Page 7 of Claimed By The Club
Viper ambles around me, flops onto a barstool, and props his elbows on the counter. “So, let’s see those papers,” he says, grinning. “I wanna find out how a fashion guru’s gonna help us big, bad bikers.”
Frost shoots Viper a look, but there’s no real anger behind it. Instead, he motions for me to set my things on the scarred wooden table. I perch on a rickety chair across from him, with Ghost quietly taking a seat to my left. Viper remains at the bar but swivels his stool so he can watch.
I take a deep breath, pulling out the folder I prepared. “I brought documentation showing my former partner’s embezzlement, as well as a summary of my personal finances and brand contracts. She drained our accounts, leaving me withdebts tied to some dangerous people. If I can reorganize or salvage certain deals, I can repay most of what’s owed.”
Ghost leans over, scanning a page with a faint furrow in his brow. Frost flips through the statements methodically. His face reveals nothing, but I sense he’s evaluating every line. Viper cranes his neck from his stool, curiosity all over his face.
After a minute, Frost looks up. “You said these debt collectors are connected to a rival gang. Any idea which one?”
I chew my lip, remembering the messages I received. “I’ve heard the name Iron Reapers. They mentioned that if I don’t cooperate, I’ll face them and any affiliates they choose to bring in.”
Ghost’s jaw tightens, but he remains silent. Frost passes a couple of sheets to him, then meets my gaze. “The Iron Reapers cause chaos up in the next county, mostly loansharking and intimidation. If they think you owe them serious money, they’ll keep coming.”
“I know,” I say, voice steady despite the lump in my throat. “That’s why I need protection… or at least time to figure things out. I can pay them back if I get my affairs in order. In the meantime, I can offer you something valuable.”
Viper raises an eyebrow. “Which is?”
“My business expertise,” I reply, sliding a smaller stack of documents forward. “I’m not bragging when I say I’m good at branding and finding profit where others don’t. It might not seem like it applies to a motorcycle club, but if you’re expanding or maintaining legit businesses, I could help increase your revenue streams.”
Ghost rests his elbows on the table. “We dabble in bars, garages, and a couple shops around town. Most are on the edge of profitability. Are you suggesting you can fix that?”
“I’m suggesting I can help,” I clarify. “Add marketing. Modernize some aspects. You might laugh, but I managedto turn a simple clothing line into a nationwide brand. I understand how to create buzz and streamline operations.”
I half-expect them to smirk, but none of them do. Frost studies me for several heartbeats. I can’t read his expression, but I sense he isn’t dismissing the idea. Finally, he sets the pages down. “We’ll consider it. But we have rules. Loyalty is big. You cross us, there’s no going back.”
The implication isn’t lost on me. Betrayal isn’t tolerated in this world. I swallow hard but hold his gaze. “I understand. I don’t plan on crossing anyone. I just want a chance to rebuild.”
Ghost nods, tapping a finger against the table. “We’ll have to run this by a few key members and see if the majority supports bringing in an outsider.”
“Fair,” I say. “I’ll do whatever it takes to prove I’m worth the trouble.”
A loaded silence follows, during which I feel their scrutiny almost like a weight on my chest. Viper breaks the tension by pushing off the barstool and walking over. He settles at the border of the pool table, arms folded. “You look rattled,” he says, not unkindly. “Everything all right?”
I realize my hands are clenched in my lap. Exhaling, I straighten my spine. “Just a lot to process. I’m aware this situation isn’t ideal.”
“Doesn’t mean it can’t work,” he replies. There’s a warmth in his green eyes, some genuine empathy under that confident exterior.
Frost slides the folder back to me. “We have a club meeting later. I’ll bring this up. In the meantime, you can hang around, get to know the place.”
I glance around, taking in the mismatched furniture, the walls peppered with photos of club rides and gatherings. It’s a different universe from the sleek offices and high-rise condos Ifrequented before. Yet, there’s a certain raw authenticity here that appeals to me, even if it feels precarious.
Ghost stands, nodding at Frost, then quietly addresses me. “We’re planning to head out soon, check on a bar we own across town. You can come if you want. See how we operate.”
I hesitate, but curiosity wins out. “All right. I’ll go.”
We move through another corridor lined with battered metal lockers. I notice a few doors, presumably offices or storage. Frost stops by one to grab a leather jacket, his movements efficient and poised. Viper runs a hand over his short knot of hair, checking his pockets for keys. Ghost remains silent, every step measured, gaze scanning his surroundings. I get the impression he sees everything, even the smallest shift in the environment.
Outside, the desert sun blasts us. My eyes take a second to adjust. Frost nods to a cluster of bikes. “We’ll ride. You can follow in your SUV if that’s more comfortable.”
I consider the suggestion. “I’ll follow you. Might need my own car anyway.”
“Suit yourself,” Viper says with a shrug, swinging a leg over a black Harley with silver accents. He revs the engine, and the sound rumbles through the still air.
Ghost mounts a sleek bike with dark gray paint and minimal chrome. Frost chooses the same matte-black Harley I saw yesterday. They put on helmets, though I notice they’re half-shells with tinted visors, probably more a nod to minimal safety laws than actual caution. I hustle to my SUV, slip into the driver’s seat, and start the engine.
Following three roaring motorcycles is an experience. They move in a neat formation, side by side except for Ghost, who hangs back a touch as if guarding the rear. The road leads us past low-slung buildings, dusty side streets, a boarded-up diner, and eventually an old sign that reads BLUELIGHT BAR. The placelooks rough, with chipped paint, a flickering neon beer logo in the window, and two battered trucks in the lot.
We park, and they kill their engines almost in unison. I climb out of my car, stepping onto a patch of cracked asphalt. Ghost lingers by his bike, scanning the area. Frost motions for me to follow, and we enter through a side door.
