Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 93961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
“Well, hey there, ladies, what can I do for you?”
“Is this the Kings of Mayhem clubhouse?” Autumn asked, even though it was quite obvious it was. She gave him her best fuck-me eyes, which he fully appreciated.
“Sure is, sweetheart. Someone expecting you?”
“Well . . .”
“Because you can’t come in here without an invite, darlin’, not tonight. We’re having a welcome home party for one of the guys. So it’s invite only.”
Autumn licked her lips and batted her long lashes at him. “Of course we’re invited. We’re part of the entertainment.”
My eyes widened.
We’re part of the what?
The biker gave us another appraising look. His eyes swept up and down the length of me, and inwardly, I groaned. There was no way I could pass for any kind of entertainment. Autumn, yes. Especially in those capri pants and tight, tailored shirt. But me, no. I had on my high-support panties under my skirt, the ones I usually saved for when I had my period and felt bloated and angry.
“If you’re the entertainment, where are your costumes?” the biker asked.
“Costumes?” Autumn asked, confused.
“You know, the ones you wear on stage?”
“Ah, yes . . . our . . . costumes. We’re already wearing them. They’re real small, if you know what I mean.”
He grinned. And again, his eyes did a full sweep of Autumn’s body. “Well, goddamn!”
“Wait til you see us . . . entertain.”
I watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallowed thickly. His eyes glittered over to me.
“You two ladies do a double act?” he asked.
Autumn winked at him. “Tonight, just might be your lucky night, baby. We might do that just for you.” She was convincing. While I, on the other hand, just stood there like a deer in headlights. There was no way I could pass as the entertainment.
But apparently, the biker felt differently because he grinned and opened the gate wider. “Welcome to hell, ladies.”
We entered the compound and when he was out of earshot, I stopped my best friend. “Have you lost your fucking mind?”
“Again with the whispering. Who are you, a special agent?”
“No, I’m the entertainment, apparently!”
She waved me off. “It got us in here, didn’t it?”
Before I could answer, another biker approached us. He looked like James Hetfield, circa “Enter Sandman.” His hair was long and his handlebar mustache and goatee were epic.
“Vader said you were the entertainment,” Fake James Hetfield said. “Rang through and told me to show you inside. Said to tell the hot redhead to make sure she saves him that last dance.”
Autumn grinned at him. “Sure thing, baby.”
He smiled, revealing a mouthful of pearly whites.
From where I was standing, I could catch a glimpse inside the room. There was a long bar with all the trimmings, and leaning up against it were five bikers, all in Kings of Mayhem cuts. Over the sound of Eric Clapton’s “Cocaine,” I could hear the sounds of a game of pool.
Two women in very tight jeans, boots, and tight t-shirts walked past us, barely glancing in our direction. They exuded authority. Biker-chick authority. I glanced down at my modest skirt and pink Chucks. I didn’t belong here. This was my baby daddy’s world, and it couldn’t feel more foreign to me.
“Come on, Honey,” Autumn smiled, taking my hand.
Fake James Hetfield looked me up and down, and gave me an appreciative wink. “Hey, baby.”
I just shook my head at him and let Autumn lead me into the clubhouse.
Inside, the smell of cigarette smoke, weed, and alcohol hit me in the face. Normally, I had a real good sense of smell, but being pregnant amplified it. I had to exhale deeply to steady my nerves and try not to throw up.
Autumn stopped walking and scanned the room.
“Right, where is Mr. Blue Eyes?”
I looked around the large room. Besides the long, polished-timber bar, there were red leather booths, pool tables, and two stripper poles. On one of the poles, a girl with long purple hair and tattoos up both arms, twirled solemnly along to the last few seconds of Eric Clapton. When “Cocaine” switched to Inglorious’ “Where Are You Now,” another girl joined her. This one had short blonde hair and not a tattoo in sight. I watched, slightly intrigued by their talent as they twirled and slid up and down the pole. It was a definite skill. They were strong women. Sexy. Their core strength was phenomenal. I placed my hand over my flat belly. Today I was twelve weeks pregnant. My core strength had been invaded by a stranger’s baby.
“Hey there,” came a smooth, manly voice behind us. Autumn and I swung around and had to tilt our heads back to look up at the origin of the voice. Standing in front of us was a tall, godlike man who made Jason Momoa look small. With long, messy hair, and muscles for miles, he was as formidable as he was good looking. He wore a Kings of Mayhem cut over a plain black t-shirt that strained against his broad chest, and had arms the size of my thighs. Autumn’s eyes lit up, and her tongue slid along her already glossy lips as she took him in.