Page 75 of Filthy Devil

And it’s absolutely perfect.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-NINE

NASH

James holdson around my waist as I guide the bike toward the clubhouse. I’m not even sure I can call it a clubhouse any longer. It’s a pile of burned shit and crumbled concrete bricks.

Today, I’m meeting with a contractor to find out just how much this is going to cost. We didn’t have insurance. You can’t have insurance when you’re doing illegal shit. Too many things could go wrong, and the last thing we need are adjusters or anyone else poking around.

Now we have to pay for a whole new fucking building ourselves, which is the goddamn downfall. Thankfully, the strip club makes more than enough that we can afford to build a new clubhouse and do it better than before.

Pulling up to the rubble, I kill the engine and stare straight ahead. James climbs off my bike and moves toward the wreckage. Watching her for a moment, I can’t help but wonder what she’s thinking.

Throwing my leg over my bike, I disengage and make my way toward her. Placing my hand on the small of her back, I bendslightly and touch my lips to her temple before I speak. “You good, sweetheart?” I keep my voice soft.

She hums, turning her head slightly as she looks up at me. “I still can’t believe this happened.”

“Yeah,” I murmur. “It was bad. But we’ll be good, sweetheart.”

She gives me a sad smile and opens her mouth but shuts it as another bike pulls up. It’s the contractor, a brother from the chapter in Houston. He builds and remodels clubhouses exclusively, and he makes fucking plenty of money, especially since we’ve been adding all these new clubs to our fold.

I watch as he parks his bike and then disengages before he makes his way over to us. He jerks his chin, his lips curving up into a smile as his eyes slide over James and back to me. He doesn’t say anything to me, but he is staring a little harder than I fucking appreciate. Clearing my throat, I watch as he jerks his head back slightly and shifts his attention back to me.

“What you got for me?” I ask.

He nods a couple of times before he holds up his finger, spins around on his heels, and jogs toward the bike. I watch as he digs around in his saddle bags, then brings out some papers. He makes his way back to us, crouches down to the ground, and lays out the papers.

They’re plans.

“You already have plans drawn up?” I ask.

He turns his head slightly to look back at me. “Yeah, it wasn’t hard. Took the typical clubhouse format but made it fuckin’ better because you’re all the OGs, and you deserve fuckin’ better.”

I snort. OGs is right, heavy on the old part, but I don’t tell him that. Instead, I listen to him, my eyes scanning the plans as he speaks. “I put in five bedrooms with en suites on the top floor. The second floor is set up in a dorm room style with twobathrooms. Each bathroom will have three shower stalls and three bathroom stalls.

“The first floor will, of course, be the bar and the clubwhores’ quarters. Then, below, you’ll have the holding cells. Four of them, with two-way mirrors and a room to watch from the other side.”

“Holy shit, this is fuckin’ amazing. You’re a genius,” I mutter as I take in the use of the space. We won’t be cramped, every fucking body will have a place, and there will be room to grow.

“It’s a larger version of a plan I’ve built a few times. I think it’s the dream vision for a clubhouse. Perfect for you.”

It is perfect for me. Even though I don’t plan on staying here forever, it’s the perfect fucking clubhouse. “How much is this gonna cost me?” I ask.

That’s when his lips curve up into a grin. “A hell of a lot.”

Laughing, I shake my head a few times before I speak. “It’ll be worth it.”

I know it will, too. Even if I never spend one night there, I know it will be exactly what it needs to be for this club. “How long will it take?” I ask.

“Six months, start to finish if we get started right away.”

“Let’s do it, then.”

I don’t need the club to approve this. No vote fucking necessary. As president, I am making this shit fucking happen.

Then, once they’re set up, I’m out.

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