“Barbaric,” she hisses, her top lip curling in disgust.
“I trim,” I grit out, a little offended. “I just haven’t in a while.”
“Trimming is so middle school.” Meela rolls her eyes. “You’re a senior for crying out loud. Act like it.” She shakes her head in exasperation. “No worries, though. I’ll wax you before we go.”
“No, the hell you’re not.” I’m scared to death of getting waxed. “I heard it’s painful as fuck.”
“Numbing cream, babe. I use it whenever I wax myself or get a new tattoo.”
“You wax yourself?” I exclaim.
“Sure do,” she replies. “It costs nearly a hundred bucks for a Brazilian wax. I’m not paying that when I could do it myself. Anyway, it won’t hurt.”
“Okay, I’ll let you wax me, but it better not hurt.”
“It won’t,” Meela assures me.
She turns around and pulls on a skimpy thong. I admire the dreamcatcher tattoo spanning the length of her spine and the dimple piercings on her lower back. Meela is a literal walking advertisement for piercings and tattoos. I coast the towel along my body, trying to keep the ugly cut healing on my torso hidden. The last thing I need is to be bombarded with questions, especially if she spots the makeshift tattoo Sandman carved down my back.
“It’s your birthday?” I ask, noticing the birthday sash on her bed. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Oh, it’s not my birthday.” She smiles. And is that a blush?
I cock an eyebrow. “Then what’s up with the birthday sash?”
“I’m on a mission tonight,” she responds vaguely.
“Keep your little secret.” I feign an attitude. “But whatever you have planned better not get us into trouble.”
“I make no promises.”
Now it’s my turn to roll my eyes.
“Move out of the goddamn way!” Meela demands, her arms folded under her ample breasts.
She’s been going at it with the guy manning the bar entrance for the last ten minutes now—neither one backing down. He’s stout and a bit nerdy, not at all how I expect an outlaw biker to look. Then again, he’s not one yet. He’s a prospect, which means he has to prove himself before he can wear the Gods’ colors. Even then, becoming a full-patched member isn’t guaranteed. It takes a majority vote.
Meela gave me a crash course in outlaw biker culture on the drive over. Let’s just say it’s complicated… and dangerous. Honestly, I don’t get why anyone would willingly sign up for it. I guess some people like living on the edge. Not me. I prefer life quiet, normal, and far from anything with a body count.
I’m secretly hoping he doesn’t let us in. My bravado fled theinstant Meela pulled into the parking lot, and I saw the large crowd milling about outside. To say I’m jumpy is an understatement. My gaze scans every face in the vicinity, searching for Sandman. Spotting him first is the only advantage I have.
“Sorry, can’t do that,” he says, his head shaking in the negative.
“You wanna get kicked in the dick?”
“Look, there’s a private party going on tonight,” he explains. “But even if there wasn’t, I couldn’t let you in. Twenty-one and over only, sweet cheeks.”
“Call me sweet cheeks again, and I’ll rip off your testicles and feed them to you,” she growls, taking a threatening step forward.
“My bad.” He holds his hands up, palms facing her. “I don’t want no problems, but you still ain’t getting in.”
“Do you have any idea who I am?” Meela’s voice rises a few octaves. “My father was one of the founding members!”
“No jailbait allowed inside.” His thin shoulders lift in a shrug. “I let you in and it’s my ass.”
“I’m eighteen, prospect, which means by law I’m a grown-ass woman,” Meela gripes in annoyance, pointing at her birthday sash. “Now step aside!”
“Twenty-one and over,” he reiterates, widening his stance. “Prez’s orders.”
