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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
*Lace*
Every club member except for the new guy stands on high alert then proceeds to follow Coty toward the office, leaving behind a number of wanton dancers befuddled and a little scared. The initial foray between father and son every rally seldom lacks dramatic flair, so this display leaves us all a bit flustered. Jess and I share a look from across the room. Her cheeks puff out and deflate slightly with a sigh. I counter with a repressed smile and shoulder shrug.
All the bouncers feign aloofness, too, their pockets bulging with enough reasons to do so. Never mind the fact that the two men at odds are both technically their employers. Indifference is a job requirement.
Kris flashes the normal, ugly lights for a hot second to make sure everyone is paying attention then lowers the music and leans in close to the mic. “Welcome to Bike Week, everyone! Looks like it’s already starting off with a bang.” Absolutely nailing the gig as usual, she emphasizes ‘bang’ and pairs it with an eyebrow bounce. “To celebrate, how about a round of drinks on the house? Make sure to throw some dollars at the bartenders. They might not dance, but they make sure everyone else wants to.” The interruption both calms and reinvigorates the now somewhat sparse crowd and newbie dancers.
A new song starts, cueing the next girl on rotation. She springs to life, heels clicking against the hardwood floor as she anxiously rushes toward the stage. Unfortunately for her, all the stage customers dispersed and are now a mob at the bar.
Except for one guy — the new Hell for Leather club prospect — but when she gives him all her attention, he retreats backward.
Wait…
The last comment Coty made had something to do with an initiate, not a prospect. Instead of approaching the cutie right away, I decide to sit at the closest table and observe him for a little longer before using my wiles to loosen him up.
Colorful fluorescent lights swoop and flash, changing the color of his blond, curly hair with every transition. Helmet hair at its finest, the adorable ringlets are slightly flattened, begging to be fiddled with.
Ever since Coty staked his “claim,” there has only been one exception to his rule that no one can look at or touch me and vice versa: after an official Hell for Leather initiation. Coty always tries passing off the newly initiated member to another girl, but it never works — I just have a way with them.
I have no idea what their prospect hazing consists of nor exactly what their final initiation ritual is, but I do know they come out of it changed.
Overly anxious at the thought of getting ahold of those yummy curls, I shove my hands between my thighs and press my knees together.
A new song begins, and the saloon becomes lively once more. Not wanting to be bothered by a random customer and beginning to tire of sitting, I decide to go ahead and sidle up with the baby-faced initiate. He is a smidgen taller than Coty, so with these mid-length heels on, we are nearly the same height.
His focus briefly flicks sideways, but he averts the wandering gaze and stares aimlessly at the stage again. The motion is so quick that I miss the color of his eyes.
Still waiting him out a little, my thoughts drift again. I easily get carried away continuing the mental conversation with myself while staring at how the lights bounce off the chrome pole as it spins while the dancer on stage does an upside down twirl.
I would never outwardly say this to Coty, but I think part of the reason why passing off initiates works with me best is because he trusts me implicitly. Despite how hard of a time his club brothers give him for being so consumed, they all trust him implicitly in return.
HFL members all know he favors me, therefore the initiates favor me, too. After all, if I can handle Coty, surely I can handle the tamer guys. And I can. I always do. At least one initiate per season. Which, humorously enough, means Coty seldom ends up getting me to himself. Not entirely at least.
Plus, I’m not exactly a stranger to most of these men. The Hell for Leather originals and me — all of us Gulf Coast babies born and bred. Except for Vincent and Brodi and now this newbie, I assume.
Knowing enough time passed that he has undoubtedly grown uncomfortable enough for a change in scenery, I nudge him with my arm. “Hey.”
His glassy, dazed eyes glance in my direction, and his throat constricts over a hard swallow. He opens his mouth to attempt a response but only manages a small nod.
I take his hand in mine to encourage him away from the stage. A spark of heat shoots up my arm, unfairly reminding me how sensitive my entire body is because of the love drug pulsing in my veins. Nostrils flaring from a sharp inhale, I try hard to breathe through the tingly sensation while pulling him into the much more intimate and quieter private dance area. The room is now blocked off as a reserved space since Hell for Leather just paid a pretty penny to make it happen.
I guide him down into a chair and ease between his bent legs. The leather portion of my leggings covers my knees, providing a thin layer of protection between my skin and the hard wood. He practically scales the back of the chair trying to get away. “No need to be spooked. We do what you want here, not the other way around.”
If only.
He sinks back into the seat, raises a single eyebrow, and finally speaks: “I want to leave.”
“Well, ‘fraid that option is out of the running. What do you want to do in here, with me, instead?” I extend an arm, gesturing at the spacious, empty room.
His attention darts toward the general direction in which his superiors had rushed off. This time I do catch the color of his eyes. I tend to give animalish nicknames, when fitting, to the people closest to me, and one already forms on the tip of my tongue. His eyes are gorgeous, a mix between brown and gray. Taupe… like the color where a fawn’s white spots meet the tawny brown fur.
But I know very little else about him yet.
“Worried about Coty?” I ask, noting his eyes are wide and doe-like to boot. “Consider this your only free pass. I can give you a dance, or we can just talk,” I explain. Coty’s initiation remedy flashes in my thoughts, but I decide it’s best to keep the uncannily similar details to myself. “You know, plenty of guys come in here just to talk. They get lonely and all. Usually those types of customers are older than you, though. Married.”
I stand, grab another chair, and sit across from him, crossing my legs and touching the toe of my platforms against his shin. “How old are you?”
