“I will. If I’m not back when the glass company is finished, lock up for me?”
He sighs and returns to counting, obviously not liking that I’m leaving with Keno. “Yeah, sure. Whatever.”
“Thanks.”
With that, I head out the front door to find Keno sitting astride a very sleek black motorcycle with lots of shiny chrome. It’s parked in one of the diagonal spots, its rear tire to the curb.
Keno twists when the door opens, and his eyes scan over me. Then he pulls a helmet out of his saddlebag and holds it out.
I stare at it. “We could take my car?”
“You afraid to climb on the back, Six?”
Afraid? Never. I accept his challenge, lift my chin, and climb on behind him.
He looks over his shoulder. “You ready?”
I nod.
“Hold on.”
I wrap my arms around him, which brings my body plastered against his. I can’t help the zing of reaction that dances along my skin. His body is taut and muscled.
With a twist of the throttle, the bike roars out, and we ride through town. Seeing the place from the back of Keno’s Harley is like seeing it for the first time with no windshield between me and the breeze. I feel alive as we ride through downtown.
Soon, Keno is leaving all that behind and heading out on the highway leading out of town.
I tap his shoulder and lean to his ear. “Where are we going?”
He reaches back and pats my thigh, calling over his shoulder. “You’ll see.”
About ten minutes later, he turns in at a large lot with a huge log structure.
“What is this place?” I ask as he parks next to about four other bikes. I glance around, half expecting to see a roadside diner sign somewhere, but there’s nothing.
We climb off the bike, and he stores the helmets, then takes my hand.
“Come on.”
In the back of my head, I’m still thinking this must be some kind of roadhouse restaurant. Even when we walk through the door, I still think that. There’s a bar area to the right and a big room with a huge stone fireplace, lots of seating, comfortable leather couches around the hearth, and a couple of pool tables toward the back.
Then I spot the men at the bar. Every one of them is dressed in leather cuts with Royal Bastards on their rockers.
Oh. My. God.Is this theirclubhouse?
Keno tugs my hand. “Come on.”
He leads me over to the bar, and I spot Rock at the end, deep in conversation with his VP, Darko, whom I’ve met on several occasions.
Keno motions to the guy behind the bar. “Get us a couple longnecks, prospect.”
“Coming right up, sir.”
A moment later, two ice-cold bottles are set before us.
Keno takes a slug off his, and I timidly sip mine, wondering what the hell we’re doing here, butinsanelycurious and taking it all in. My eyes rove over the back bar with its ornate wood and huge mirror.
Other than a couple of bras hanging behind the bar and the pool tables and dartboards, the place looks nice—not at all what I would have expected. But then, I’ve never been in a biker clubhouse, so what do I know.
