The bearded biker said. "It's an honor to meet you, Miss Larsen."
"Which isn't the name she uses, I'm sure." The young guy extended a hand to me. "Rick."
"Ricky," the bearded biker said, reaching up to ruffle Rick's hair. "Everyone calls him Ricky."
Ricky rolled his eyes.
"Olivia," I said, shaking his hand. "Don't worry. I've been ordered to stay in the car."
"What?" the bearded biker said. "We aren't good enough for Gabe's old lady? Son of a bitch."
The other older guy grumbled something under his breath. Even Ricky's lips compressed in a tight line.
"I'm not Gabriel's girlfriend," I said quickly. "I'm his client. That's one ethical line he wouldn't cross. It doesn't pay well enough."
A whoop of laughter from the bearded biker. "Got a point there."
"He told me to stay out because I'm only a client. He said it would be disrespectful if he brought me in."
Ricky nodded. "But if I say it's cool, it's cool. Come on."
I got out and let him lead me down the lane. Ahead was what looked like a cottage, complete with a front porch and chairs. It sprawled off to the rear, making it larger than it appeared from this angle.
"I'll warn you, it might be a disappointment," Ricky said, waving at the clubhouse.
"I'll survive. So, what kind of bike do you ride?" I asked, as if I could tell a Honda from a Harley.
He answered. I didn't quite catch it, maybe because I was focused on that clubhouse door, waiting for Gabriel to barrel out and give me shit.
"You ride?" he asked.
I shook my head. "Never been on one."
"I could fix that." Ricky grinned, as if he was offering to corrupt me in more ways than one.
Whoa. Cute biker was flirting. I guess the "biker" part of that description should have thrown up a big stop sign, but I'd just come out of a relationship with a guy who considered double-parking a walk on the wild side. I was in the mood for a change.
So I flirted back. Nothing overt, but by the time we finished the short walk to the door, the two older men had fallen back behind us, as if giving him space.
Ricky opened the door. Inside it looked like a retreat for business execs who want to get away from the city and pretend they're just regular guys. The walls were wood, as was the floor. There was a stag head on one wall ... wearing a White Sox cap.
The long bar was rustic but spotless, bottles stacked behind, a few on the top shelf that definitely were top shelf, at least a hundred a bottle.
Half of the living space was sofas and comfortable chairs, old and worn, but hardly Goodwill material. The big flat-screen TVs and sound system were the sort I'd see in CEOs' theater rooms.
Tables took up the other half of the room. At one, four guys played poker. At others, guys typed away at laptops, gazes glued to the screen, so intently you'd think they were checking the stock market. Maybe they were.
"Disappointed?" Ricky asked.
"I was hoping for more bullet holes." I pointed at a stag head. "And maybe a rival club member on the wall instead."
"Oh, I think we've had a few hanging from that guy's antlers. But we had to cut them down and let them go."
"Pity."
He grinned. "I thought so."
I pretended to give the room another once-over but concentrated on the occupants this time. The mix was about twenty-sixty-twenty. Twenty percent looked like the old, bearded biker. They were the ones lounging on the sofas and chairs. Sixty percent were more like the one who could pass for a construction worker--mostly clean cut and clean shaven, but burly enough that you knew he didn't sit behind a desk all day. The others, like Ricky, could have pulled off the suit-and-tie look, even if they probably never would outside a courtroom.