Page 16 of Lawless in Leather

Raina froze, then turned back. “You want to come to Madame R?”

“Sure. Well, Sara and I do. Not sure we’ll drag the guys down. I’ve been to a couple of burlesque shows in Manhattan. They’re great.”

At least she wasn’t a complete newbie. That was a relief. The last thing she needed was Maggie Jameson scandalized. Of course, if the Saints were going to be scandalized about burlesque, they wouldn’t have hired her in the first place.

“I’ll leave your name at the door,” Raina said. “Come anytime.”

Chapter Four

Mal actually left Deacon Field before the sun went down on Thursday night. Actually he left at three, because he had to go into Manhattan to meet with one of his MC Shield clients. Half the time it was hard to remember that life outside the Saints existed—but he did have another company to run. Before he could do that, however, he had to go home and change because he’d insisted on climbing into one of the service tunnels above the locker rooms and checking out why the security feed in that spot kept dying on him. In the process he’d covered himself in dust and grime and, although he wasn’t an inveterate suit wearer like Lucas, even he had to draw the line somewhere.

The construction detour was still in place and he found himself slowing as he approached Madame R. He was almost past the club when his brain sent up a ping that something wasn’t the same and he did a U-turn and rode back. He parked across the street and sat on the bike, staring at the club, trying to figure out what had snagged his attention. At this time of day, the club sign wasn’t lit but that wasn’t unexpected.

He took in the whole street. This part of Brooklyn wasn’t the best area but it was one getting more and more gentrified. There were Realtor signs on a couple of the buildings and one construction site where the sign proclaimed that new and exclusive condos would soon be available to delight buyers.

Fairly standard stuff. He let his eyes drift back down the street to Raina’s club, still trying to figure out what was different.

He narrowed his eyes, squinting against the sun, as he studied the building. Three rows of windows, the bottom two floors painted out, the top one with curtains that were drawn. And above the door, a silly little pink-and-black-striped awning. It shaded the very glossy black door. Bingo.

That was it. When he’d been to the club the first time, the door had been dark pink. The same pink as the stripes in the awning.

She’d repainted her door.

Why had she repainted her door?

None of your business, Coulter.

But even as the thought floated through his mind, his hand was killing the ignition on the Harley and he was swinging his leg free of the bike.

In his experience, the main reason a door got repainted in a business—other than a refurb of that business—was if it had been graffitied or damaged.

His gut tightened.

Was someone messing with Raina?

He didn’t really have time to process why that pissed him off before he was across the street and pressing the intercom by the door after he’d tried the handle and found it locked.

The door smelled like fresh paint. But he couldn’t see any signs of damage beneath the glossy surface.

If it was a whole new door, there’d be no paint smell. Graffiti then.

Which could be just teenagers being teenagers but he was going to find out what was going on.

The intercom crackled into life. “We’re closed.” A man’s voice.

“I’m looking for Raina Easton,” Mal said.

“Is she expecting you?” The tone was crackly and surly. Mal hoped, for Raina’s sake, that this guy wasn’t on her customer service team.

“No.”

“Then we’re closed. Come back at seven.”

“Tell her it’s Malachi Coulter.”

“The Malachi Coulter who owns the Saints?” The voice was still crackly but no longer surly.

“That’s the one.”

---