Page 23 of Property of the Hellfire Riders

“Was last night your first time at our little establishment?”

"Yeah, though my friend’s been here before," she says, her voice smooth. Something’s off about this one, just like that last single, young too hot to be alone here woman who mysteriously wandered into my clubhouse.

Except, this one’s a bit more aware of the delicate situation she’s in.

“Who’s your friend?” I ask.

”Laina—she sort of looks like me, but is a bit shorter. She was here just the other night.”

I nod, keeping my doubts tucked behind a polite smile. "Sure, I don’t doubt she was. Lots of people are welcome here, as long as they're a friend of a friend."

Her smile widens, perhaps a touch too quickly.

“Did you speak to her?” She’s too polite for the typical tart these two usually bring back.

“It’s hard to say. I talk to a lot of people.” My eyes skip down to her empty hands. “I’m guessing Tank never got you that drink?” I gesture towards the kitchen. “Can I get you that drink?”

“That'd be great, thanks.”

“Shit, my bad,” Tank laughs. “Sorry about that.”

She should know that drinks are the last thing on his mind right now. It’s more about what’s between her legs.

I walk over to the bar cart beneath the massive bay window. She’s silent but watchful.

It could be my paranoia, but two hot single women in a week show up at my clubhouse unannounced—it reeks of the feds.

I glance over my shoulder at her. If she’s a Fed then she’d know what these two are up to, so is this their newest plan. Fuck her for information?

If they want to dance, then let’s fucking dance.

The first one got off easy.

But I’m not feeling so nice today.

I pull out two glasses, setting them on the counter with a deliberate slowness, buying time to figure her out. "So, Izzy, what’s your poison?"

"Whiskey, if you have it," she answers.

I nod, pouring the amber liquid into the glasses.

"Neat?"

"Perfect," she replies.

I turn around, my arms flexing as I hand her one. She takes it, her fingertips brushing mine, a calculated move or just an innocent touch, hard to tell.

Her eyes linger on my chest a fraction of a second longer than they should and as casually as I can, I scan her up and down. She's definitely prettier up close, with pouty lips that beg to be bitten and a jawline that could cut ice.

“Cheers,” I say, giving her the warmest smile I can muster. If she was smart enough, she’d know to get the hell out of her.

We clink glasses.

"Thanks," she sips, watching me over the rim of her glass. Tank and Vance have gotten into a heated conversation on the couch over some bull shit about who has the better engine in their motorcycles. I run my hand over my jaw, wondering if either of them had the thought she’s working with the police or a rival gang. All they’d see is a pretty face and a good pair of tits.

Maybe I’m not giving them enough credit.

Their voices fade into a background hum as she and I size each other up. It's a dance I know well—information traded in half-truths and smiles.

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