"You said to call if there's any trouble."
"And?" I bite out impatiently.
"And...uh... there's trouble?" He makes it a question rather than a statement.
I blow out a breath, trying to restrain the urge to strangle him when I get back. I take sure, steady strides toward my Fat Boy. The rain taps rhythmically against my skin and slides automatically off of my leathers as I step out into the barrage.
"What sort of trouble?"
"There's a Spade here, sir."
That successfully captures my full attention, and I pause when I'm seated on the Fat Boy. The last two times Spades stepped onto my territory, they left unscathed. I'm not making that mistake a third time.
"Hold them until I get there," I order before hanging up.
A savage grin twists my lips. Maybe I won't have to call Kolton. I just need to give this foolish little Spade a taste of King hospitality. By the time I'm through with them, they'll tell me whatever I want to know.
All the lights are on in the clubhouse when I return, all the remaining Kings turning up to witness what's sure to be a memorable night. An unfamiliar Harley is parked along with all of my boys’ bikes, standing out from the crowd. Until this interloper came along, mine was the only Harley in the bunch.
I'm feeling a second wind already, the anticipation sharpening my senses and bolstering me against the fatigue.
Malick is waiting on the front stoop when I mount the stairs toward the front door. He's a tall black man with curly hair and the dedicated muscle of a pro wrestler.
"Where is he?" I ask brusquely, reaching for the door handle.
"She," he corrects me. "It's a woman, sir. And she's in the foyer."
That gives me a very brief pause. A Spade woman? Not impossible. I know they're plenty on the periphery of the Spade MC married to, dating, or at least fucking the men. But female members with ink are a lot rarer. It cuts the possibilities down to perhaps ten or fifteen women. It doesn't change things much, except how I plan to get my answers.
The chatter dies to nothing when I step inside, followed closely by Malick. All eyes are on me. But my eyes zero in on the lone figure standing in my foyer. She would have caught my eye on an average day, regardless. She's above average height, with thick dark hair that's perfect for fisting a hand into. Her skin has an almost bronze cast to it, showing a hint of her Hispanic heritage.
Dark, smoldering eyes meet mine from across the room. Eyes she inherited from her father and shares with both her brothers. A small, triumphant smile curls my lips. I've just been handed the keys to the fucking kingdom.
Because the woman standing in my foyer is Penelope Cruz.
3
Penny
I've grown up in one of the toughest boys' clubs around, in a shitty little town that's been on the brink of all-out gang violence for years. I've taken and dished out a load of punishment, and I like to think I'm just as tough as the other motherfuckers in the Spades. All that to say that I'm not a girl who startles easily.
But when Calamity Gardel steps into the room, I stand up a little straighter and take notice. Because my God, how could anyone miss him?
I can't help but stare at him as he walks past, heading for what is unmistakably a gilt back chair in the wrecked foyer like he's a king officiating over a court. The rest of the place looks far from regal. It's barely been patched up from the fight that went down months ago. The walls are pockmarked, the furniture obviously new, to replace what they destroyed. The floors are trashed. It's always a bitch to get damage out of hardwood. And I know I'm only taking notice of all these minor details so I need not look him directly in the eye for longer than a few seconds at a time. But those few glances give me a lot of puzzle pieces with which to build a picture.
I've never seen Calamity Gardel in the flesh before. Heard a lot of stories about him. But in all these years, I've never laid eyes on the man that might have shot my father in an abandoned warehouse all those years ago.
No one mentioned that he's a freaking giant. He's got to be nearly Ryker's size, which means he's pretty much six and a half feet tall. He's just as shredded as the Spades' gentle giant, and that's where the similarities end. Ryker has thick, dark hair that's constantly flirting with being too long. This guy's hair looks like it's only recently grown out of a buzz cut. There's just enough golden hair to touch, but not enough to flop into those glacial blue eyes. His features are rough hewn, skin stretched tight over haughty cheekbones. His jaw is heavy and masculine.
The sight of him makes my mouth go dry, and only about half of the reason is fear.
He's damn inscrutable. I can't read a freaking thing on his face. Those pale eyes rove over me in a critical once-over as he speaks.
"Penelope Cruz. To what do I owe the unexpected pleasure?"
He rolls each syllable around in his mouth like he's tasting the contours of my name. Normally I hate my full name and the jokes that come along with it. But his voice is so appealing that it sends unthinking pleasure to hear my name spoken by it. Sexy with an undertone of gravelly bass that sends heat flushing to all the wrong places.
The speech I've been preparing the whole way over flits right out of my head, and I'm left casting around for words. I want to slap myself for getting tongue-tied at such a crucial moment.
