Midnight Desire: A Midnight Riders Motorcycle Club Romance Part 1 (4 page)

That’s who she was to me: a little blonde girl, perfect and innocent.

That was who I was here for.

Not some biker. Not some smooth-talking thug.

I was here to bring her killer to justice.

If I could use Jack Pollari to do that, so be it.

But that was all that was going to happen.

That was
it.

If I thought Jack Pollari was a smooth operator, though, it was only because I hadn’t met Louis Shaw.

I stopped by the Seven Veils at 7PM, as instructed. The bald asshole Peanut was on duty at the door. Hard rock thumped heavily from the closed door behind him.

“I remember you,” he leered. “Ready to strip?”

“No, but I’m ready to talk to your boss,” I said coldly. “Mr. Shaw’s expecting me.”

He went from a leer to a sneer in one second flat. “You stupid bitch – just cuz you found out a name to drop, you think you’re hot shit?”

“No, I
know
I’m hot shit. And when Jack Pollari says he’s going to call Louis Shaw and put in a good word for me, I believe him.”

At the mention of Jack Pollari’s name, Peanut’s face drained of color. He struggled to get back his bravado, though. “You bullshit real good, I’ll give you that.”

Without a word, I pulled out my cell phone and dialed Jack’s number. There was a pause, then a deep, sexy voice answered.
“Hello?”

“Hi, Jack. Fiona here.”

Whatever color Peanut had gotten back, he lost again.

“Fiona! How’d it go with Lou?”

“I don’t know yet, since Peanut won’t let me in. Could you… convince him?”

Jack’s voice suddenly became
quite
pissed.
“Put him on.”

I held the phone out to Peanut, who looked at it like I was offering him a live rattlesnake. When he didn’t move, I thrust it at him with a menacing expression.
Take it!

He took it gingerly and held it up to his ear, looking sicker by the second. “…hello?”

From that point onward, Peanut’s entire contribution to the conversation was “Yes, sir,” and “Sorry, Jack.” When he handed the phone back to me, he was an entirely different man.

“Well, now that THAT’S taken care of… I’ll see you for that drink later tonight,”
Jack said, back to his roguish charm.

“Absolutely. And thanks again.”

“Thank me later,”
he chuckled, and was gone.

His last three words sent a thrill up my spine, but I let it pass and tried to pretend I hadn’t felt it.

I put away my phone and stared at Peanut. “Well?”

He glared at me like I had betrayed him every way a person possibly could, but all he did was mumble, “Follow me,” as he led me into the club.

It was faux fancy, with velvet couches and padded chairs – but everything was shabby, bordering on ratty. And that was with incredibly dim lighting. With the lights full on, it probably would have been a horror show. Thank God there were no ultraviolets to highlight the stains.

The place wasn’t anywhere near hopping yet, but there were a good dozen factory workers blowing off steam. Over on the main stage, a hard-looking chick with more tats than clothing was dancing for a couple of middle-aged men on the front row. They looked hypnotized as they peeled off dollar bills and dropped them at her feet.

Peanut led me through the semi-darkness and down a hallway to the back, then knocked on a door.

“Come in,” said a deep, gravelly voice.

Peanut held the door for me, and I walked into the office. It was surprisingly different from the club, in that it was tasteful and neat and clean. Lots of dark wood. Very masculine, in an Old World way.

Lou Shaw sat behind a stately mahogany desk. He was simultaneously
not
what I had been expecting, and yet a complete fulfillment of all my expectations.

The ‘not what I had been expecting’ part: he was dressed well. An expensive black suit with a black shirt, unbuttoned just enough to show a rug of chest hair. He was definitely handsome, with eyes so dark they were almost black, and hair so black it was like India ink. He sported a carefully trimmed Van Dyke, with a short but pointed tuft on his chin. The rest of his hair was long enough to cover his ears, but it was expertly cut and styled.

As for the complete fulfillment of my expectations, he looked like he could have easily slid into denim or leather and been right at home on a Harley. His skin was weathered and tan, with crow’s feet around his eyes. He was solid – not fat, just massively powerful without being ripped. Like a strongman out of a 1940’s circus, when they cared more about how much you could lift than how cut you were.

Despite the suit, he had a few trappings of a motorcycle gang member: a metal-studded leather band around his wrist, several ornate silver rings with skulls and snakes, the edges of tattoos peeking out from the cuffs of his black shirt.

He looked like the Devil in human form… if the Devil was a ruggedly handsome biker.

Luckily the Devil was in a good mood.

“Ahhh, you must be Fiona,” he drawled in that voice like smoke and bourbon.

“Mr. Shaw,” I said, suddenly a lot more intimidated than I had been with Jack.

“Call me Lou, not this Mr. Shaw bullshit,” he said, getting up from behind his desk and extending a powerful hand. It wasn’t overt, but he did a fair job of crushing me in his grip before letting go. “I understand we have a friend in common.”

I nodded. “Jack Pollari.”

Lou smiled, dangerous and sexy, and then noticed that Peanut was still standing at the door. “Get the fuck back out there,” he snapped.

Peanut hung his head and quickly retreated.

“So… Jack,” Lou said, back to his easy charm. “You two just met? At the diner where you work, so I understand?”

“He intervened when a trucker got a little handsy this morning.”

Lou smiled. “Well, I have to warn you, some of our customers like to get a little ‘handsy,’ too.”

That broke me free of his hypnotic, serpent-like charm. “Am I supposed to let them?” I asked coldly.

“Depends on how big you like your tips. If you don’t care, then a first-time warning should suffice. If the customer persists, call a bouncer.” His smile widened. “Although I hear you can take care of yourself.”

I didn’t know why Jack would have mentioned that, but I wasn’t going to undercut the impression. “I can, and usually do. Do I
have
to call a bouncer?”

His eyebrows raised in amusement. “No, not at all. Just don’t do any…
permanent
damage. Well… maybe just to the first one. It’s always good to make an example.”

“Um… okay…”

“Fifteen an hour. Normally there’s a quota for drinks, but we’ll waive that for the first couple of weeks. Friend of a friend and all that. When can you start?”

“Now, if you want.”

“Excellent. Go see Shelley behind the bar, she’ll set you up with a uniform and the paperwork, let you know your schedule. Welcome aboard.”

“Thanks,” I said, although I wasn’t sure I meant it. I had the uncomfortable feeling as I left his office that he was watching me like a rattler watches a baby mouse.

Shelley was a bubbly blonde a few years younger than myself. She got me my ‘uniform’ – a black, cropped bustier that showed off my midriff as much as my boobs.

“You can wear it with your jeans tonight, but tomorrow get some tight black pants and wear some black stilettos,” she said cheerily.

Things were mostly dead for a couple of hours. There was one other waitress, a fiery redhead named Arlene. It was clear she was pissed I was encroaching on her territory, so I mostly hung back and did nothing.

Then, around 10PM, the place exploded.

I went from nearly brain-dead with boredom to running my ass off and having to deal with leering insinuations and passes by the barrelful.

Whatever drawbacks there might have been to the job, though, it was a bonanza for reconnaissance.

Most of the explosion was due to a dozen Midnight Riders showing up. They were a motley crew, and not in a Nikki Sixx kind of way. There were a couple of young ones who looked like they’d just joined up out of high school; guys in their late twenties who looked hard and mean; and three or four long-haired old-timers in their 40’s who were louder and more obnoxious than all the others put together. The one thing they had in common, though, was the skull logo on the back of their jackets and kuttes.

One of them came over to the bar – a brown-haired twenty-something – and started flirting with Shelley. He wore a shy, goofy smile the whole time he did it.

“Hey, Shelly, how you doin’ tonight?”

Shelley batted her eyes and grinned. “I’m good, Benjy, how’re you, darlin’?”

As the mating dance proceeded, I moved discreetly to the other end of the bar.

Suddenly Arlene passed by me and barked, “What are you waitin’ for? Go get their orders.”

I frowned in confusion. Arlene had been hustling to take 90% of the orders, and now she was just handing over a gigantic group? It didn’t make sense.

Shelley saw my confusion. “Arlene hates ‘em ‘cause they don’t tip,” she called out from the other end of the bar.

“We tip,” Benjy said defensively.

“
You
tip, ‘cause you’re a sweetie-pie,” Shelley cooed.

He blushed like Dopey in
Snow White
and all but melted right there on the spot.

I couldn’t tell whether it was real or if she was playing him, but I decided to leave them to it.

I walked over to the bikers apprehensively, expecting a barrage of passes, but I needn’t have worried. They probably would have leered at me just as much as the other customers, but they had their hands full with the strippers who had come out and were fawning all over them.

“Round ‘a shots,” one of the guys told me. “Jack Daniels, and keep ‘em comin’.”

“Um, we don’t serve alcohol.”

The guy – a rough-looking dirty blond with a thick mustache – looked at me like I’d lost my mind.

“Since when?! SHELLEY!” he bellowed. “What the fuck’s this shit about not serving booze?!”

“Never mind her, Eddie, she’s new,” Shelley yelled back. “I gotcha.”

Shelley motioned me over vigorously, and I hurried to the bar. Benjy had departed temporarily, and we were alone.

“You pissin’ ‘em off already?” she laughed as she poured shot after shot.

“This place is fully nude,” I said. “California doesn’t let fully nude clubs serve alcohol.”

I’d learned that from a lot of hours spying on B-list celebrities in LA strip clubs, where a bottle of water costs $7 and the hardest thing on the menu was an O’doul’s.

“This ain’t California, honey,” Shelley said. “This is Richards.”

I frowned at her. “Richards,
California.
”

She slid the platter full of shot glasses over to me. “Honey, the only people who’d ever complain are a hell of lot smarter than to go an’ do something stupid like that. So take this over to Eddie and his pals and don’t go gettin’ dumb on me.”

“Okay,” I said, finally realizing just how far the MC’s reach extended. “Um, what do they owe?”

“Nothin’. Lou’s the Riders’ VP, so it’s all on the house. Well, alcohol, anyway. Dances are still full price.”

I stared at her.

Now it made sense how Jack had gotten me this job.

Shelley mistook my look of shock. “Now you know why Arlene hates servin’ ‘em,” she said cheerily before she went to take another order.

Things only got crazier the longer the night wore on. Fifteen minutes after the Midnight Riders came in, the club opened up two more stages and a DJ came on. Now there were naked women gyrating in every direction, and bikini-clad ones walking the floor asking men if they wanted a lap dance. All the while some guy droned over the speakers, “It’s a two-for-one dance special… next two songs only… now welcome Chantal up to the stage gentlemen, and remember to tip…”

Mix that with hard liquor, and things got a little ugly.

We were nearing closing time when one of the blue collar workers mistook me for one of the strippers. He was a big, dumb-looking guy with an unruly mop of hair.

I swatted his hand off my ass. “Not on the menu, bub.”

He just hee-hawed like a donkey and watched me go.

Five minutes later Mop-head copped a feel as I leaned over to set his drink on the table in front of him.

“You do that again and you’re walking out of here without all your teeth,” I shouted in his face.

“It was an accident!” he protested, but laughed again.

I turned around, fuming – and then my entire mood changed when Jack Pollari walked in.

He was dressed in old jeans and a weathered leather jacket decked out with motorcycle club patches. Under the jacket, a wifebeater t-shirt showed off the tats across his chest – and God, what a chest. Muscular and powerful. I couldn’t see much under the wifebeater, but his stomach was firm and flat, and I was guessing there was a six-pack under there.

Damn he was hot.

Unfortunately, every stripper in the place thought so, too. The six who weren’t onstage or giving lap dances immediately rushed over to him, giggling and running their hands all over his body.

Jealousy surged hot and bitter in my gut before I caught myself.

It was ridiculous. I didn’t
get
jealous. I had never been that kind of a girlfriend. If a guy made me the least bit suspicious of what he was doing in his downtime, I dropped his ass and got an upgrade on the replacement model.

Yet here I was getting all green-eyed and envious.

And I hadn’t even gone out for a drink with him yet.

Remember, you don’t even CARE about this guy. All he is to you is a way to find out who killed Ali.

But no matter how many times I told myself that, the pit of my stomach still felt sour.

That is, until I saw him brush them off. Politely, but it was obvious he was disentangling himself. As he walked away, he looked around the club – and then his eyes lit on me. He broke out into a grin as he walked over.