Page 47 of Filthy Savage

I don’t even know the name of the club, but it doesn’t matter. The sign and the bike are fucking great. And I can tell they have put a hell of a lot of thought into everything.

This is Nash’s pet project, and it’s clear they’re going to make some serious bank for themselves and the club.

“These old, dirty motherfuckers,” King chuckles as we turn our bike engines off.

They are, too. A whole group of retired bikers opening a strip club. It could almost be the beginning of a bad joke. If the club didn’t look so fucking badass. If these bikers didn’t obviously love this shit.

Climbing off my bike, I follow King and Atomic, who lead the way. Nobody knocks on the front door, and we all walk through like we own the place, mainly because, technically, the club does own the bar.

The floors of the foyer are black marble, the walls light pink. There are crystal chandeliers hanging everywhere they can possibly hang.

It’s all perfect.

And the artwork on the walls? Gigantic black-and-white portraits of naked celebrities hang on the walls. Most of them prints from oldPlayboyspreads. It’s fucking amazing, and no way in hell did I think I would feel this way about this place.

“Welcome,” a voice calls out before its owner walks through a curtain of black beads.

“Fucking hell,” King says with a laugh before he makes his way to his father.

I watch as he shakes Nash’s hand, slapping him on the back a couple of times.

“This looks great,” I call out.

Nash’s eyes meet mine, and he takes a step back from King before jerking his chin toward the black-beaded curtain that hangs on the doorframe. The others don’t move immediately, but I am not them. I want to see what the rest of this place looks like.

So, without hesitation, I make my way toward the beaded doorway. The moment I step through the beads and into the main room of the strip club, I’m taken aback even more than I was walking into the entrance.

The floors are still black marble, the walls light pink, but the rest of the room is a hot pink. The poles, the furniture, all fucking hot pink.

It’s feminine in the way it needs to be, but also masculine as well. It works for its intention, and I have a feeling it’s going tobe fucking amazing when the main lights go down and the stage lights come up.

“Nash?” I call out.

He smiles, his face toward me, his gaze flicking around to each of us before he holds out his arms wide. “What do you think?” he asks.

“Out of this fucking world,” I say.

He laughs, taking a few steps backward, then clears his throat. “Opens in a week,” he murmurs. “Finishing up dancers interviews the next couple days.”

“It looks really good,” King adds. “Gonna be fucking amazing.”

“But that’s not why you’re here,” Nash grunts.

“It’s not why we’re here, at least not the whole reason,” Atomic states. “Although seeing this now, I’m glad we came. We needed to see all of this in person. Pictures would not do it justice.”

Nash jerks his chin toward a table. We all grab a chair and sink down around the empty table. There is a moment of silence where we all just stare at one another. I can hear everyone’s breathing, and it makes me feel on edge.

“Who is really in charge of the Southern Mafia?” Atomic asks.

Nash lets out a whistle. “Going for the big shit all at once?” he asks.

“Dad,” King mutters. “Tell us.”

Nash’s expression darkens, and I know that whatever he’s about to tell us, none of us are going to like. It seems like even he doesn’t like it. But we need to know what to expect so that maybe, just maybe, we can cut it off before it even begins.

SPENCER

There’sa knock on the cabin door, but I don’t jump. It doesn’t scare me. In fact, the sound makes me feel at ease. I walk to the door and look through the peephole just to be sure it’s Guts.

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