CHAPTER 21
LARA
I regret agreeing to come to the party the moment I step inside the clubhouse. It’s not the number of people and the noise, even though both are a lot, it’s the fact that the first person I see is Lola.
On her knees in a dark corner.
Why the hell did I see her first? I don’t know; it’s a fucking mystery.
Forcing my eyes away, I scan the room. Snake, Graycie, Ryker, and Ezra are on the couches looking very cozy.
Not too cozy, but they are clearly enjoying spending a little time together.
Before I can look for him specifically, an arm slides around my shoulders. I look up into chocolate brown eyes that are filled with excitement, amusement, and a little pride.
When he looks me over, those same eyes heat with desire. His fingers gently trace over the tattoo on my shoulder which is exposed completely by the top I chose for tonight.
“Come on, Cupcake,” he drawls, “let’s get you a drink.”
He leads me deeper into the main room of the clubhouse and to the bar. Omen is standing behind it along with Bolt.
I must look confused to see Omen still working like a prospect, but Jettson leans down and whispers in my ear, “You haven’t missed the show yet.
They used to do patch ins only in church, but when the club brats started prospecting.
The Old Ladies complained and wanted to see the faces of their sons. Now it’s a little different.”
A shiver works its way down my spine as his breath ghosts over my ear and neck. I always knew this man was potent, but with him here in his territory? Holy shit, I’m not strong enough.
I’m just a woman.
A weak woman with needs.
His hand slides up my spine before his fingers wrap around the nape of my neck and squeeze. The move is possessive and hot as hell.
Opal bounces over out of nowhere and wraps me up in a big hug before turning toward Bolt and demanding a drink. “I’ve already taught you how to make a Cosmo,” she reminds him. She looks at me with a question in her eyes and I nod. “Make it two.”
“Make it two,” Bolt grumbles under his breath but I can see the way one corner of his mouth tips up.
From what I’ve heard from Ezra, Opal likes to torture Bolt by making him learn new drinks. She especially loves making him sweat when those drinks have naughty names.
“What,” I tease her, “no buttery nipple today?”
Opal laughs, her head tipping back slightly. “I’ve already done that one, but it’s not one I can torture him with for long since I can’t drink a lot of them.”
“What about making your own up, the drinks and the names?”
The moment the suggestion leaves my mouth, Opal’s eyes light up as she starts clapping. Bolt puts the drinks down in front of us and levels me with a look which could peel paint off a door.
Too bad I’m not afraid of him. It’s hard to be afraid of someone who was in Ezra’s high school history class not long ago.
Jettson’s hand squeezes my neck before his hand slides back down my spine. He lets go of me reluctantly just as Rector, the club’s Chaplain—surprisingly enough the man has a certain spiritual calm about him I can’t explain—walks up to the bar and leans against it.
“Lara,” Rector greets me, “nice to see you joining us tonight.” I nod and he turns his attention toward Playboy. “Your path out of purgatory might not be without merit.”
Playboy’s fingers come up and he pinches the bridge of his nose. “You don’t need to call me out right in front of her,” he whines.
Opal and I laugh before clinking our glasses together. Movement out of the corner of my eye has me turning. Whiskey is rushing across the room toward Ryker who stands with a look of concern on his face.
My heart starts to pound in my chest, but Jettson leans down and whispers, “The show is about to begin.”
Ryker and Whiskey put their heads together, the whispers furtive and very intense. There are a few hand motions. Ryker presses his lips together and listens very hard to whatever Whiskey is saying to him.
The moment Ryker stills and his body snaps around, the air changes. I completely forget this is some sort of play acting happening in real time right in front of me like dinner theater is the peak of entertainment.
Ryker transforms right before my eyes, his eyes going hard and everything about him is screaming danger, death, and destruction. And chrome; can’t forget the chrome. Right now, he’s the President of the Saint’s Outlaws Motorcycle Club.
In all his Presidential glory.
Holy shit.
Damn, Ezra, good for you girl.
My eyes go to her and she’s looking at him like she’s about to jump him and ride him like a bronco.
“Omen,” Ryker bellows the Prospect’s name across the clubhouse and time itself freezes.
No one speaks.
No one breathes.
I think Omen shits himself.
“Get your ass out here, right fucking now. You will answer for this,” every word Ryker grits out might as well be him breathing fire.
Omen’s feet move, but he looks dazed as fuck. And scared.
I don’t blame him for it.
He stops in front of Ryker with his head down and his eyes fixed on the floor. I let out a small, completely involuntary, gasp when the Prez rips the cut off Omen’s back. Literally. Bodily.
Limbs are flying. I think I even hear leather tearing.
What the fuck is going on?
“This is no longer your cut,” Ryker’s words are like ice as he gets right in Omen’s face. “Do you hear me?”
“Yes, Prez,” Omen’s words are filled with sorrow.
He doesn’t let it show. But I swear I can feel it clenching around my heart as I look at his bowed head.
“Tonight,” Ryker pauses, “I’m no longer your Prez.”
Every muscle in Omen’s body locks up tight and I’m almost in fucking tears over here. My fingers tighten around my glass, and I want to take a step toward him.
“Tonight,” Ryker’s voice booms just as Scratch materializes out of nowhere and hands something over, “I’m just your brother.”
Omen’s head snaps up as Ryker holds up a brand-new cut, one with Omen on the chest without a trace of the Prospect patch. My heart is pounding in my chest as Ryker, this club’s President, helps to slip the cut into place on his newest brother.
When the cheering starts, I’m in the thick of it, my throat going raw as I hoot and yell. Playboy kisses the side of my head, but I barely notice.
Once things calm down, for the most part, I turn toward Playboy, still a little breathless. “How does it still come as a surprise? Bolt just saw that play out, won’t he know when his time comes?”
“Naw,” Jettson shakes his head, “Ryker changes it up every time. Sometimes it’s just an announcement, not because they don’t deserve the whole act, but because they deserved it another way. Like if someone puts their life on the line for the club, it’s honored, not made into a spectacle.”
My lips part as I stare up at Jettson. He just winks. Somehow, his words make so much sense. The loyalty within them, the honor, is something I can understand.
As the brothers start to crowd around Omen, I give Jettson a little shove and encourage him, “Go on then, go and greet your new brother.”
He flashes me a grin before turning, taking two steps, and stopping. My eyebrows pull together as he spins back toward me, takes my face in his hands, and kisses me. Soundly.
With tongue.
In front of everyone.
With a big smack on my lips, he releases me and heads toward Omen. My fingers come up and rub against my lips, which feel a little swollen.
Opal lets out a low whistle and I jump a little. She’s grinning at me, the look on her face far too knowing for my liking.
“You scared me,” I gasp.
Her eyes go wide as she stares at me. “I’ve been sitting next to you like the entire time. We both just watched the same show,” she points out while waving in the direction of where Omen is being swallowed whole by leather and t-shirts stretching far too tight across shoulders far too broad.
I swear this club needs to have a male review thing on the side.
“I forgot you were there,” I say absently. I tilt my head, my eyes watching Playboy. “Has anyone ever suggested a calendar of some sort? It would be a real moneymaker.”
Opal giggles while eyeing me. “He just claimed you in front of the club, just so you know.”
“No,” I start shaking my head, “he just kissed me.”
“Same thing,” she deadpans, “when it’s you, and this is the situation.”
Her eyes move over my shoulders and I almost cover myself. “What are you doing?”
“I’m mentally guessing what cut size will be ordered for you,” she says it so easily.
While I choke on my own spit.
“Don’t go putting lies in her head,” Lola’s voice has us both turning to find her standing a few feet away with her hands on her hips and her…parts barely covered.
I try to keep my face neutral; I really do. But one corner of my mouth curls up and it really can’t be helped.
“Oh, here we go,” Opal says under her breath. “The cunt thinks she has something to say.”
“Cunt?” Lola screeches, but Opal’s look stays level. Very fucking level. “Who the hell are you, anyway?”
I step in front of Opal because I know this isn’t about her; it’s about me. It’s always about me.
Lola’s eyes roam over my outfit and when she takes in my tattooed shoulder, she turns chartreuse. It’s not a good color on her.
“What the fuck is that?” She steps up to me, her finger jabbing toward my shoulder. “Don’t tell me you’ve given up on your sweet act and have decided to try and be me?”
Her eyes bore into the tattoo. Envy might as well be a mist around her. I’m sure she’s seen the framed art at Playboy’s station the same way I did.
My lips part and I’m about to fire off, something, at her, but before I can, a large body steps in front of me. Jettson’s chest is heaving and his entire back is tight, like he’s coiled and ready to strike. There go my panties; wow.
“Lola,” Playboy—because he is every inch the enforcer right now—barks.
I don’t have to see him to know his eyes are blazing. She shrinks back slightly but then squares her shoulders like she’s not really worried.