Page 16 of Savage Daddies

One of the club whores turns a corner and bares her teeth. Tiffany is her name, and her blonde, blown-out hair sits voluminous on top of her head like a cloud. Red lingerie and stockings cling to her oily skin. She looks tanned for a woman who spends the majority of her time inside.

“Boys.” She smiles. Then her gaze shifts to the girl. This propels her forward. “Who is this doll?” The smile extends. “You’re gorgeous. Us whores have been waiting impatiently for a new girl like you to join.” An excited squeal leaves her mouth. “You’re gonna fit right in, although first you’ll need to lose a few clothes.”

The girl pinches her brows together and turns to us with a questioning look in her eye. “Whores?”

“Zoe isn’t here for…that,” says Poet.

Zoe. A beautiful name for an even more beautiful girl. Her eyes extend to the door. She should make a run for it—that would make things easier for us.

But also, she’s in trouble.

The Venom Vultures clubhouse regularly sees excessive drinking, prostitution, and sometimes death, but an inside voice instructs me to keep her here—all of that seems better than where she came from.

Justwherehas she come from?

Tiffany lowers her brows. “Then whatisshe here for?”

I seal my lips and escort Zoe through the clubhouse, taking her out of the main room and into one of the empty bedrooms. Good thing it’s quiet, and that most riders are out bounty hunting—her presence here would raise questions. Not very pleasant ones, like how much for a night alone.

Although she doesn’t seem short of money.

“What the hell?” she says as soon as the door closes behind all four of us. “A whorehouse? I should’ve known.” Flicking away a piece of red hair, she storms back toward the door. “I changed my mind. I want to leave.”

I palm the door.

She tugs on the handle. “Let go.”

“No. You’re not safe.”

“Correct,” she spits. “I was safer on my own.”

“This isn’t a whorehouse,” says Poet. Of course he’s first to speak up. The transition from high school teacher to outlaw motorcyclist is a big one, and he probablydoesn’t want the news getting back to her friends.

“Then what is it?” She steps away from the door. Takes a look at the bed.

“They’re washed, by the way. The sheets.” Wrangler gestures for her to sit. “It’s a comfy mattress, and you look like you need a sit-down.”

Weird thing to say to a girl in a room with three men twice her age.

“I’ll pass on the sit-down.”

“All due respect…” I clear my throat. “You asked to come inside.”

That softens her expression slightly. “I know, and I signed no contract about staying here against my own will. I want to leave now, thank you.”

“Are you gonna tell us why you’re all the way out here wearing Chanel and”—Poet narrows his eyes—“Louboutin heels?”

The confused look on Zoe’s face suggests that there are multiple answers. Is it the drastic wardrobe change that Poet is most curious about, or the trek out into the Nevada desert? We’re ten miles out from the city. People don’t just stroll out here for the fun of it.

“Look,” says Poet. “We can help you.”

“Help me how?” Zoe crosses her arms. “I’m not a child anymore, Mr. Reeves.”

“If you want to be addressed as an adult, stop calling me Mr. Reeves.”

“Where are you living?” I ask.

“In Vegas.”

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