Page 5 of Claimed By The Club
“Morning,” he murmurs, voice low. “You look like you’ve been chasing trouble.”
“Might be trouble chasing me,” I reply. “Remember the rumor about a woman on the run from some shady outfit? She’s here. Name’s Sierra.”
Ghost sets down his wrench, regarding me with cool gray eyes. “And?”
“She wants a sit-down. Might be looking for protection.”
He lifts an eyebrow, but doesn’t comment. Ghost is a man of few words. He’s lethal when he needs to be, reliable as hell otherwise. If I need backup, he won’t hesitate.
“Keep an ear open,” I tell him. “Let me know if you catch wind of any new players in town.”
He inclines his head. “Will do.”
Next, I head to the clubhouse to drop off some receipts for Knox, our treasurer, but he’s not around. Instead, I run into Viper in the main lounge, sprawled on the couch with his boots kicked up. At twenty-eight, he’s the youngest of my top officers, impulsive and full of fire. He’s got sandy-blond hair, muscular arms covered in winding ink, and a grin that can charm the patches off a rival gang if he puts his mind to it.
He notices my expression and swings his legs off the couch. “Something up?”
“Potential new complication,” I say, setting my helmet on a side table. “A woman named Sierra. Possibly in big trouble. Might want our help. Meeting her at Ruby’s soon to figure out if it’s worth it.”
Viper’s eyes gleam with curiosity. “You want me to tag along?”
“Not yet. Let me see what she says first. Don’t want to overwhelm her.”
He stands, cracks his knuckles, and shrugs. “Sure, but I’ll keep my phone close.”
I appreciate his eagerness. He’s always ready to roll, which is exactly what we need in certain situations. “Thanks,” I murmur, heading to the door.
Time passes in a blur of small tasks: finalizing next week’s supply runs, checking on a complaint from a local shop owner who claims a few of our members got rowdy last weekend. By noon, I’m already keyed up, anticipating this meeting. I hop back on my bike and cruise down the main drag toward Ruby’sDiner, a squat white building with teal trim and a neon sign advertising milkshakes.
Inside, the air conditioner fights the relentless desert heat. Red vinyl booths line the windows, and a counter with spinning stools stands opposite. It’s not crowded, just a few locals sipping coffee or eating lunch. I spot Sierra at a booth near the back, her posture rigid, eyes on the entrance. She’s changed into a flowing blouse the color of soft lilac, but she still looks like a misplaced city dweller.
I slide into the seat across from her, setting my cut aside so I don’t snag it on the vinyl. She gives me a nod, then glances at the menu without really reading it. A waitress in a pastel uniform approaches, setting water glasses on the table.
“Any drinks?” the waitress asks, pen poised over a small notepad.
“Iced tea,” Sierra murmurs. She seems preoccupied.
“Same for me,” I add. The waitress saunters off.
Sierra levels me with a steady gaze. “Thanks for meeting me.”
I lean forward, elbows on the table. “Let’s hear it. What kind of trouble are you in?”
She inhales, fiddling with the edges of a paper napkin. “Someone I trusted stole funds from our company. Now I’m holding the bag for a debt I didn’t incur. They’re connected to some biker gang—maybe more than one.”
I watch her face closely, taking in the subtle tightening around her mouth. She’s telling the truth, or at least most of it. “And they want their money back?”
She grimaces. “They want way more than that. Threats, harassment, and I’m pretty sure they’d do worse if they found me. I need time to figure out how to fix this. Maybe I can recover the stolen funds, or pay them off if I can reorganize my finances.”
My gut churns. Extortion is common enough in our world, but it’s messy if you’re dealing with hot-headed criminals. “You think you can handle that alone?”
She forces a humorless smile. “No, which is why I was hoping the local MC might… give me some breathing room. In return, I can help streamline your businesses or any legit ventures you have. I’m good at seeing potential in overlooked places.”
I consider her words. Renegade Cross has been trying to diversify, moving away from strictly underground deals. Having someone who understands marketing or branding could be valuable, especially if we want to keep the cops off our backs. “What kind of terms are you offering?”
She hesitates. “I can’t pay you upfront, but I can promise a percentage of any new revenue streams I develop. Once I’m back on my feet, I could also help strengthen your club’s public image.”
I rub my jaw, thinking about the risk. Harboring her might invite conflict with whichever gang is hunting her. But if we don’t help, she could get cornered, and that problem might spill over into our town anyway.
