He pulls back slowly, his eyes locked on mine. His thumb brushes over my swollen bottom lip, smearing the dampness from our kiss. Around us, the brothers chuckle and clear their throats, but I barely notice. All I see is him—tall, broad, his dark blond hair pulled back with a leather tie, scruff shadowing his jaw. His deliciously manly scent tickles my nose.
His hand slides down to squeeze my ass possessively before he lets go. "I'll find you after I finish dealing with today’s club business.”
I nod, my cheeks burning, and turn toward the door.
I find Mama Pat’s office. It's filled with neat stacks of papers, a computer humming softly, and a framed photo of her on a motorcycle, seated behind a white man who's wearing a Renegade Kings cut, both of them grinning widely. I figure he must be Reaper, which explains Demon’s mixed-race coloring.
When she sees me, she stands and loops her arm through mine like we're old friends. She leads me through the sprawling compound on a quick but thorough tour.
"This used to be three separate businesses," she explains as we step outside. "A sleazy, rundown motel, an auto shop, and a bar. The boys connected them all with underground tunnels after they bought the properties fifteen years ago."
I squint against the morning sun, taking in the impressive complex. The entire compound is surrounded by a chain-link fence topped with coils of razor wire that glint menacingly in the sunlight. There's a guard shack near the main gate, and security cameras are mounted at regular intervals along the perimeter.
The central courtyard is filled with motorcycles—gleaming Harleys and custom choppers arranged in neat rows. Along one wall, several pickup trucks are parked, their doors emblazoned with the Renegade Kings' emblem—a crown perched atop a skull with crossed wrenches beneath.
"The boys take their bikes seriously," she chuckles, leading me toward the converted motel. "Touch another man's ride without permission, and you'll lose several fingers. Maybe a hand."
The club's colors are prominently displayed everywhere—painted on the buildings, hanging from flagpoles, even etched into the concrete at the entrance.
I'm already familiar with the part that used to be a motel, but Mama Pat points out a few things I haven't yet seen on the ground floor layout.
"Common quarters down here—prospects sleep in shared rooms, visitors from friendly clubs get slightly better accommodations." She gestures to a long hallway lined with doors. "Storage, laundry, and supply rooms at the far end."
She pushes open a door to reveal what looks like a small medical clinic. "Doc's domain," she explains. The room containsan examination table, cabinets of medical supplies, and equipment that looks surprisingly professional.
Next, we pass a room with a reinforced steel door. She lowers her voice. "Interrogation room. Best not to ask what happens in there."
We climb a staircase to the upper floor, where the hallway is quieter, the carpet newer. "Patched members get private rooms up here," Mama Pat explains. "Officers get larger quarters, as you well know—Chaos's room is the biggest, of course."
The former motel office now serves as a security hub—multiple monitors display feeds from cameras throughout the compound. Two men watch the screens intently, barely acknowledging our presence.
"Nothing happens here without the brothers knowing about it," Mama Pat says with unmistakable pride.
We cross through one of the underground tunnels. The passage is well-lit but narrow, forcing us to walk single-file.
We emerge in an auto shop. It's a cavernous space divided into two distinct areas. One half contains mechanical bays where motorcycles in various states of repair rest on lifts. Tools line the walls, and the scent of motor oil and metal hangs in the air.
"Kings Auto Shop—a legit business with a good reputation here in Detroit," Mama Pat explains. "They do custom work, repairs, you name it."
The other half of the building has been converted into a gym and training area—with weight equipment, heavy bags, and what looks like a miniature fighting cage.
"This is where the fighters train. My Demon's domain," she says with maternal pride. "Best fighter in the club's history."
Finally, we enter another place I'm familiar with. It was the scene of the party last night.
Mama Pat tells me it was once a seedy dive bar. Now it serves as the heart of the club's social activities. The main room features pool tables, dartboards, and a massive bar stocked with every liquor imaginable. Worn leather couches cluster around a big-screen TV currently showing a motorcycle race.
"You already know the kitchen's through there," Mama Pat points to a swinging door. "Industrial-sized, always stocked. These boys eat like they've got hollow legs."
She stops before a set of heavy wooden doors. "That's the chapel—where they hold church. Members only. Not even ol' ladies are allowed in during official meetings."
Next to the chapel is a smaller room with a reinforced door. "President's office. Where Chaos handles the more...delicate business matters."
When the tour concludes, we return to Mama Pat's office.
"Any questions, honey?" she asks, settling back into her chair.
I shake my head, overwhelmed by the scope of it all. This isn't just a clubhouse—it's a fortress, a business, a community all rolled into one.
