Page 21 of Havoc

If it wasn’t for that uptight, rigid, superior attitude of hers, I’d have been honing in on her for a potential old lady. But since she was all those things, I wasn’t interested in pursuing her seriously. Flirting and having a little fun might be in the cards if she relaxed a bit. And, of course, if she wanted me.

I sat there at the table with a non-alcoholic beer in one hand, half-listening to the music on the jukebox as I thought over what that would even look like. I had to admit, I liked the thoughts running through my head. In fact, I let my imagination run away with me a bit. Riley was a good, strong woman. Quality in every way. I’d fucking love to make it past all those professional walls she’d built—for one night, anyway. I was so caught up in my own fantasy that I almost didn’t notice when she walked in.

Looking up just in time, I saw her walk through the front door, and I motioned her over to my table. She crossed the bar area to get to me. The place was dimly lit, and the music pouring out of the jukebox was hard rock with a steady thump of bass. As she hesitated near the front entrance, I picked up on several things at once.

There was a hint of nervousness about her. Barely perceptible—but there, nonetheless. I could tell by the way she anxiously glanced at one of the pool tables after the too-loud crack of balls was followed by raucous laughter from several of my club brothers.

As she weaved through the throng of brothers dancing with their old ladies, I noticed she didn’t really fit in here at the Dark Slayers clubhouse. She was the only woman wearing a cute little pantsuit, along with high heels and fucking pearl earrings. She looked polished, like she was on her way to an office gig. Not one hair was out of place. Too well-groomed in general. Among all the club girls in sequined belly shirts and the old ladies wearing property cuts, she stuck out like a sore thumb.

Her nostrils flared when she was halfway across the dance floor, no doubt catching the scent of beer, sweat, and leather. Although she was good at schooling her expression, I caught the barest flicker of repugnance for a split second. Ah, I guessed bikers were an acquired taste—especially for a prim and proper young lady like Riley Dalton.

When she reached my table, I saw that she was carrying that planner she’d had with her before. It was a brutal reminder that she had her life nicely organized and was here to fix mine. Something about that ticked me off.

“I thought the plan was for you to blend in and acquaint yourself with club life, so you can be of use to me.”

She laid her planner down on the table and put her hands on her hips, that classic power pose women used when they wanted us to fall in line. “I’m here, on time, and ready to work.”

Plucking the beer out of my loose grip, she set it aside. “Wish I could say the same for you.” Gesturing at the half-empty glass, she asked, “How many of these have you had already?”

I grabbed my near beer and downed the rest in one drink before growling, “It’s none of your damn business. Have a seat. We need to talk.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line as she sat across from me. “That’s why I came here tonight.”

I frowned at her. “Really? I thought you came here to embarrass the fuck out of me.”

Her expression turned bewildered in a heartbeat. “Say what now?”

I gestured around the room. “Do you see any other women around dressed for corporate success? I look like I’m meeting with my goddamn probation officer or something.”

“I’m dressed to work. They’re dressed to recreate. That’s the difference.”

“I thought we had an understanding. We were going to meet up so you could learn about club life, and we would work on goals.”

“I don’t need to dress like a whore to help you with your goals.”

I leaned over the table and told her sternly, “No, but you’re going to anyway, ‘cause living is learning, sweetheart.” When she opened her mouth to tell me off, I cut her off. “And just so you know, we don’t call them club whores because that’s disrespectful.”

She glanced around anxiously again before apologizing. “Sorry about that. I was certain bikers called the girls who hung around the clubhouse whores.”

“For starters, all kinds of women hang around our clubhouse. They ain’t all whores.” I took a moment to break it down for her real quick. “First, a lot of the brothers have old ladies—women they’re in a relationship with. They might be living together or even married. You can easily pick them out of the crowd. They’re the only women wearing property cuts with their old man’s name on the back.”

“I know all about that. Zoe and Ali wear property cuts.”

“I’m glad you got that squared away. Now, like you said, we have club whores. We call them club bunnies for obvious reasons.”

“Again, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed based on what I’ve seen in the media.”

“It’s fine. But you should also know we have women who visit our club as guests. They’re often invited by a brother or an old lady. They tend to dress a little more conservatively, like the old ladies. Lots of jeans and t-shirts.” Gesturing to her, I added, “You can wear a suit to the clubhouse if you want, but it’s not very respectful of biker culture.”

Confusion jumped back onto her face. “Are you being serious right now? I can’t tell.”

Suddenly, I was done trying to talk to Riley Dalton about biker culture. She could learn it all at the school of hard knocks for all I cared. “Never mind, you can wear what the hell you want.”

She shot forward in her seat. “There’s no need to take that attitude.”

I let out a sigh and gestured to her planner. “Okay, back to business. Let’s go ahead and get started. I wanna get this over with.”

I’d managed to rattle her, and I wasn’t even sorry. She seemed to scramble as she opened her planner and pulled out a pen.

---