Page 6 of Claimed By The Club
Before I can respond, the waitress returns with our iced teas. We pause for a moment, letting her set them down and leave. Sierra sips hers, eyes darting to the window.
“You scared?” I ask softly.
She sets the glass down. “Terrified. But I’m not letting that paralyze me.”
A flicker of respect surfaces inside me. She’s not some shrinking violet hoping for a savior. She’s looking for a partnership—albeit one born from desperation.
“All right, Sierra,” I say, leaning back against the booth. “You come to the clubhouse tomorrow morning, nine sharp. Bring whatever you’ve got on these people chasing you. We’ll talk terms and see if there’s a mutual benefit. Deal?”
Her shoulders sag, relief lighting her eyes. “Deal.”
We finish our drinks in a tense silence, neither of us sure what happens next. As we leave, the sun blazes high in a cloudless sky, heat radiating off the asphalt. She thanks me again but keeps her distance, like she’s afraid to trust me completely. I don’t blame her. Trust isn’t something I offer freely either.
Before parting ways, I meet her gaze, voice calm. “If you see any unfamiliar bikers sniffing around, call the bar. Ask for me or one of my officers, got it?”
She nods, then climbs into her SUV, pulling the door shut with a resolute thud. I watch her drive off, that white vehicle disappearing in a haze of swirling sand.
An uneasy sense of responsibility settles on my shoulders as I walk to my motorcycle. Sierra’s problems could become our own, but maybe her skill set will prove useful. God knows we need someone savvy enough to keep us out of legal hot water while still letting us maintain our edge.
Firing up my engine, I ride back toward the clubhouse, mind already spinning with possibilities. Taking Sierra under our wing might be a game-changer—or a catastrophe. Either way, I’m about to find out just how determined she is. If she can stand her ground in a place like Clearwater Springs, maybe she’s worth the risk.
3
SIERRA
Ileave the Desert Rose Motel a little before nine, determined to make a good impression despite the anxiety nibbling at my nerves. My SUV rumbles along the empty road, the sun already glaring at full strength. Ahead, the blacktop shimmers with mirages. Every mile out here looks the same: endless sand, scattered cacti, and battered signs warning of sharp turns. Still, I trust the directions Frost gave me at Ruby’s Diner yesterday.
When I finally spot a squat building surrounded by motorcycles, I exhale in cautious relief. A hand-lettered metal arch reads Renegade Cross MC, and underneath, a stylized skull with extended wings. My heart thuds as I roll into the dirt lot, tires crunching on loose gravel. This place isn’t exactly inviting—concrete walls streaked with dust, a chain-link fence, and barbed wire curled along the top. Yet, I feel an odd sense of anticipation.
I park near a line of gleaming bikes, noticing how each one reflects a different personality—some decorated with flames, others matte black, one wrapped in elaborate snakeskin designs. My reflection skitters across polished chrome as I pass by, hugging my tote bag against my side. Inside that bag are documents—bank statements, a handful of receipts,and screenshots of threatening texts. Sharing them makes me uneasy, but if this club is going to protect me, they need to know the extent of my predicament.
A heavy metal door on the building’s side stands slightly ajar. I step closer, hearing muffled male voices. For a split second, I wonder if I should knock or just walk in. Before I can decide, a tall figure steps into the doorway. He’s broad-shouldered, with sandy-blond hair tied back in a small knot and bright green eyes that cut straight to me. Tattoos wind along his arms—one of them depicting a coiled viper that seems ready to strike.
His gaze sweeps over me, curiosity flickering there. “Hey, you must be Sierra,” he says, voice rich and friendly.
I nod, trying not to let nerves swallow my words. “That obvious?”
He smirks, crossing his arms over his chest. “We don’t get many newcomers, especially none that look like you. I’m Viper, by the way.”
I’d guess he’s in his late twenties. There’s a youthful energy to him, like he’s ready for action at the drop of a hat. Despite his size, he doesn’t carry the same grim air I’ve sensed from other bikers. Something about him feels approachable. Still, I don’t drop my guard entirely.
“Nice to meet you,” I manage, shifting my stance. “Frost told me to be here at nine.”
“Right on time,” Viper says, stepping aside and gesturing for me to enter. “Come in. He’s in the back with Ghost.”
I follow him through a short hallway that leads into a spacious room, half lounge and half bar area. The smell of leather, tobacco, and old beer hangs in the air. A beat-up pool table occupies the center, while a sagging sofa lines one wall. The overhead lights buzz softly, illuminating decades of scuffed floors and patched-up walls.
Three steps in, I spot Frost at a table tucked near the far side. He’s wearing his usual black tee under a leather cut, dark hair neatly trimmed. Unlike the casual grin Viper offered, Frost’s expression is stern, his ice-blue eyes reflecting little emotion. Seated next to him is a man I’ve never seen. He’s tall, lean, and carries himself with a quiet intensity. His ash-blond hair is cropped close on the sides, and intricate tattoos of ravens and Celtic knots cover one arm. Something about him suggests he’s comfortable in silence.
My stomach does a nervous flip. Frost stands and lifts his chin in greeting. “Morning. Glad you found the place.”
I catch the new guy’s gaze. It’s a pale gray, almost silver, and it doesn’t waver. There’s a quiet power in the way he observes me, like he’s cataloging every detail.
Frost gestures between us. “Sierra, meet Ghost. He’s our VP and enforcer. Ghost, this is Sierra King.”
Ghost inclines his head. “Hey.”
One word, and yet it vibrates with intent. I swallow, trying to appear calm.
