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The people are great. Well, they’re great to me. To everyone else in Orange County, the Blackthorn Riders Bikers MC is a fearsome and, in some areas, downright reviled motorcycle club.
They’re big and burly fellas.
Leather and denim aficionados.
There’s more ink on their bodies than in a small-town newspaper, and at least one piercing per member, prospects included. They come across as menacing and rowdy, but as far as I’m concerned, they’re all bark, no bite.
Then again, I am Michael Kessler’s daughter.
Dad used to ride with these guys and their fathers—the OG Blackthorn Riders. Then he met my mom, fell in love, and left the club on good terms to start his own thing.
They’ve all kept in touch since, staying close yet at arm’s length, which is how I got my foot in the door, despite Dad’s constant warnings.
“Nadia, I need two more beers over here!” Paddy yells from the other side of the bar.
There are four of us working the beer taps tonight.
It’s Friday, past dinnertime, and it’s prospect initiation night. New potential members are here to meet the rest of the club—about twenty full-fledged Blackthorn Riders, leadership included.
“Give me a second, Paddy; I’m wrestling with this stupid thing again!” I call back, trying to fit a new beer keg into the tap dispenser. The nozzle refuses to cooperate, as usual.
“Here, let me help,” Francis, my bartending partner, says, taking over.
“Thanks. I’ll take care of Paddy, then.”
I sprint to the lager taps, grab a couple of glasses, and carefully fill them under Paddy’s curious and amused gaze. Despite my outward confidence, I’m still nervous about this place. Sometimes, I worry that if I don’t do a good enough job, I’ll get canned.
The club’s leaders are hard asses.
Devastatingly handsome, all in their late forties, and only getting hotter, but hard asses.
They don’t cut anybody any slack, either. If you screw up once, you get warned. Screw up twice, and it’s “bye-bye, little birdy.”
“How you holding up, kiddo?” Paddy asks with a half-smile.
“Living the dream, Paddy,” I reply, grinning. “Living the dream.”
I’m fully aware that there are prospects currently ogling my ass from the other side of the bar. It’s not my fault. Our bar uniform involves black jeans and white tees—it’s supposed to be neat and simple, but my trunk carries some weight, and no matter what I wear, my rear will always steal the show. “And loving it!” I add with a wink.
I give him a full glass of golden lager and add a shot of whiskey on the side. It’s Paddy’s favorite combination. He winks and downs the whiskey first, then cautiously sips his beer.
“Glad to hear that, honey. When Mike first said you were coming to work here, I thought the old bastard was pullin’ my leg,” he says.
“Well, he thought I was pulling his leg when I first expressed interest in working here,” I reply.
“Yeah, I’ll bet. His precious angel, surrounded by all these filthy animals.”
“Oh, please, like I’d be intimidated,” I laugh.
Paddy’s reddish face lights up with a warm smile. “You wouldn’t. Your mother was just as fierce and brave. I think that’s why Michael loved Cassandra so much. She stood up to him and everybody else. Always.”
“You boys were afraid of him?” I ask incredulously.
My father is a stern man, a ruthless negotiator, and one hell of a business fiend to those who stand in his way, but somehow, I still can’t imagine him as a badass biker. I’ve seen the photos from his club days. I’ve heard the stories. Yet the man I know, the man who raised me, is partial to Armani suits and fine liquor.
He insists that golfing qualifies as a sport.
The man drives a frickin’ Volvo because of their safety standards.
