When he’d texted and asked her to come out to the Brazen Bulls compound for their party, she’d obviously said no at once. Her partying days were long behind her, and she didn’t want to know what went on in an outlaw biker clubhouse. She could imagine. She’d seen a couple episodes ofSons of Anarchy, so she had the picture. She’d smelled cologne on Cooper. She got it. It felt easier to trust him not to bang anybody else if shedidn’tsee where he went when he wasn’t home. Other women might disagree with that, but probably not if they were also missing important sexy parts. Like, she really did not want to see a bunch of twenty-something hotties with great racks draped over these guys. That would put an image in her head she knew would haunt her.
So she’d told him no. Then he’d texted her again, and again, and finally called.
It was the call that had done it. Hearing him say he wanted her there, wanted her to know his life, hearing the need in his voice, the truth of it—she’d hardly had a choice after that.
There was no way she’d leave Geneva alone so late into the night, despite her sister’s emphatic insistence that she was old enough for it—and her even more emphatic enthusiasm for this new thing between Siena and Cooper. Geneva had practically tried to push her from the house.
Maybe Geneva was right; maybe she really was old enough to be on her own. She’d be fifteen in a couple weeks, as she reminded Siena every time the topic of what she was capable of came up. It was possible Siena was being overly protective. When she had time, she’d think about that—but she wasn’t going to make that call as a snap decision, andcertainlynot so she could go out on a date.
However, Laurie was home and available and fine with the short notice, and Geneva was mollified when Laurie showed up with a tub of homemade toffee cookies and theGame of Thronesversion of Clue, so here Siena was, driving through the desert, dressed for a night out for the first time inyears. With bikers and bimbos in mind, she’d tarted herself up a little, to the extent that she could without putting on the accursed breastplate. She had a bra with her forms in, though. She was not about to go boobless into a biker clubhouse. Hah! No.
Another mile, and that glow on the horizon became buildings ablaze with light. Closer still, and she saw quite a few cars and trucks and even more bikes. Seemed like a lot of people—too many, frankly.
She really wanted to go home.
But Cooper wanted her here, and he’d been there for her a whole lot already, before they were even friends, much less lovers. This was the first opportunity she had to be there for him.
She pulled through the open gate and down the dirt path that served as a driveway. The property seemed huge. She could see three large buildings: a rambling ranch-style house and two Quonset huts like mini airport hangars. The Quonsets were dark, but every window of the house shone with light, and the long front porch was festooned with mini-lights, wrapped around the posts and pinned along the eaves. A handful of men, most in kuttes, and women, all in very tight clothes, milled about on and around the porch.
Music with a heavy bassline thumped from the house; even through her closed windows and over the sound of her engine, she heard the hard rock beat, but she didn’t think she recognized the song.
She couldn’t make out which bike was Cooper’s among the long line of mostly black, mostly Harley motorcycles, and the parking situation seemed a bit haphazard anyway, so she found a spot where she hoped she wouldn’t be in anybody’s way, or get blocked in herself, and parked.
Then she simply sat there. Fuck, she did not want to go in there. Socializing was not something she did anymore, not recreationally. She spent every minute of her work day being smiley and friendly and funny with strangers, typical life-of-the-party shit, but at least there she got tips for it.
Sure, back in the day she’d enjoyed partying and going out, but she’d been a very different person back in the day. A different person with a different life. This person, with this life, worked and went home and took care of Geneva.
Why was she doing this again?
Cooper. He’d asked—he’d practically begged—and she owed him.
No. That was the wrong way to think about it. Cooper, her boyfriend, a man who gave of himself freely, had asked her to do this, so she was doing it. Not because she owed him, but because she cared about him.
Wow. That truth hit her suddenly and with force: she really did care about him. It feltgoodto care about him. And to be cared about.
So, okay. She flipped down the mirror in her visor and did one last check to make sure there was no lipstick on her teeth and her tits were straight.
Time to enter the biker lair.
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~oOo~
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Siena got across theyard, onto the porch, and into the house without anybody stopping her to ask if she belonged there. A few curious looks, a few more random glances, but nothing embarrassing. So that was promising.
The music was really loud. She vaguely remembered liking loud music and all the other trappings of an enthusiastic social life, but now it was just loud. And she still didn’t recognize it, except that it sorta sounded like Van Halen without being Van Halen.
Her mom had been a very avid VH fan, particularly of the Sammy Hagar era, so Siena, not herself a very avid fan, knew pretty much their entire catalog, simply by osmosis.
The room she’d entered was big and bright. It had a vaulted ceiling—was that a stripper pole going all the way up?—and a lot of smoke of various types floated a few feet above the crowd’s heads.
‘Crowd’ was overstating things a bit, but there were a lot of people. Like fifty, maybe? She didn’t see anybody doing lines on a bimbo’s ass, which was the most debauched image in her head at the moment, but there was a pretty young thing on the pole. Several shaggy, leather-vested guys watched her.
Wow. Great core strength. Even by pole-dancing standards. That chick had to be a pro.
Of course, these days, where pole dancing was concerned, ‘pro’ could mean ‘fitness instructor’ as easily as ‘exotic dancer.’