Page 71 of The Price of Love

I shake my head, not trusting my voice as another cough threatens.

“It’s about two minutes up the road. We’re going off to the left.”

I nod and move my throttle up, hoping Storm will get the hint.

She does and powers ahead.

It doesn’t take long for her to turn onto a paved road. The lane to the clubhouse is peaceful and serene, despite the sounds of our bikes echoing off the trees. When we round the bend, I stop short.

“Wow,” I say when we park our bikes. It looks more like a wilderness lodge than a clubhouse. It’s massive, but not flashy. “How many members do you have?”

Storm swings her leg off her bike. “Eighty-seven, not counting prospects.”

I shake my head. “This isn’t what I pictured.”

She grins. “It never is. Aces got a deal. It might be three times the size of the Graces’ clubhouse, but I bet it cost a fraction.”

I stare at the impressive structure with my jaw open. “You bought this beautiful place for cheap?”

“Nah, we bought a butt-ugly place for cheap. Lots of blood, sweat, and tears went into making the clubhouse something special.”

“It is special—spectacular.” I stare. “What do you do with so much space?”

“The girls like to bring their families and friends here,” Storm says. “I told you I stay here. A few of us do.”

“You did. I just wasn’t expecting a luxury hotel.”

Storm grins and holds out her arm to me. “Wait till you see the inside.”

The inside is more impressive. A few women with Iron Thorn vests sit around an enormous wood stove, while others gather at tables in the bar area. Several who aren’t wearing cuts are intermixed with the group. Old ladies or hang-arounds? It’s not my business, so I don’t ask.

“Would you like a drink?” Storm asks as she leads me toward the bar. I feel curious eyes on me, but I keep looking forward. The bartender stares at the women’s basketball game on the TV, and two older women huddle at the far end of the bar.

It’s just past noon, so I say, “A diet soda for me.”

When we get a few yards from the bar, Storm calls, “Prospect. I need a Diet Coke and a regular.”

The prospect’s gaze snaps from the television, and she’s in motion. “Yes, President.”

Two sodas appear on the bar before Storm pulls out my barstool.

“I have a message from Dimples,” the prospect says before we can sit.

“What is it?” Storm asks.

“Um, would you like the full message, or can I paraphrase it?”

Amusement dances in Storm’s eyes. “Give me the full version.”

Color drains from the prospect’s face. “Uh, just remember these are her words, not mine.”

Storm nods. “Understood.”

“Uh, she said, tell you to get your fucking ass upstairs as soon as you get here. And not to get any stupid ideas of having a drink first or she’ll kick your ass.”

Storm laughs. “Anything else?”

The prospect looks up, but she doesn’t make eye contact with Storm. “Uh, she also said she hates you.”