Page 11 of Lucian

Father Peter frowned. “We should finish. I’m willing to listen, if you’re still willing to speak.”

As it was, Jordyn already felt out of place in this house of God. Women like her didn’t make a habit of going to church, let alone being seen near one. She wasn’t entirely sure what it was that brought her to this particular church, but she chose one far enough away from her Brooklyn apartment that she knew no one would recognize her. That way, it wouldn’t get back any of the members of The Sons of Hell.

The last thing she needed was them getting wind of her going to church.

It was only something she did occasionally, whenever her mind was filled with crap she couldn’t handle, or stress was eating her alive. Despite the way her mother had lived her life, she always tried to make time for religion, or at the very least, God. There was something entirely freeing about being able to have those kinds of memories of her mother without all the other awfulness surrounding it.

Shaking off those depressing thoughts, Jordyn offered Father Peter a smile, but it didn’t feel real even to her. “No, really. I should go.”

“These doors are always open, child,” Father Peter replied. “Always.”

Nodding, Jordyn began to walk away.

“And,” he continued in his same, soft tenor, “… Mass is at the same time every Sunday.”

She took note of that, but doubted she would be back in this church again.

Regardless of the unknown, gorgeous man with a voice still ringing in the back of her mind.

• • •

A little after six that evening, Jordyn walked through the front entrance of Legs and Leather, ignoring the blatant ogling of the two security guards. She was long accustomed to their staring. Legs, a strip club owned and operated by Ron, the Vice President of the Brooklyn chapter of The Sons of Hell, wasn’t anything fancy or upscale. Most of the girls working the poles were either barely above age, or old enough to be her mother. They’d do anything for the right price, and that price wasn’t a whole hell of a lot.

The one thing the older women and younger girls had in common?

A vice—drugs, usually.

Jordyn, while occasionally dabbling in something to take the edge off, was proud to say she didn’t follow down that same addictive path as her mother once had. It was, after all, exactly what led her mother Sandra straight into the motorcycle club’s seedy ways and eventually ended her life, too.

She wasn’t a dancer, though. Jordyn was lucky enough to keep some morality in herself by waiting tables and keeping most of her clothes on. If you considered the heels, skimpy lace and leather panties and matching bra ensemble she was forced to wear decent. She sure didn’t.

“Hey, sugar,” one of the security guards drawled. “Heard you gotta special on tonight.”

Jordyn nearly stumbled in her walk past the guys, but fixed it quickly. A special and her name were not two things that she ever thought would be said together in the same sentence. It meant she’d be working a pole and not the floor. “Excuse me?”

“Can’t wait to see those pretty tits of yours without anything covering them. Not to mention that ass. Goddamn girl, we haven’t seen all of that ink of yours in a long time.”

A shiver crawled up her spine. Something awful welled in Jordyn’s stomach, leaping straight up into her mouth and leaving a bad taste behind. It was their agreement, she thought desperately. Ron promised her. She wouldn’t have to dance, not ever, if she didn’t want to.

“What?” She turned sharply on four inch heels to glare at the meathead.

“You heard me. But I guess you’ll find out soon enough. Meeting is in ten. Better hurry it up, chica.”

When the idiot reached out as if he was going to stroke her cheek with two fingers, Jordyn snapped back from him. “I suggest if you want them to remained attached to your arms, you’ll keep your hands off me, asshole.”

“Oh, we’ll see about that.”

Jordyn made it through the club in record time. Instead of going back to the dressing rooms to change into her uniform—or lack thereof—she bypassed that altogether, weaving through the dirty pool tables and scratched up booths until she reached Ron’s office. The door was shut, which often signaled there was business happening behind closed doors the workers weren’t to be interrupting. She didn’t give a shit.

Banging on the door, Jordyn yelled, “Open up!”

She continued to slam her fist on the door, though no one answered. Finally, after two minutes, the door swung open to reveal Ron in his usual jeans and T-shirt attire. He also wore the motorcycle club’s leather vest as he always did, the VP patch sewed on the right side gave away his ranking. His glowering eyes bore into hers furiously.

“What in the fuck do you want?” he barked.

Jordyn should have been scared. Any one of the other girls in the strip joint certainly would have been. Probably would have scattered away like frightened little mice. That wasn’t her.

“What’s this about me and a special, Ron?” she asked, the rage curling around the edge of her voice. “What in the hell is that about, now?”