Page 3 of Claimed By The Club
I don’t know much about biker clubs, except for rumors about their power and their codes of loyalty. Right now, I don’t have many options. If I want to survive, I need allies. And if a local MC knows how to handle dangerous people, maybe they’ll help me—if the price is right. I pull my phone close to my chest and listen to the slow whir of the AC, letting the idea take shape. Tomorrow, I’ll start asking questions.
But as exhaustion pulls me under, my last conscious thought is a murmur of self-assurance. I haven’t come all this way just to fail. I’m Sierra King. I built a fashion empire from scratch. I can handle a few outlaw bikers. The real question is whether they can handle me.
2
FROST
Iwake up before sunrise, same as every day, and slide out of my old army cot in the back room of the Renegade Cross clubhouse. The place is quiet except for the low hum of the fridge in the makeshift kitchen. Outside, the sky holds a faint band of silver, a prelude to the scorching sun that’ll fry Clearwater Springs by noon. I take a second to roll the stiffness out of my shoulders. Since I’m President of this club, morning peace never lasts long.
I wander past the main lounge where we keep a battered pool table and a couch that’s seen better days. There’s a faint smell of stale beer and leather, the aroma of the life I chose a decade ago. I was a lanky nineteen-year-old when I patched in, full of piss and vinegar. Over the years, I learned the ropes and pushed to evolve beyond street brawls. Now I run this MC, balancing the line between survival and respect.
Pushing open the double doors, I step outside into the dusty yard. My black boots crunch over gravel while I scan the row of bikes parked under a rusted tin roof. Each one gleams with personal touches: custom paint jobs, engraved handlebars, fresh detailing. I keep them maintained, not out of vanity but becausewe take pride in our rides. This club might operate on the fringes of society, but we have our own code.
Marian, one of the few female members we’ve got emerges from the side of the lot, wiping her hands on a greasy rag. She must’ve spent half the night working on her bike, a sleek black chopper named Nightfall. She spots me, lifts her chin in greeting, and strides over. “We got a newcomer in town,” she says without preamble. “She’s…different.”
“Different how?” I motion for her to follow me to the picnic table by the fence. Morning light falls on her ponytail, the purple streaks catching the glow. She looks amped up, like she’s got news that’ll rattle me.
“She’s fancy. Urban, stylish… the type that stands out out here,” Marian continues, leaning an elbow on the table. “Met her at Ironwood Bar last night. Claims she’s just passing through, but she’s renting a room at the Desert Rose.”
I frown, picturing the battered neon sign over that rundown motel. People rarely stay there unless they’ve got nowhere else to go. “She trouble?”
“Hard to say. She was jumpy. I caught her scanning the room like she expected someone to pull a gun on her. She gave me the name Sierra.”
A new name in town can mean a million things—usually none of them good. My gut tightens, and I drag my fingers through my short dark hair. “We’ve been hearing rumblings that a rival outfit’s hunting a woman who owes them money. Maybe it’s connected.”
Marian nods slowly. “She didn’t volunteer much, but something about her vibe screamed desperation. She had that big-city confidence, though. Like she’s used to bigger stakes than we are.”
“Clearwater Springs might look small-time, but that’s only on the surface,” I murmur. “You get any sense she’s lying about her reasons for being here?”
Marian shrugs, fiddling with the silver ring on her middle finger. “Couldn’t tell. She seemed guarded. Asked a lot of questions about the area, about places to stay long-term. She definitely isn’t on vacation.”
I let out a slow breath. This could go two ways: Sierra’s presence might be harmless, or she might drag chaos straight to our doorstep. Either way, I need to find out. “Thanks for the heads-up,” I say. “Get some shut-eye. I’ll handle it.”
Marian throws me a nod and heads into the clubhouse. The morning sun creeps higher as I decide my next move. If Sierra’s attracting heat from some shady group, the last thing I want is that heat exploding into a war we didn’t ask for. Renegade Cross keeps a tight hold on this territory. Outlaws or not, we prefer to avoid unnecessary bloodshed, especially with the local cops already itching for an excuse to raid us.
I hop onto my bike, a matte-black Harley with a custom seat, and fire up the engine. The rumble resonates through my chest, grounding me. Once I turn onto the main road, a wave of hot air washes over me, sand blowing in small gusts across the pavement.
The Desert Rose Motel appears up ahead, its flickering sign still on even though it’s morning. I park near the office, scanning the lot for anything suspicious. One white SUV stands out—a city license plate, spotless exterior, tinted windows. It’s so unlike to the collection of dusty pickups that usually populate this place.
Climbing off my bike, I straighten my leather cut. The patch reads Renegade Cross MC, a stylized skull with raven wings. I walk toward the motel’s second-level balconies. Halfway across the lot, I spot a figure trying to pop the hood of that pristine SUV—skinny jeans, bright orange tank top, and long black hairwoven in a sleek ponytail. She’s muttering under her breath, fiddling with the latch.
“Sierra?” I ask, voice firm enough to carry.
She spins around, eyes wide. Her lips part in surprise, and I immediately register that she’s even more striking up close—dark-brown skin glowing under the sun, well-defined cheekbones, a posture that screams defiance despite the anxiety flickering in her gaze.
One word to describe her: Stunning. She reminds me of those black barbies that kids like to play.
“Do I… know you?” Her tone wavers between startled and guarded.
“I’m Frost,” I answer, tilting my head slightly. “I heard you were asking around town, looking for a place to settle. Figured I’d see if you need help.”
She hesitates, glancing at my cut. I can almost see the wheels turning in her head—deciding whether I’m friend, foe, or some twisted mix of both. “My car won’t start,” she finally says, gesturing at the half-open hood. “It was fine when I got here, but now it’s acting like the battery’s dead, and I’m no mechanic.”
I step closer, ignoring the suspicious look in her eyes. “Mind if I take a look?”
She steps aside, allowing me to fiddle with the latch until the hood pops up. I peer inside, checking connections. The battery cable’s loose. I tighten it, then grab a small flashlight from my back pocket to examine the wiring. “Try it now,” I call out after a minute.
Sierra climbs into the driver’s seat, turns the key, and the engine sputters to life. Relief momentarily brightens her features. She kills the ignition and steps out, wiping her palms on her jeans. “Thanks,” she says quietly.
