Read STRIKE: Storm Runners Motorcycle Club 2 (SRMC) Online
Authors: Lauren Devane
STRIKE: Storm Runners Motorcycle Club 2 (SRMC)
All events are fiction. Any resemblance to people or events is coincidental.
Also by Lauren Devane:
Bolt: Storm Runners Motorcycle Club #1
Blacklisted: Blacklisted Operations #1
Keeping You: Howler’s Motorcycle Club #1
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
For Nana, who taught me the meaning of an adventurous spirit. I love you!
Chapter 1
“
A
re you ready to go on?”
Grace turned and stared at Kiki, who’d already done a reach-around to grab Grace’s lipstick off the shaky vanity in front of her. Screwing up the cheap red wax, she pursed her lips and applied a generous layer before pressing them together and throwing it back down. It rolled right off the edge and disappeared into the dark beneath.
“Sorry,” she said, shrugging. The motion made the beads on her dress clack together and Grace thought about reaching out and wiping the lipstick right off her pursed mouth. Instead she sat back in her seat and took a deep breath.
“I’m ready,” Grace said, reminding herself to replace the lipstick. There was no way she was going to share anything that went on her mouth with someone she loathed as much as Kiki. It was the third lipstick lost this month.
“Good, because Mandi didn’t show up, and Peter wants you out on the stage as soon as Chrissie is done.”
“What?” There was nothing she wanted less than going out before it was her turn. Putting up the barriers that allowed her to strut onto the stage and grin at the crowd took time, and she hadn’t slept well last night as it was.
Even after months of working at the Ladies Night, Grace wasn’t used to performing in front of the half-drunk crowd. The yells, lascivious taunts and gropes were half the reason she got to work early, giving herself a chance to prepare internally while she teased her wig and painted her face before walking out into the smoke and lights.
“Mandi. Didn’t. Show. Up.” Kiki enunciated each word like Grace was an idiot, her red lips pursed and begging for a fist in the face—but that was standard. Ever since one of Kiki’s favorite clients had gravitated toward Grace, Kiki had morphed from a power hungry annoyance to a power hungry bitch.
It wasn’t unexpected, though. Territory was everything, and it was a lesson Grace took just a second too long to figure out. Not that she could have avoided the men anyway—not when they were the whole reason she walked into the cheap dive every night and poured herself into too-tight outfits that were made to be taken off with a single pull.
“Where is she?”
“Like I know? She was supposed to be here to relieve Chrissie, and Chris stayed all through the beginning of tonight to cover that moron. She missed a date. Mandi is probably in bed with that weather guy and can’t be fucked to get up and get her ass in here—or even call in. Who gives a fuck? Just get your shoes on and get ready to go out.”
Kiki fancied herself the second-in-command of Ladies Night, though she had no more power than any of the other dancers. Grace raised her eyebrows, then rolled her eyes. It wasn’t worth the fight.
“I’m going,” Grace said, pulling out her phone while she slid her feet into the super high pink heels she had to wear on the stage. Dialing Mandi and holding the phone to her ear, she looked in the mirror to make sure the bright blonde hair was perfectly in place. Her call went straight to voicemail.
“This is Mandi! I can’t get to you now, but I might have time later. Leave one!” The bubbly voice that came through the speakers made Grace smile.
“Hey, it’s Dakota. You’re not here, so I’m heading out early. Even if you’re going to ditch your shift—and who could blame you?—at least call me and let me know that you’re snuggled up with your hot man. Soon, girl. Love you.” She ended the call and placed the phone in her bag, securing the lock that kept it zipped when she was on stage.
She didn’t make enough to replace another phone.
Ignoring the spike of fear that shot down her spine when she looked at the empty vanity where Mandi usually prepared herself, Grace walked toward the stage doors. The last booming lines of the current song came through the heavy, dull velvet curtains. With a deep breath, she waited until the first discordant notes of her song started. Pushing aside the curtains, she grinned and headed for the pole on the center of the stage.
A
nother wasted night, Tom thought as he ordered a whiskey from the bartender. Of course the brand they had on the shelf was the same stuff his father used to drink at night. Just another reminder of his continued failure to avenge the man who’d given him everything.
Like it hadn’t already burned him to ashes.
He threw back the liquor, letting the welcome burn in his throat clear his mind a little. He’d already had enough that the place was blurry at the edges, but it was late enough that it didn’t matter. He’d have to stop if he wanted to take his bike instead of calling for a lift—again.
Besides, this shithole would close soon and he’d have to go back to the Storm Runners clubhouse. It was too late to go to the home he’d once shared with his parents and sister—all of whom were out of reach now, in one way or another. So he’d wake up at the clubhouse drunk again after missing his shift at his own damn bar and have Ace on his ass. Again.
Fucking great.
He didn’t spend his nights at strip clubs and dive bars to watch the dancers, though he appreciated a nice set of tits as much as the next man. No, while women were dropping clothes on stage, he was scanning the audience. His eyes moved from a group of excited business men to a tired looking suburban dad who’d probably had a fight with his wife and would go home feeling a little more bad ass after his light beer and close encounter with a naked woman.
But the one man he was looking for wasn’t here.
He’d come close the month before, finding one of Butch’s top lieutenants with his face buried in a woman’s cleavage at the Top Hat. The man was tweaking so hard that he’d missed the punch he’d thrown when Tom pulled him off the woman and screamed when his knuckles made contact with the wall. Tom just rolled his eyes and smashed his fist into the man’s face until he was too dazed to fight back, then dragged him out of the club and questioned him in the alley until he couldn’t get another answer from the man.
Another waste of time.
Fuck sobriety. He’d walk off the booze and see what he could find out on the streets.
With a finger, he signaled for another drink. Finished it. Threw $50 down on the counter and headed for the door. This place wasn’t going to do anything for him tonight.
Then the music changed. The tune drew his attention to the stage lit with bright lights in shades of white, pink and purple.
And Tom saw her.
Something about her face was arresting, like it didn’t belong here with the laughing men and bubbly women who moved from group to group. Her eyes, especially, raised her above the rest of the people in the Ladies Night—they were like simmered gold, clear and free of any drugs or other substances—something he rarely saw in places like this.
She was beautiful, but that wasn’t the only reason he stared. Her hands seems to shake for a moment when she raised them to her vest. She drew in a hard breath, then her hands went rock steady as they worked down the line of buttons, revealing smooth skin with each motion. It was mesmerizing. Her hands. Her face. He slid into a chair instead of walking out of the club and froze when she turned and met his eyes.
They locked and it was like the lights went brighter and the music dulled. The whiskey in his stomach was suddenly warmer, so heated he could feel it in his chest. Something shook in him while he stared into her deep, unblinking eyes.
Then she closed them, breaking the connection and everything came rushing back. The wave of sound and the press of the crowd was near overwhelming. He stood up, deciding to get out before the bars closed and check a few more while he let the liquor work its way out of his system, but as he turned he heard a commotion and jerked his gaze to the left.
A man in a rumpled suit extended his arms over the edge of the stage and grabbed hold of the dancer’s leg, jerking her toward the edge of the stage and making her lose her balance. From across the room, Tom could see the white stress marks around where his fingers bit into her skin. His friends laughed around him, egging him on as the girl grabbed the pole and tried to cling onto it. She kicked out with her free foot as Tom pushed through the crowd, and would have made contact if her heel hadn’t slipped sideways on her foot.
“Get the fuck off her.” He grabbed the man by the collar, yanked him back and gave him a short punch in the face. Then another. The man’s grip on the dancer slackened before he hit the ground. When his friends moved to defend him—a group of drunk, aged frat boys who didn’t stand a chance—Tom raised his eyebrows and turned the bulk of his body toward them.
Like deer facing a rabid wolf, they knew they had no chance of winning and chose retreat.
They gathered their friend and left the club. One of the bouncers who’d been only steps behind Tom showed them the way, nodding a thank you to Tom as he passed.
“Are you okay?” he asked the girl, who tightened the laces that wound up her exquisite legs, securing the heel back on her foot.
“Thanks to you,” she said, her generous lips curving in a smile. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He offered her a hand and helped her to her feet.
“I should finish the song,” she said, looking toward the bar at what he assumed was her boss, “but I think I’m done for the night.” Her eyes met his again and he felt that same sideways lurch in his stomach.
“Understandable,” he said.
“Thanks for saving me,” she said again, and her voice was still breathy. It made him think of soft sheets and dark nights. Something more than a quick giggle and fuck with a sweet butt. Things he suddenly wanted for the first time since he found out what happened to his father.
The shock was like cold water being dumped over his head, and he drew back.
“Anytime,” he said with a casual tone he didn’t feel. Then he forced himself to turn away from her and let her walk back over the stage and through the curtains at the back. But though his eyes strayed to the door, there was another hour left before the place closed and he couldn’t quite bring himself to leave.
“
G
et back on that stage,” Peter said, clenching his fist at his side. Grace knew he’d love to clean her clock, but he hadn’t ever hit one of the girls in front of her. He had to know it was a slippery slope that could end with him losing his club. A vein pounded in his forehead and she wondered if tonight would be the night he’d stroke out and leave her facing a difficult transition to a new manager.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Grace moved away from her boss and dropped down into the chair, reaching up to pull the pins on her scalp, then centering the wig again before pushing them back in to hold it in place. “My leg hurts from where that asshole dug in and it’s almost closing anyway.”
“Mandi never showed up and Kiki is already out of costume. You’re the only one left who can go out. Now get on that god damn stage, b--.” He cut off when Grace raised her eyebrows. “I need someone up there.”
“I’m here.” The bright voice rang through the back room and Grace turned, relief rushing through her as she saw the cheery face of her friend. The dread that ate at her spine dissolved away and she relaxed into the chair. “I’m sorry, I was tangled up with Mike again.” She slid into her seat next to Grace and grinned at her friend before transferring her gaze to Peter. “I’m really, really sorry.”
His lips turned down, but his eyes softened. He wasn’t better able to resist Mandi’s bubblegum voice and sugar sweetness than any other man. “It’s fine,” he said. “But get out there in the next five minutes. Jez is exhausted.”
“I’m on it,” she said, pulling off her coat and starting to take off the jeans and t-shirt she’d worn on the cab ride over. Peter blushed and turned away, before stalking back out to the bar.
“I still embarrass him,” Mandi said.
“I think he’s got a crush on you.” Grace reached out and placed her hand on Mandi’s. “I was really worried when you didn’t show up.”
“I’m so sorry,” Mandi said, squeezing Grace’s hand before switching her cotton bikini panties for the strappy blue ones that would get her bigger tips on stage. She moved with brisk efficiency, unembarrassed by her nudity. “Mike forgot to set an alarm and we fell asleep after we were done.”
“How was it?” Mandi had put off sleeping with Mike for two months, unconvinced that he was actually interested in her and not just nailing a stripper.
“Amazing. He put me in a cab when it was done.”
“Should have driven you himself.” Especially with everything that had happened in Detroit lately, Grace thought, but she didn’t want to remind Mandi that the coworker whose spot Grace had taken had disappeared, along with so many other women over the past year and a half.
“He offered, but I didn’t see the point in him coming all the way down here. I’m going back over there after breakfast, though.” She was dressed like a parade at Mardi Gras, all color and sparkle.
Grace fought the urge to find sunglasses. She rubbed her temples.
“I’m glad,” Grace said, picking up the thread of the conversation. “Do you want to do some shopping tomorrow?”
“After I wake up, I’ll call you. You taking off now?”
“I have to go out on the floor so Peter doesn’t pop, but I’m not going back on the pole. Won’t hurt me to get a drink at the bar before I take off.”
“Send me smiles,” Mandi said and headed over to the stage entrance. Grace gave her a thumbs up before pushing into the bar. Looking over at Mandi, she grinned and laughed when her friend smiled back, some of the weight on her heart lessening.
It was so different than backstage. The quiet and feminine scents of perfume and makeup that had surrounded her like a cocoon were blasted away by the slavering men and music, the scents of cigarette smoke and stale beer. Bright colored lights flashed through the dim, moving and lighting up everything in pulses like a freakish carnival. Pushing up to the bar, she gave the men around her a practiced smile and declined the offer of drinks.
“Get something yummy for yourself, guys. Mine are already on the house.” She smiled again. These men were respectful, hands off. The kind she didn’t mind standing near. “Can I get a vodka and ginger ale?”
“Of course.” The bartender poured her a plain ginger ale and handed it to her with a swirling straw. He knew she never actually wanted vodka, but it was easy enough to maintain the illusion that she was there for a good time, like the men who paid her check. No one liked a stripper who asked for plain soda.
The ginger ale was a little too flat and there wasn’t enough syrup to taste very good, but she still sucked it down fast and ordered another. Being grabbed on the stage wasn’t unheard of, but it still left her feeling gross and on edge, like the man had left invisible bruises on her skin. The first drink cleared her dry throat and the second gave her something to sip while she wound her way through the room, talking to men in flirty, silky tones before moving on to the next group.
Grace kept the man who’d pulled the drunk off her at the corner of her vision. Now that she was calm and collected, she wanted to thank him again, though he didn’t look like he’d welcome it. For a moment, he’d been open and she’d wanted to fall into his eyes. When his hand had touched hers, she’d felt a spark. Something quick and unexpected and completely unwelcome at this point in her life.
Then the man snapped closed and a wall went up.
But the spark was strong enough that she wanted to go and talk to him again. Just to convince herself that it had been adrenaline and nerves, not something deeper.
She’d talked to more men since starting at Ladies Night than she had in college, and it hadn’t raised her opinion of the gender. It was funny how they thought the dancers were beneath them when they were the ones spending half their paycheck to lightly touch the skin near her panties or take her coworkers into the back rooms. Every moment since she’d walked into this place for the first time had been a moment on the edge.
The edge of walking back out the door and never coming back again.
Maybe tonight would change things for her. Maybe she would accomplish what she’d set out to do and then be able to go back to what she still thought of as her real life, where her hair was its natural silky black, uncovered by cheap wigs, and clothes were selected for function, not sex appeal. This place was so much farther away from her home in California than she’d ever realized when she set out for Detroit, which was all steel and side-eyed looks on dark streets.
Detroit was her city though, now, more than the quiet pines and sleepy villages of northern California ever had been, even if she did miss her family.
So she took another sip of her ginger ale and went to talk to the man who’d made her spark.