Inked

MY LIFE DOES not magically sort itself out overnight.

This comes as no surprise, although part of me wishes I’d inherit a fairy godmother or some magic beans. Instead, I wake up alone in my Bellagio hotel room. Since I’m only here for a week or two until I find a new place and I’m paying for my reservation with the Douche’s lifetime hoard of frequent flyer miles, I upgraded to a room with a fountain view. This means I don’t even have to get out of bed to see the watery fireworks. One push of a convenient bedside button and the blackout drapes part with a dramatic swoosh, sunlight pouring inside as the water below shoots upward to the sounds of “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.”

I go all in and order room service pancakes. A pot of overpriced coffee, hothouse strawberries and a pound of butter improve my mood substantially. I send emails and make calls, setting up appointments to view various condos because unfortunately I can’t live at the Bellagio forever.

I do Saturday things after I’ve done what I can to organize my life, because it would be a shame to be camped out at the Strip’s fanciest hotel and not take advantage of it. I swim in pools surrounded by faux-Grecian statuary spouting water. I lose ten bucks in the slot machines. I pass on visiting the art gallery in favor of the ginormous chocolate fountain in the hotel’s candy shop because everything is better with chocolate.

And the whole time I keep thinking about last night. About Vik’s casual invitation to join him at an MC party. He might be hot and uninhibited, but he’s also a biker, and he’s the guy who banged me in the back seat of his car after high school prom...and then promptly forgot my name, my face and every detail of that encounter. I’ve probably idealized his bedroom skills. He’s not worth pursuing, and he likely has zero interest in me that way, even if he did offer to be my booty call. Who says those kinds of things?

Other than company events, I can’t remember the last party I went to. There aren’t many festive moments on my calendar. Okay, so I could swing by Vik’s clubhouse and check out his party. My night’s wide-open, and how many opportunities will I get to ogle an entire roomful of bikers? Since I’m most definitely not drinking tonight, I could even drive there, which would give me a handy escape route. I’m assuming a biker event is a little rowdier and grittier than, say, a fund-raiser ball, and it’s entirely possible I’ll feel too uncomfortable to do more than just look in.

I go through the clothes I’ve stashed in the closet. Most of them are work things, with a healthy side of yoga pants. Nothing screams party. I do a quick Google search for biker get-together dress codes but come up mostly empty. Lots of leather and denim, plus the occasional porn-or Coachella-worthy outfit that makes Princess Leia’s slave girl bikini look like a nun’s habit.

Huh.

Going naked—or even mostly naked—seems like it would send the wrong message, plus I can’t picture myself strutting around in denim shorts and a black bikini top. Maybe it’s all in the footwear?

I could go shopping.

Something tells me that Vik would really enjoy a pair of fuck-me Louboutins, for instance. Or I could wear yesterday’s heels.

But I feel like something new to go with the new me.

I end up calling Brooklyn for a consult, and then she meets me in the lobby and we hit the Desert Passage Shops at the Aladdin. There’s an awesome bar smack in the middle of the mall like the best kind of desert oasis. We make a well-deserved pit stop there for yard-long frozen margaritas that come in fluorescent yellow bongs and manage to achieve both quantity and quality.

After that, we hit the shops. Brooklyn insists that I need to go for a whole new look, and I’m in the mood for a change. She grabs an armload of insanely teeny clothes off the rack in a store I’ve never stepped foot in before. It’s the kind of place that advertises on the pages of Vogue, and I’m pretty sure the fabulously gorgeous clothes will be wasted on a bunch of bikers. So it’s a good thing I’m dressing for me now.

I come home with a ridiculously expensive black tube top and a pair of wicked stiletto booties with ribbons instead of laces. Outside of work, I avoid anything that adds to my height, but new me, new rules, and apparently New Me has decided tonight’s theme is girlish bondage. I shimmy into a pair of skinny jeans that seem to have gotten smaller since their last wash, and then I hit the road.

Vik’s clubhouse is not exactly on the Strip. In fact, it’s most definitely in East Las Vegas, and the blocks get grittier and more dangerous as I get closer. It’s the kind of neighborhood with bars on the windows, bright splashes of graffiti and cars up on blocks. Pots of succulents and geraniums line the walkways adding some hopeful color, and more than one strand of white twinkling lights wrap around palm trees despite the summer weather. Eventually, the houses give way to block after block of slightly run-down, gone-to-seed warehouses. In the movies, this is the point where the bad guys come out shooting or there are gratuitous explosions.

The GPS on my phone announces it’s time to turn. I’m not sure what I expected, but Vik’s clubhouse looks like all the other warehouses—except for the parking lot full of bikes. Who needs a sign reading Biker Party Here or a clutch of helium balloons with all those Harleys reeking of testosterone?

The bikers themselves don’t seem too scary. I mean, they’re definitely not firemen, or lawyers, or anything remotely wholesome-looking or suit-wearing, but they’re also not engaged in any visible felonies, which I appreciate. They’re simply a bunch of guys milling around the bikes, talking and joking. The dress code appears to call for leather and boots. Music pounds out of the warehouse when someone pulls the door open. I don’t recognize the singer, but the song has one of those hard-hitting, pulse-raising beats that makes you want to dance in place or screw.

I so don’t belong here.

Nevertheless, one of the younger bikers waves me into an empty spot next to a row of trucks. I spot a Camaro, a Dodge Charger and a dented-up minivan that looks about as bikerly as I do, so there’s hope for my evening after all. Perhaps the Hard Riders practice a more inclusive form of clubbing?

When I get out, the fresh-faced biker gives me a nod. “You looking for someone?”

I’ll bet they don’t get too many party-crashers. “Vik.”

“Inside,” he says. I think he smirks—or possibly rolls his eyes. I’m clearly not the first woman to ask after Vik tonight. “Probably in back by the bar. Might be spinning.”

I lock my car (although I’m not sure that’s going to stop anyone) and head for the clubhouse. The front door is much more imposing and formidable than the parking lot attendant. In fact, it’s clearly been built for mega-giants, and I wrestle with it for a long moment, my glasses sliding down my nose.

A thick, inked arm reaches over me and shoves it open.

“Ladies first,” the arm’s owner drawls. He looks me up and down slowly, taking in my jeans and dressy boots. I suddenly know how a zebra feels when it accidentally steps into a lion’s den. The look on this guy’s face is part amusement, part hunger. I’d like to tell him I’m not a steak, but the patch on his vest says PRESIDENT, and I have a feeling that makes him the king of this particular kingdom. If he says I’m steak, I’m steak.

“Is this your club?” I like to know who’s in charge, but Mr. I’m-Gonna-Eat-You-Up seems to find my question funny because he just snorts and reaches down to shove my glasses back into place.

“Yeah. I’m Prez. You got an issue with that, sunshine?”

I think about that for a minute and shake my head. Despite my invitation, coming out here seems less smart all the time. Some women like living dangerously, but I’ve never been one of them. I prefer my life safe and sane, which begs the question of what I’m doing here. Starting over. Taking a chance. About to suffer public humiliation. You can take your pick, but my car and escape looks better and better.

“In,” he rumbles, his hand pressing against my shoulder. I decide not to protest, and move forward.

Prez follows me inside, so close that the front of his thighs brush the back of mine. I don’t think that’s an accident. He cups my elbow, herding me in the direction he wants me to go. This whole life-changing stuff is stupid. Take-charge guys have never been my thing. Except Vik, a little voice whispers in my head. You like him.

I’m working on that.

You hear things about motorcycle clubs and the Hard Riders have a certain reputation, or so my Google-fu tells me. While they look after their own and spend a commendable amount of time giving back to their community (Vik wasn’t kidding about the Christmas toy drive), they also ride hard and party harder. There are darker rumors and whispers, too, about how they have a zero-tolerance policy on drugs and are key players in East Las Vegas’s war on illegal substances—although it appears they’re big fans of beer.

The place is definitely not the bat cave.

Music blasts from the back of the warehouse. The clubhouse is huge, the entire downstairs floor open and jammed with gyrating, dancing, drinking bodies. Lots of black leather couches have been pushed back against the wall to open up a path to the makeshift bar in the back. Longnecks and red Solo cups are the order of the day. As is skin. I’ve never seen this much skin on display outside of a beach or a Vegas strip revue. As I scan the crowd, looking for Vik, I realize I’m overdressed.

In fact, clothing seems to be largely optional and I could have saved the money I spent on my shopping trip and just worn my underwear. A brunette in what could be a tube top or a dress brushes past us. The stretchy fabric barely skims her butt, and that’s before she squeals and throws herself at her dance partner. She scissors her legs around his waist. Everyone here is loud and uninhibited.

A red cup dangles in front of my face.

I take it. I don’t know where it came from, so I’m not drinking it but I need something to do with my hands, and I’m definitely not doing what the brunette is doing. “Thanks?”

Prez winks at me. “Who’re we lookin’ for?”

He’s got a soft, smoky burr of an accent that makes me think of warm Louisiana nights and the bayou. It’s the kind of drawl that almost but not quite distracts you from the fact that this is the guy who runs a biker club and could probably have you killed with one nod of his head.

I really should care about that. Instead, I pony up the answer he’s looking for. “Vik.”

Prez rubs his free hand over his chin, his pained sigh gusting over my skin. “Figures.”

I want to ask what that means, but I’m distracted by the madman bouncing around the dance floor. Shoulder-length blond hair flies everywhere. Vik dances all-out. Muscular, inked arms cut through the air as he thrashes to a beat that bears no resemblance whatsoever to the music vibrating through the warehouse. Faded blue jeans hug his ass and end in a pair of motorcycle boots. Just in case the gift-wrapping on that particular part of the package doesn’t scream open me, he’s wearing his club vest over a fitted white T-shirt. Muscles bulge as he executes another move and part of me wants to hang all over that arm. See how good it feels. Shove it between my legs.

I’m not the only one with that idea.

A skinny, fabulously gorgeous woman in a barely there black leather dress shimmies up to him and starts using him as her own personal dance pole. They’re so close that her breasts press up against his arm and she’s riding his thigh as she grinds high and bumps low. I’m so glad I made the effort to come tonight.

And apparently Vik prefers quantity to quality because not one but two more wanna-be dancers latch onto him as he burns up the dance floor. I feel like I should be pulling a wad of one-dollar bills out of my purse and rewarding their efforts.

“Is he always like this?” The words fly out of my mouth before I can stop them.

Prez chuckles. “Pretty much. Man’s the fucking Energizer Bunny when it comes to gettin’ laid.”

Just great.

I take a step backward and bump awkwardly into Prez. Shit. Naturally, my reaction is to lurch forward to put some space between my butt and his groin. Prez laughs again, his hands steadying my hips as I rock on my stupid high heels. He bellows Vik’s name, the sound all but getting lost in the general chaos and uproar that is a biker party. Not that I was expecting to be announced by trumpets or a twenty-one-gun salute, but still.