Page 5 of Rook

This next part—this was the thing that almost had me considering the idea of fate.

I was unabashedly eavesdropping on their conversation, hearing things about a pain-in-the-ass parole officer, about a mom in a mental health facility that he wasn’t allowed to visit, and a crazy idea to marry to have access to her.

See, biker gangs were dangerous. To associate with. To date.

But being married to one? That offered a level of protection that was almost unmatched. Even if the marriage was a sham, I imagined the same rules applied.

You don’t fuck with an old lady.

And I could really, really use not to be fucked with.

When one of the other bikers came over with a group of girls, I knew what would follow: a trip to the clubhouse. Music, drinking, fun, sex.

While the biker had been a bit reluctant about the scheme his friend had come up with, maybe I could do some feeling around, see if there was any chance he’d actually consider it.

Plus, you know, see if the guy was someone I could risk being married to.

It was absurd.

But it sounded better than another night sleeping in the backseat of my car, praying I didn’t wake up to see someone staring down at me, arm moving as he stroked his dick.

That might sound like some random horror story that might never happen. But it had happened to me already. Twice. And the second guy had been actively trying with his free hand to pull my door open or push my window down.

So when the ride-share pulled up, I hopped in the front, hoping that everyone was too excited to question my appearance.

The clubhouse wasn’t what I was used to, what anyone could have expected.

From my experience, they were all small, low, mostly windowless buildings. Old bars or defunct steakhouses, that kind of thing.

This clubhouse was a damn warehouse. Three enormous floors of space.

Whoever these bikers were, whatever they were involved with, they had money.

And where there was money, there was protection.

Maybe this plan wasn’t as absurd as I’d been trying to convince myself.

We all walked in a crowd up to the front doors as one of the bikers—the tall tank of a man with the military posture named Colt—warned us about the club cat named—unimaginatively—Cat, who hated women. And, if we weren’t careful, would try to scratch at us as we passed.

The inside of the clubhouse was nothing like I’d imagined. Sure, it had some of the hallmarks of a biker clubhouse: a full bar, big TV, stereo, pool table, even darts. But everything was upscale. And the warehouse itself had been fully updated.

It was industrial yet warm and inviting.

The floor plan was open, with a living room area to the right, the gaming tables and such to the left, and a massive kitchen toward the back.

Beside that was a hall with a few doors and an actual freight elevator.

“What’s everyone drinking?” the biker who was covered in tattoos asked, waving over toward the stocked bar.

There was a chorus of requests for mixed drinks as I made my way toward the kitchen, going for the coffee machine. They had one of those fancy ones that looked like it belonged behind the counter at a coffee shop.

I found the mugs, milk, and the espresso. But then I had no idea what the hell to do. I was more of a drip coffee kind of girl. “Need a hand?”

Turning, I was surprised to find the biker with the P.O. problem standing a few feet off, head tipped to the side as he watched me, but kept his distance.

“I don’t even know where to put this,” I said, shaking the bag of espresso grounds.

He moved toward me, taking the bag, then loading up the machine. “You want any flavor in this? The girls keep just about every flavor here,” he said, tapping the cabinet above the coffee machine.

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