2. Chapter 1
Chapter 1
Angevyn
“ A ngevyn,” pronounced An-Juh-Vin, “come on .”
My best friend, Brier Stone, glares in my direction as I follow her into the rundown house owned by the Voodoo Warriors Motorcycle Club. Brier met Joseph “Torque” Williams while tending bar at the motorcycle club-owned bar, the Voodoo Saloon, on New Orleans’s outskirts.
Somehow, Brier talked me into attending the MC’s party. Shivering as I take in the room, I wonder if a tetanus shot is needed when this is over. The soles of my shoes stick to the floor with each step.
Bodies move together in various sexual acts. I school my features with a blank face and focus my eyes forward. Following Brier through the house and into the kitchen. Eyes follow my every move. Men give me lascivious looks, sending chills up my spine.
While not a prude, seeing all of this is a shock to my system. None of these people are shy about others watching them. Averting my gaze as Torque tongue-fucks my best friend, a deep voice calls out from behind me.
“What’s the matter, sweetheart? Are you jealous? I will be happy to take care of you.”
Turning around and doing my best not to react, I openly stare at the man. He is tall with long, greasy, light brown hair. The color is debatable under the dirt—his scraggly beard hands down to his belly, draping over the waistband of his pants.
Stepping in my direction, another stern voice speaks up, causing his steps to falter. The stern tone brooks no room for argument.
“Hound, leave her alone.”
Hound, the man in front of me, tosses a sideways glance at the guy, having the decency to look contrite, for all of ten seconds. Unsure what he sees, Hound waves me off, leaving the room.
Looking over my shoulder, following Hound’s direction, a man sits in a chair that has been turned sideways. Using the wall for back support, his right arm rests on the back of the chair with an almost empty beer bottle hanging from his fingertips.
He swallows the last dregs of his beer, setting the empty bottle on the table as he stands. I look up and up. Being just over five feet tall, he towers over me. This man has to be at least a foot taller than me, probably more. His shoulders are broad, and the T-shirt he wears pulls tight across his massive chest. Noticing the patch on his vest says President. The patch just below that says “Diesel.”
I keep forgetting some of the biker lingo that Brier constantly reminds me of. Each of these men wears a black leather vest that is referred to as a cut. The front of the cut has a patch showing their name, whether it be their real name or road name. A secondary patch will be found just above their name if they are officers. On the back of each vest, there is a three-part patch. The center one has a logo. In this case, it’s a voodoo doll, complete with pins, riding a motorcycle. A top patch indicates the motorcycle club’s name, Voodoo Warriors. The bottom patch, or rocker, says New Orleans, Louisiana.
“Are you done checking me out yet?” he asks cockily.
My face heats in embarrassment. Looking up at his face, I find his eyebrow raised in amusement. My nerves take over, feeling overwhelmed and outnumbered.
“S-sorry, this”—waving my hand around the room—“is all new to me?” I say with a stutter, making the words sound more like a question.
Looking around the room again, Brier and Torque are missing. Resigning myself to make the best of this since they won’t be seen for a while, a heavy sigh leaves my lips.