Chapter 3
My shift ended at seven, and I left with every intention of going home to get ready for the Stallions’ party.
When I arrived at my Mustang and found a single daisy tucked underneath one of my windshield wipers, I knew right away who it was from and why.
On any other day, I would have considered it a warning.
But given my mood, I took it as a challenge—one I intended to accept with a full face of makeup, a killer dress, and fuck me heels.
Carmy was the only person who knew daisies were my favorite flower. The dumbest, most optimistic part of me could have interpreted the small gift as a token of his birthday well wishes; but the fact that he left it for me to find at the end of my workday meant he intended it as a note of caution.
He didn’t forget the significance of the date, but the flower was a reminder—a warning to not do anything stupid in my attempts to enjoy the occasion.
A warning I felt bold enough to ignore.
That said, the dumbest, most optimistic part of me took the daisy home with me, anyway. I even put it in a glass of water before I hopped in the shower to wash away the scent of work from my skin.
Stupid. It was so stupid—but I couldn’t toss it.
I managed to shove Carmy into the back of my mind as I focused on picking an outfit for the night’s festivities.
I was sorting through my collection of dresses when my thoughts took a sharp turn, aimed at the memory of those dark green eyes staring my way.
Remembering Pistol’s wink had me pulling my lower lip between my teeth in an attempt to quell my smile.
He was the kind of man that made my mouth water.
It had been a while since I crossed paths with a temptation of his caliber.
Big, kind of scary, tatted, hot, and rough around the edges.
He checked all the boxes and then some.
The way Max told it, he did three years behind bars for a justifiable crime. She didn’t say much more than that, but it was obvious by his reception at the diner he’d been missed. Whatever he did, it gave him a dangerous edge that made him even more appealing than that face of his.
I flipped through a couple more dresses before I found the one I wanted.
It was short.
It was tight.
It was denim.
I hadn’t worn it in a while, but tonight felt like the perfect night to don a showstopper, and I knew this would do the trick.
I might have just turned thirty, and it had been a few years since I roamed a clubhouse hoping to catch the eye of a Stallion I wanted—but I knew I still had it in me. Especially in the right shoes.
It was another half hour before I stood in front of the full-length mirror mounted on the back of my bedroom door and admired the end result of my handiwork.
I went for a bold, dark, shadowy eye with a dramatic amount of mascara, a tint of blush across my cheeks, and a rich, dark red lip.
I styled my hair with a few lazy curls, giving it a bit of volume, then rustled it with my fingers, making it look messy. Sexy.
Content with my appearance from the neck up, I went to adjust my bodycon mini dress.
It was sleeveless and lowcut, hugging my every curve.
I yanked at the hem—not so much in an attempt to cover more of my thighs but to expose a little more of my cleavage.
I didn’t have a ton, but I had enough to keep me from complaining.
I completed my outfit with a pair of pumps the same shade of red as my lipstick. The four-inch platform stiletto heel made my legs seem longer, which was always a plus. As I took in my reflection, I felt confident in a way I hadn’t let myself feel in a long time.
To hell with Carmy and his warning, I thought as I grabbed my purse and my keys. It’s my birthday, and I intend to live it the fuck up.
My apartment complex was only a few blocks from the clubhouse, but it wasn’t until I drove across Third Street that I entered Wild Stallions’ territory.
Before I moved to Gillette, I wasn’t entirely read-in on the extent of the rivalry between the clubs.
I knew they weren’t entirely friendly, but I didn’t know actual lines were drawn in the sand.
Since moving home, I’d been clued in on a few things.
Turned out, it wasn’t a coincidence the apartments my brother recommended were on the north side of Third Street, in Copper King territory.
Annoying as it was to learn I was manipulated into the part of town where he wanted me, it was easier to stay where I was, and I never bothered moving.
The way I had it figured, it would cause more trouble than it was worth to live outside of Carmy’s purview.
He was a pain in the ass, but I didn’t want him lurking where he didn’t belong.
Not that Kings and Stallions didn’t find legitimate reasons to cross into each other’s territories—but being nosey wasn’t exactly an excuse. Even if he was family.
The sun was setting behind the peaks of Blue Mountain when I parked in the lot on the compound. As soon as I stepped out of my Mustang and hooked the strap of my purse over my shoulder, I heard one of the guys loitering outside whistle at me.
I knew the average woman would likely roll her eyes at such a catcall, but I wasn’t an average woman.
To me, that whistle was an invitation to journey into the clubhouse with an extra dose of flare in each sway of my hips.
I made sure to dress for the attention, and I was ready to unleash the wild child who’d only ever known real freedom amongst these savages in kuttes.
With my head held high, I offered the three men congregated outside the garage a coy glance before continuing toward my destination. I could hear the music blaring from inside as I approached, and the excitement that sparked inside my chest was like a reminder that I was right where I belonged.
I yanked open one of the double doors, crossed over the threshold, and took in the familiar space.
The architecture of the clubhouse was almost exactly the same as the one in Gillette—an open lounge in the main room, filled with leather couches and oversized armchairs around low-set tables on mismatched area rugs.
To the right was a fully stocked bar, and near the back were a couple pool tables.
Though, I’d learned this chapter spent less time aiming for the eight ball and more time counting chips around the poker table.
“Lyla! Over here.”
I heard Maxine’s voice as it battled its way over the sound of music and the hum of conversation in the room.
A quick scan of the place helped me locate her, sitting on top of the bar, her legs dangling over the edge.
She was still wearing the same cutoff shorts she had on at work, but she swapped her Route 66 tee for a green, cap-sleeved shirt that laced up the front.
She replaced her sneakers with sandals, the straps climbing her calves and tied off in a knot below her knee.
Her hair was half up, half down, and she looked every bit like the babe she was.
Sometimes, it still boggled my mind how her parents would let her hang out at a place like this.
Sure, she was basically a Stallion princess, and so long as she was around, they knew what she was up to; but the clubhouse wasn’t meant for gentlemen.
Given the way Carmy was so adamant about keeping me away from this life, I wasn’t sure I’d ever get used to the acceptance Nighthawk and Viv embraced for the sake of their daughter’s happiness.
It would have been a lie to say I wasn’t a little jealous.
Max was smarter than she was reckless, but she knew how to party, and no one ever stopped her.
She waved me over, and I left my envy at the door as I went to join her.
She wasn’t alone—Smokey, Crow and Brooklyn keeping her company.
From the looks of things, Brooklyn was less interested in conversation and more focused on her target for the night.
While Max was certainly a party girl, she wasn’t known for spreading her legs, unlike Brooklyn.
She was a vixen constantly on the hunt.
The curvy, dark-haired woman wasn’t much older than Max, but she was a hell of a lot more unbridled.
She lived to party and, as far as I could tell, had no aspirations of settling down anytime soon.
She didn’t live at the clubhouse, but she and Max were close, so she was around often.
I didn’t know her story, and she wasn’t exactly open about it, so I made up my mind a long time ago it wasn’t any of my business.
But I knew she wasn’t a kutte chaser so much as she was a thrill seeker.
She was a good time with no strings, which meant she rarely spent an evening alone.
Tonight, she seemed intent on devouring Crow, and he didn’t look like he had any objections.
“Hey,” greeted Smokey upon my approach. I caught his eye, and he smirked as he added, “Nice hair.”
“Thanks,” I replied, moving to occupy the barstool next to his.
He didn’t look like it, with his bulky frame, his long braids, and his pale brown skin covered in tattoos, but he was the resident sweetheart.
Not to say he didn’t get him some when he wanted it, but I saw the way he looked after the club sluts.
He always said his mama would roll over in her grave if he didn’t act like the man she taught him to be.
Given the kutte he wore with the patches he’d earned, I was sure he found enough trouble his mama wouldn’t approve of, but he shot as straight as his marred soul would let him. He was one of a kind, and I liked him.
“What are you drinkin’, birthday girl?” asked Max, leaning toward me.
“What’s in your cup?”
“Whiskey ginger,” she replied, waggling her eyebrows.
“Good enough for me.”
She tilted her head back until she was practically upside down and hollered, “Tex! Lyla wants a whiskey ginger.”