comfortable distressed dark jeans, a black tank top, and my Chucks.
I pulled my hair back into a long French braid, and my face, as usual, is free of makeup.
Maybe I should have made myself up more for where I’m going, but fussing with my appearance is something that I haven’t really bothered with in the last two years.
I used to be more girly, taking time to do my makeup and curl my hair, trying my best to attract boys.
But now, there’s no damn way I want to draw that kind of attention to myself.
I knew after the night I left Nic, the night she was attacked, that I needed to focus on making myself stronger not prettier.
I was so hell-bent on never becoming a victim, I even started training with my father’s Desert Storm comrade, Lieutenant Michael Briggs, two years ago, working with him three days a week so I could turn my body into the weapon it is now.
The warm breeze blows wisps of hair off my face as I slowly make my way onto Scout Road.
It’s one of Lakeside’s busiest areas. This street is where the night crowd hangs out.
Pubs and bars line one side, and the other has restaurants and an old-fashioned movie theater, the kind with the big, white sign lit up overhead.
I stuff my hands in my pockets as I walk, hashing out my backstory and my plan, when shining chrome and cherry red catches my eye. I freeze.
In front of Lavish, the local strip club where the Disciples and the Souls hang out, is the same bike I saw parked out front of the Yard the day Nic died.
I’ve scoped this place out for the last couple weeks, though I haven’t seen it here until now.
I know immediately that it is the same bike Nic and I saw that day.
A vision of the man I couldn’t look away from, the man I’ve fantasized about more times than I’d like to admit, rushes through my mind, and I hate that I still remember the way a single lock of his hair trailed his forehead when he took a drag of his cigarette.
The way he tucked it behind his ear with two big, inked fingers while I wondered if it was soft, and if he smelled like leather and smoke.
Anticipation rolls through me, but I convince myself it has nothing to do with that man.
It’s only because I am getting closer to the answers I’m looking for.
I’ve done my research and know that the Wretched Souls spend just as much time at Lavish as the Disciples of Sin.
Which means, if I’m here for any length of time, I’ll figure out exactly who Nic was pointing at that day.
There are no warning bells running through my head as I cross the street, no pangs of fear telling me not to cross into enemy territory.
I pull open the heavy wood door of Lavish.
The handle is black wrought iron and shaped like an ornate L.
As far as strip clubs go, this one is supposed to be high-class.
Standing in the entryway, taking in the dimly lit space, I eye the black leather chairs surrounding small tables with tiny touch lamps on them.
The chairs are all angled toward the stage, which runs the entire length of the space; it’s lined with pink neon lights and stools that park right up against it.
Everything is spotless and surprisingly quiet.
A man kneels on the stage, scrubbing it with a rag and a bucket of water.
With his back to me, I can clearly see that he wears a Disciples of Sin prospect cut.
Just the sight of that cut sends rage coursing through my blood. Fucking scrags—
“Can I help you?” says a bright voice from behind me.
I turn quickly to face a pretty woman who looks to be in her mid- to late forties.
She’s fit and toned, with dark hair and kind eyes, and she wears a lot of makeup but is dressed simply.
Jeans and a vintage Guns N’ Roses tee, which hangs slightly off her tanned shoulder.
I force my best smile at her, pushing down the disgust that rises in my throat with what I’m about to ask as I point to the sign in the window.
“I hope so. I’m here about the job.”
“Cool, welcome.” The woman shrugs with a friendly smile. “Are you from around here?”
“I go to school in Atlanta, but I’m on summer break,” I answer in my most bubbly tone, attempting to push my “poor innocent college student in need of a job” backstory. It isn’t a lie. I could definitely use the money.
“You got a name, Atlanta?”
“Mia,” I offer her coolly, then jump right into some small talk, figuring it might win me some points. “That’s a really nice bike out front…” I point toward the door. “The red and black one—”
“Mm-hmm… Boss’s bike.” She walks back behind the long black bar top and grabs a bottle of cleaning spray as I register her words.
That Viking is the boss of the strip club? Shit. I didn’t see that one coming.
“Well, the boss has a nice bike…” I answer cautiously, praying she might give me some information about him. But instead, she narrows her eyes at me and sighs.
“Let’s just get this outta the way. Boss doesn’t hire women he’s seen all of already, if you catch my drift. So, if that’s why you’re here—” She stops to set the bottle down, giving me a pitying look. “One night is one night, honey.”
My mouth falls open.
“Fuck no,” I blurt out. Her eyebrow slings up, and I rush to correct myself. “I just love motorcycles. My dad used to ride before he died,” I add truthfully, and her eyes soften.
“Sorry, doll, I thought maybe you’d fucked him.” She shrugs, holding her hands up in truce.
I scoff because I can’t help myself. Over my dead body would I fuck a Disciple.
“All right, well, that makes you a better candidate,” she says coyly.
I eye up the prospect on the stage and play dumb. “Those vests, are the guys here in some sort of club…?” I trail off, hoping she’ll offer her name.
“Roslyn,” she responds. “You can call me Roz, and I’ll shoot straight with you, Mia, and then you can decide if you want to leave or stick around to chat.
The man who owns this place is a patched Disciple, and we get a lot of club activity around here.
Some Hounds, some Wretched Souls. I like to be up front because I know their reputation, and it scares some girls off.
But I can promise you that Aiden makes sure this is the safest club to work in the county. ”
Aiden? Aiden Foxx? My heart starts beating faster in my chest as I register exactly what she’s saying. The Viking is Aiden. And he’s not only the boss of the club, he’s the Disciples’ president my brother told me about.
My palms begin to sweat as I momentarily question my sanity.
This is way deeper than I thought, but it’s all adding up.
How it could’ve been Aiden Foxx with Gator and Marco the night my sister was raped.
Of course he would have his brother’s back when Marco approved the assault.
And if he’s the boss now, that means he’s probably cut from the same cloth as his piece of shit brother.
I can’t believe I pictured myself taking his slutty cock.
“Usually Aiden is the only one here,” she adds, cutting into my racing thoughts and looking me dead in the eye. “And he won’t bother with you.”
Right, I’m probably not young enough for him…
“Dicky hangs around a lot though. He cleans mostly.” She gives a little nod to the prospect on the stage. “For what it’s worth, you look like you could fit in really well here.”
A thought occurs to me as I once again consider my sanity. “The sign doesn’t say what you’re hiring for exactly. I assume a dancer?”
“No, you wouldn’t be dancing. We aren’t looking for that, at least not right now.”
“What are you looking for then?” I ask, hoping it’s not a paid whore. That would really throw a wrench into my plan.
“We just need a shooter girl. Clothes stay on and the job pays cash.”
Growing up with my father and brother’s club life tells me right away that means they’re washing money here and I’ll be working off the books.
I nod, secretly breathing a small sigh of relief, because that only helps my anonymity. Shooter girl I can do.
“Got any bar experience?” she asks when I don’t say anything.
“I worked at a diner during high school, but I was a server, no bar experience.”
She frowns and sort of shrugs. “Hmm, so you’re green…”
“Does that really matter when I have tits?” I blurt out. Sometimes there is no filter between my brain and my mouth, and I’ve managed to make Roz look at me like I just personally insulted her. The urge to apologize and call her ma’am comes over me.
“Mm-hmm.” Roz drapes her cloth neatly over the side of the small sink, frowning as she nods toward the stage. “Walk with me… Let’s see if you think that’s the kind of place we are after I show you around.” I keep my big yap shut and follow her.