Page 9 of Dark Seduction

I paste on my best professional smile and say, "Well, Judge, names can be deceiving, can't they? But I assure you, I'm the Mack you're looking for. And if you give me a chance, you'll see just how talented I am with a paint gun."

Judge’s hand comes up, his fingernails scratching at his scruffy beard, clearly still unsure. "We don't usually hire women in the garage, you know."

I raise an eyebrow and smirk. "Oh, I've heard that one before. But you see, I'm not just any woman. I'm the one who turned a rusted-out junker into a work of art that turned heads at the last car show. So, if you want your bikes and cars to go from 'meh' to 'wow,' you’re going to want me on your team."

I watch as Judge's expression shifts from skepticism to something resembling respect. Maybe, just maybe, he will see past the stereotype.

"So, are we gonna do this interview, or are we gonna keep playing the name game?" I ask, crossing my arms over my chest and giving him a challenging stare.

Judge’s face cracks with a grin and he steps forward his hand extended. "Alright, Mack, let’s get started. Show me what you've got."

I shake his hand firmly, a sense of triumph washing over me. It seems that even in the tough world of the Black Hoods MC, talent speaks louder than gender. And I’m more than ready to prove I have plenty of both.

Judge turns toward the door behind him and leads me deeper into the garage. Farther away come the clatter of tools and the lingering scent of engine oil. My head is on a swivel as he make our way to the back, taking in what could be my potential new place of employment. Finally, we stop in front of an old motorcycle that's seen better days. The paint job is a disaster, peeling and faded, as if it had been exposed to every harsh element possible.

"This, Mack," Judge says, gesturing to the sorry excuse for a bike, "is your first task. The guys here love this old thing, but it's been an eyesore around the clubhouse for years. Your job is to turn it into a masterpiece."

I study the decrepit machine before me, my heart racing with anticipation and a touch of anxiety. This is it, the moment of truth. My chance to prove I belong here. Judge's words hang in the air, the unspoken challenge of it all: my job depends on how well I can transform this wreck into something awe-inspiring.

Judge nods once and leaves me to my work, disappearing into the depths of the garage. Suddenly, I'm alone with my thoughts and the motorcycle, determined to prove to everyone that I'm not just a woman who does custom paint jobs—I'm the best damn custom painter they'll ever meet.

Rolling up my sleeves, I approach the bike, running my fingers over its tired frame. It's going to take everything I've got to breathe new life into this old beast, but that's exactly what I'm here for. With a deep breath, I pick up a nearby sander and turn it, ready to begin this transformation.

Hours pass by in a blur as I meticulously sand, prep, and paint the old motorcycle. Dust covers my hands and face, and the garage is filled with the scent of paint and determination. Every stroke of the paint feels like a step toward redemption, toward proving my worth to the Black Hoods MC.

I pay attention to every detail, ensuring that each layer of paint is smooth and flawless. The once-peeling and faded surface now gleams with the vibrant colors I've chosen. It's a labor of love and talent, a testament to my dedication.

As I step back and admire my handiwork, I can't help but smile. The motorcycle before me has transformed into a work of art. The colors blend seamlessly, creating intricate patterns that seem to dance in the dim light of the garage. It's unlike anything I've ever done before, and I'm proud of it.

I wipe my hands on a rag, knowing it's time. I need to call Judge over. With a sense of accomplishment, I stride over to where he's talking with a few of the club members and clear my throat to get his attention.

"Judge," I say, my voice filled with pride, "I think you're gonna want to see this."

He turns toward me, curiosity evident in his eyes. He doesn’t say a word as he follows me back to my work area. Everyone else follows, laughing and talking, but as soon as the transformed motorcycle comes into view, the room around us falls silent as they take in the sight before them.

Judge's mouth drops open and he runs a hand over the smooth surface. "Mack, you did this?"

I nod, a sense of satisfaction swelling inside me. "I did."

He looks at me with newfound respect, and excitement and pride . "Woman, you've got some serious talent."

I can't help but grin. This is the moment I've been working so hard for, the moment my skills speak for themselves. It's not just about breaking stereotypes; it's about proving that I belong here, that I can be an integral part of the Black Hoods MC and their business.

Judge turns to the club members, a proud smile on his face. "Gentlemen, we've got ourselves a new custom painter."

The garage erupts into applause, and all I can do is stand there, basking in the recognition of my talent. It's a feeling of triumph like no other, and I know this is just the beginning of my journey.

I beam back at the men surrounding me, nearly swept away by the happiness in my heart. And then, from behind the crowd, two men step into the room, curious to see what’s going on. That’s when my heart falls.

No. No, not here. Not now. This can’t be happening.

But it is, because as the two men approach the group, all I can think of is the way I felt having them both buried inside of me at the same time last night. I thought I’d never see either one of them again, yet here they are.

And there goes any shot I might have had at the men in this club taking me seriously at all.

BURNT

“Whose car is that?”I point as V and I park our bikes up by the main office. V removes his helmet and shifts over to see the classic vintage Mustang. “That one of your customer’s cars?”

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