Page 22 of Savage Guardian

He didn’t have to tell her twice. Turning to lead her to the door, his sexy leather kutte pulled taut over his board, muscular back. The emblem of the Savage Raiders was awesome. A wolf’s head over two crossed battle axes, and the words Savage Raiders over the top, and the words Sons of the Gods underneath. It was bold. Striking. Perfect.

Inside the clubhouse, she barely kept her jaw from hitting the floor.

Chrome, hardwoods, and brick everywhere she looked. She’d never been inside a clubhouse before, but she’d read about them plenty in her books, but none of them were this…beautiful!

“This place is amazing,” she gushed, turning to give Hawk a big smile.

He opened his mouth to say something then closed it, his gaze caught on her face. He slowly blinked as if to clear his thoughts, then he shrugged.

“It’s alright,” he said.

She scoffed. “Alright? It looks like a freaking million-dollar man cave in here!” She looked down at the polished hardwood floor, complete with gouges and nicks. So much character just on the floors! “And it’s so clean!”

Hawk snickered at that, turning to walk toward the bar along the farthest wall before calling over his shoulder, “What did you expect, cigarette butts, broken beer bottles, and smoke stains?”

“And mysterious, sticky stains, and stripper poles, and strippers, and framed pictures of Harleys being straddled by that blonde chick from the Guns ‘n’ Roses video.”

Throwing back his head and bellowing a gut deep laugh into the room, Hawk had never looked sexier. The man was gorgeous in every way, right down to his long, thick fingers. But when he laughed, when the hard, badass biker fell away, there was a fun, carefree man underneath. She wanted to see more of that man. A man who made friends with awkward nobodies like Fae McCabe.

And hewasmaking friends, at least…she hoped so.

Because that’s all you can hope for with a man like him. You’re no Carrie.

Refusing to acknowledge that voice in that moment, she hurried across the room to lean against the bar, her eyes widening at the display of booze along the back wall.

“Damn. You got a bit of everything, don’t’cha?” she blurted, wincing at the awe in her voice. Lord, she sounded like a babe in the woods.

“Got a lot of different tastes, and we like to cater to every brother. And,” he threw his thumb over his shoulder and smirked at her, his smoky gray eyes dancing with mirth, “the stripper poles are over there.”

Stunned and yet curious, she leaned around him and looked. Sure enough, in the far corner of the gigantic common room, was a small stage, complete with stripper pole and comfy seating.

“Huh.”

Straightening, Fae tried not to think about whether Hawk had ever enjoyed the delights of the stripper pole, or if he’d ever been pleasured on one of the couches lining the walls, leaving mysterious, sticky stains behind.

“Preston,” Hawk called, making Fae look toward the end of the bar, where a good-looking man in a kutte with a prospect patch was standing. How had she not seen him when she came in?

Because you were gobsmacked over the freaking floors like an idiot. Oh, and you’re drooling over Hawk, too.Grimacing, she lifted her gaze and watched the other man saunter toward them, a grin on his face.

“Hawk, brother, what can I get you?” Preston asked before looking at Fae. “You want somethin’, darlin’? I’ll get you whatever you want.”

Hawk growled, “Yeah, fucker, she wants you to lay the fuck off and get us our drinks.”

Her mouth dropping open, Fae couldn’t answer.

“She’ll have Johnny,” Hawk ordered for her, giving her a moment to reel in her thoughts.

Had he just growled at the prospect because Preston had been flirting with her? That’s certainly what it looked like.

Nah, why would Hawk give a crap if Preston was flirting? More than likely, he was just being an ass to the prospect as a show of dominance. That’s what they did, right? Put the prospects through shit to make them prove their loyalty to the club?

Without another word or look in Fae’s direction, Preston poured two fingers of Johnny Walker in a tumbler and slid it across the scuffed yet polished bar top.

Grabbing his bottle of Rolling Rock, Hawk lifted it toward her.

“An lorg thu caraid an-còmhnaidh air do rathad,” Hawk said, his Gaelic fluid, beautiful.May you find friends on your way.

“Gun dèanar deagh fhortan agus droch uisge-beatha air do rathad,” she replied, grinning.May your road be made of good friends and bad whisky.

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