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The drive to Las Vegas took six hours. It was long, but with Dakota, I couldn’t say it was boring.
Mainly because we had the same taste in music, and we both had a love for singing extremely loud on road trips.
A couple of motorcycles followed behind us the whole way, but not directly. I couldn’t decide if Huntsman had asked them to be discrete, or if they just didn’t want people to know we were associated. It was only when we reached Las Vegas that they pulled in front, one motioning for Dakota to follow them. Which was fair enough, given I hadn’t bothered to ask Huntsman for directions or ask for his cell phone number.
The riders weaved through traffic, Dakota kept right on their tail. I don’t know if they were impressed or scared with the way they were ducking and diving between vehicles until we finally reached an off-ramp at the edge of the city and pulled off into an area that looked like train yards and old style factory brick buildings.
We drove past a few construction sites with cranes and the metal structures of new buildings, a couple of club members pulling out of one of the sites and watching us pass by before pulling in behind us.
Two streets down, we drew up in front of some large metal gates. The kind with spikes that looked almost impenetrable. It was like entering a fortress as they eased open, and the guy standing outside watched us carefully as we pulled in.
The club members all roared past, each finding their place in the line of twenty or more sparkling Harley’s which sat outside an old school orange brick factory. The style was old, but the closer we got, I started to realize that the structure looked reasonably modern. The windows, the large roller doors that opened the space up. There were double roller doors out the back too, which looked like it opened onto some kind of concrete patio and backyard.
I was reasonably impressed.
More than impressed actually.
Our clubhouse back home was amazing. The boys looked after it, it was often renovated—sometimes due to bullet holes and explosives, other times because the old ladies said so.
But this, I had to admit, was next level.
“Where shall I park?” Dakota questioned, casually turning in circles in the oversized clubhouse lot.
“Um… anywhere?”
She slammed on the breaks and threw it into park, looking over at me with a wide grin. We were smack dab in the middle of everything. People coming and going would have to go around the car.
Instead of making her move, I just shrugged. “Okay, let’s do this.”
“You’re a lot less freaking out than I thought you’d be.”
Maybe because this is the kind of place where I felt comfortable. It wasn’t home, but it was similar, and honestly, that at least kind of made me feel happy.
Huntsman stepped out of one of the roller doors as we climbed from the car. His eyes looked at the car first, then to me, then to Dakota, where I felt like he decided he needed to pick his battles, and instead just waved us in.
“How was the drive,” he asked as we stepped inside.
Dakota and I both looked up and around at the enormous space, our mouths hanging open.
About a third of the place was left open from floor to ceiling, exposed metal beams and other stuff uncovered. There looked like there were offices or rooms which lined one side, while stairs led up either side of the building to a second level which was closed in. I assumed where the mens’ rooms were located.
I still couldn’t quite gauge how big this place was, knowing we hadn’t seen it all when we came in and even now, wondering if there was more hidden away. Curious, I walked toward the doors that went out the other side of the building, stepping straight out onto a well looked after concrete patio. It had a barbecue area, a firepit, with plenty of tables and seats around.
“You have a lot of parties?” I asked loudly, not even bothering to look over my shoulder and see if Huntsman was following.
“You always this nosey?”
“Not nosey,” I argued, turning on him with a wide grin. “Curious.”
“You know what curiosity did?” he asked, following me toward the grassed edge.
“Killed the cat,” I acknowledged before adding, “I’m more of a dog person myself.”
“She ever stop talking?” I looked over to see a guy with dark overalls on, holding a white torn piece of what looked like a towel, wiping his grease-covered hands on it. He had long hair which was pulled back into a ponytail, a dirty blond color, and streaks of all kinds of oil and dirt across his face.
Over in the corner of the yard, I could see more asphalt and a couple of bikes parked outside a two bay garage. There were a few guys in there working, the low thump of music coming from inside.
“Not really,” Huntsman grumbled, making the man laugh.
