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Some stupid song is playing, but as soon she’s in my arms under the dingy orange light, there could be complete silence and I’d still dance to it. For about a split second before she grows soft and pliant in my arms, I notice all the eyes on us. After that, we might as well be alone.
She knows how to move, writhing up and down, pressing her body against mine in just the right ways. She smells of spring flowers and honey. And the bourbon she drank. Intoxicating in other words. Her hair is like silk, but not softer than her skin.
The music turns slow, and she wraps her arms around my waist and starts to move more sensually. And for the whole duration of that song, I lose all awareness of myself except for the raging hard on she’s given me and just how desperately I need to be inside her. How desperately I need to make her mine. Along with the constant question of whether that will ever happen. Right now, it feels like it might. And I can’t wait to find out.
But even that urge takes a back seat to enjoying this dance, because it’s perfect all on its own. I’ve gotten hundreds of lap dances in my life. None of those can compete with this one.
The music changes again, becomes fast and shrieking. But she just keeps dancing slow.
Then her lips are right by her ear, her soft breath like a caress as she says. “I think I need another drink.”
She could’ve asked me to cut off my right arm and give it to her and I’d do it.
“OK, but I’m pretty drunk on you already,” I tell her.
“Good,” she whispers into my ear, making all the hair on my body stand at attention. Then she smiles in a satisfied way, because she clearly knows exactly what she’s doing to me, and leads me back to the table.
I’m glad for the solid seat under my ass, and even more for her ass in my lap as she sits down too. She reaches for the bourbon and doesn’t bother with the glasses, just throws her head back and takes a swig straight from the bottle. She offers me some, but I shake my head. I didn’t lie before. I’m plenty drunk on her. And as much as I’d like to get even more drunk with her, I want to remember this night. And make sure I’m sober enough to protect her if I have.
“I need the toilet,” she announces and stands up again.
“I’ll come with you,” Karma says before I can offer to do it.
Ariel doesn’t even bat an eye at leaving me behind to walk all the way across the bar that’s now almost full of leering bikers. Karma’s a tall woman and looks like she can handle herself in a fight. But I rise to follow them anyway, just in case. Even though I can see the toilet door from where I’m sitting. I can smell it too.
“Man, she’s got you eating out of her palm,” Joker observes. “Those Horned Riders trained her good.”
Ariel stops dead on her way to the toilet, the pain on her frozen face harder to look at than the sun.
The whole place seems to grow dead silent, and I don’t know if it’s because the Riders, an MC we wiped out less than a year ago were mentioned, or because I’m on my feet, my hand wrapped around Joker’s neck. He’s not a small guy, but I picked him up by the throat and I don’t even remember deciding to do it. Sex and violence always went hand in hand seamlessly for me, and I haven’t had any of the former for a while.
Several random guys from random tables across the bar get up and approach us slowly, clearly aiming to defend Joker. So, he’s not alone here like he’s been pretending to be. I bet those are all members of his MC, The Lost Sons, even though none of them are wearing their colors. There’s five of them that I can see, and probably more behind my back. A good piece of intel to take back to the Devils. At this morning’s meeting, Rook advised me to keep trying to make friends with Joker, but that the final decision on what to do with him will have to come from Cross. So much for making friends after this.
But all that’s a very by the way thing I notice. And I hope Edge saw it too, because I’m fully ready to take this to the end and make Joker a non-issue for all of us right now. And die for it, if I must. His face is already turning purple, but he’s not fighting my grip. He’s just glaring at me with his dead eyes. And pressing a very big knife into my stomach.
I push him away from me and let go of his throat. He lands in his chair with a thud.
“Don’t ever say shit like that about her again,” I say and take my own seat.
There’s a very real possibility that he’ll still stab me, or that one of his guys will. But he waves them away while rubbing his throat and looking at me like he’s seeing me for the first time. There’s not even an ounce of fear in his eyes. But I have no idea what is.
“I went too far,” he says and chugs some bourbon straight from the bottle.
“You should be apologizing to her,” I say.
Ariel’s face isn’t frozen in pain anymore. It’s glowing somehow, even in the dingy light. And her eyes are smiling a satisfied smile. No one’s leering at her anymore.
“You’re right, I should,” Joker says, looking at her. But doesn’t do it. “But you better ask your boyfriend to take you home now. Because I’m not the only thinking what I said. And he can’t fight everyone.”
I can try. But there’s sense in what he’s saying. Not just from the perspective of getting her out of here. More from the perspective of being alone with her.
“Let’s go,” I tell her and take her hand.
“But I don’t want to go home yet,” she complains.
“You’re not,” I say and I don’t know if that’s a glimmer of fear or anticipation in her eyes. But she lets me lead her away with no more arguing.
“Take me to our shack in the woods,” she whispers into my ear once she’s ensconced behind me on my bike once again, her arms already cinching my waist tight.
