Chapter 1 Raiden
RAIDEN
The air is thick with expensive cologne and the smell of fruity cocktails. Pop music blasts from the speakers near the dance floor, making me want to cover my ears and high tail it out of here.
Coming to the White Out isn’t my idea of a good time, but it’s not every day one of my MC gets married, although it’s happening more and more these days.
Arlo’s in his early thirties and not an old man like me, so when White Out, the club at the Emerald Heart Resort, was suggested for his bachelor party, I agreed that I’d come and not complain about the music.
That was before I got here.
The beat goes way too fast to be comfortable and the lyrics are shouted rather than sung, making me question the musical ability of the vocalist. Why the hell they can’t put on something decent that everyone loves, like Foo Fighters, I don’t know.
Hell, I’d even go for classic pop. Give me Duran Duran and Madonna over this shit any day.
“Here you go.” The bartender slides a tray of shot glasses filled with white liquid at me. I squint at the tray, trying to understand why I’ve got a tray of tequila shots in front of me.
“I didn’t order these.”
The bartender smiles nervously, and a bead of sweat glistens on his forehead.
We’re not wearing our cuts tonight out of respect to Axel.
He’s the owner of this joint, and I don’t want to bring him any trouble.
Not that my boys are trouble. But I’ve come across the type of entitled hot heads who frequent the Emerald Heart Resort, and an MC patch can attract the wrong kind of attention from those kinds of dickheads.
But even without the jackets, we’re pretty imposing.
My guys are all ex-military and built for strength.
Half the MC have beards and tattoos that dress shirts won’t fully cover.
Compared to the scrawny rich kids on the dance floor, we stand out.
Axel would have clocked us the moment we walked in and no doubt let his staff know the Wild Riders Motorcycle Club are in tonight.
“That guy ordered them…” The bartender licks his lips nervously. “…and he said you were paying.” His head tilts to the left, indicating someone further down the bar.
I lean forward to see past a container of brightly colored compostable containers. Arlo gives me one of his trademark wide grins. We don’t call him Prince Charming for nothing.
I sigh heavily. I’d rather be at our headquarters drinking craft beer and listening to Van Halen, but it’s too early to bail out of Arlo’s party. Besides, as the President of the MC I need to make sure my guys have a good time and no one gives us any trouble.
“Set up a tab on this.” I pull my credit card from my wallet. “Put anything my boys ask for on there.”
The bartender looks at the card uncertainly. His eyes flick upwards to the left hand corner of the bar. I follow his gaze to a security camera attached to the overhang of the bar. Axel keeps his beady eye on everything that goes on at the resort and especially at White Out.
“Clear it with Axel first if you need to.”
I don’t want to make this young guy feel awkward for doing his job. I place a hundred dollar bill on the counter. “And look after my boys tonight.”
He nods uncertainly but pockets the bill.
I look at the camera and give Axel a wave. Son of a bitch needs to get out more if he’s still spending every night behind his bank of monitors.
A new song starts, and there’s a whoop from the dance floor. I guess it’s better than hanging out down here.
The guys join me at the bar, and Arlo hands out the shots. I knock it back, feeling the burn, and chase it with the beer I just ordered.
That’s the last shot I’ll have tonight. I’m too old for this shit.
Some of the younger guys head toward the dance floor, and I slide into a booth with Quentin. His huge thighs scrape the underside of the table. That’s why we call him Barrels. He’s the biggest guy in the MC. That, and the fact that he runs the brewery for the club.
“You not dancing, Prez?” Quentin asks.
“What the fuck do you think?”
He chuckles, and we each sip our beer. It’s a prestigious brand that suits the clientele who come here, but it lacks flavor. I can tell Quentin’s thinking the same thing by the way he swirls it around in his mouth. When you run a brewery and craft beer bar, you become quite the connoisseur.
Barrels finally swallows, and his face screws up in a wince. “Tastes like piss.”
“It’s not gonna win any awards, that’s for sure.”
“Too sweet, tastes like caramel.” Quentin holds the bottle up to the light and swishes the brown liquid around. “And the viscosity’s too dense.”
My younger self would be laughing his ass off if he could see me now. Discussing the taste notes and viscosity of the beer I’m drinking. My younger self was out to get drunk, and that was it. Taste didn’t even come into it.
Thank fuck I grew up.
Travis joins us, and him and Quentin start discussing their entry for the state craft beer awards. An award would be great for business and it’s an achievement for the guys, validation that they’re doing something right.
Validation’s important when you’re running a team. I want to make my boys feel like they’re achieving something.
They’re all ex-military, and half of them broken. Not all the boys came out tonight; Lone Star can’t stand to be around most people, Spec’s PTSD can be triggered by loud noises, and Davis still has a hang up about his hearing aids.
I’m thinking about Davis, the young prospect, as I slowly sip my beer. I should have pushed him more, insisted he come out. It would have done him good to be around a young crowd.
He gave some lame excuse about not wanting to leave his new puppy alone, but we all knew it’s because of his loss of hearing.
It would have done him good to talk to a pretty girl tonight, give him some confidence.
My men are hooking up like we’re running a dating agency.
There must be a woman for him somewhere.
I’m lost in my thoughts, but I notice the change in the air when she walks in. My head jerks up towards the door, and my breath catches in my chest.
The woman pauses on the threshold of the club, and her thick dark hair, artfully curled, bounces over her exposed shoulders.
She’s tall like her father and made more so by the six inch heels she’s wearing that make her legs look longer.
Her red dress ends above the knee, and there’s a hint of thick thighs and delicious promises.
My hungry gaze scans her body, taking in every curve. The way the dress cinches in at the waist and the tight bodice pushes her oversized breasts against the fabric, forcing a pillowing cleavage that makes my throat dry.
Her face has a thick coat of makeup covering her already flawless skin. But it’s her eyes that have me spellbound. Emerald green. They scan the room taking everything in, intelligent and with a wariness much older than her years.
The music slows as she walks in. That’s what it feels like, but maybe it’s just me as my heartbeat speeds up and my pulse quickens. Blood thunders through my ears so loudly I can’t hear anything.
The air shifts. It parts for her as she struts into the club. Strut is the only word for how she walks. Her delicate beaded purse hangs off her bent elbow, and the two friends she’s with totter on their heels to catch up.
Quentin turns to see what I’m staring at, and his mouth drops open.
“Is that…?”
“Isabella Berone.” Her name rumbles out of my chest like a growl. The mafia princess whose father has a deadly reputation.
I haven’t seen her since she was an adolescent playing at the lake. Her father keeps her tightly guarded, and I can see why.
My dick’s hard as stone, and my heart’s pounding. I glance around the club, and every other hot blooded man is staring at her. My fists clench under the table, and I’m overcome with an urge to break the heads of every single one of them.
What the hell she’s doing out without a security detail I have no idea, but not a single man in here is going to get near her tonight.
“Get the guys,” I growl without taking my eyes off Isabella.
She shouldn’t be here. She can’t be more than eighteen. I’m damn sure her father doesn’t know where she is, and it won’t go well for any hot headed man who tries to touch her.
But it’s not because of her father that I call my guys together. Isabella may only be eighteen, but I’ll make damn sure no one gets near her. No one but me.