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“Yeah, we promise to be good.”
“Who the fuck are you kiddin’?” Samson smirked at them all. “You don’t know how to be anywhere near good.”
The shaved head guy flipped him off, they all laughed, and again Lisbeth was overwhelmed with testosterone and alpha male.
“You don’t mind if we join the party, right?” The guy with silvery blue eyes crossed the room. “I’m Cobra, and this mangy fucker is Mamba.” He pointed to the shaved-head guy who’d already sprawled himself onto the couch. “And the guy with the serious face is Joker. Get the irony?”
Cobra lifted the bottle of Dom out of the ice bucket. “Pretty fancy, but I ain’t drinking that shit.”
“I’m Madeline,” The shapely woman sat next to Lisbeth on the couch. “I’m with that big beast, Boa.” She pointed at the musclebound man who dwarfed even Samson, and to Lisbeth’s shock, he blew Madeline a kiss. “Ain’t he cute?”
Lisbeth figured it was a rhetorical question, so she stayed silent, observing the show unraveling around her.
Samson rounded the bar at the far end of the room and returned with a bottle of Jack Daniels and glasses.
“That’s what I’m talking about.” Mamba swiped the bottle out of Samson’s hand, uncapped it, and poured a generous amount into each glass.
“Here’s to Club Wicked.” Cobra raised his glass, and the others followed.
Lisbeth raised her champagne flute, and they all clinked glasses.
Mamba nudged the Jack Daniels towards Lisbeth. “C’mon hun, we all gotta drink the same thing if the toast is gonna work.”
Lisbeth rarely drank hard liquor, mainly sticking to wine, and she never drank whiskey, but with four bikers, an ‘ol lady, and a ghost from her past looking on—sounded like some X-rated Christmas song—what choice did she have?
She lifted the glass and sipped at it.
“Nah, ain’t gonna cut it.” Mamba pointed to hers, still half-full. “You gotta shoot it.”
“She don’t gotta do anything,” Samson countered.
“No, Mamba’s right. We wouldn’t want a toast to bring bad vibes.” Lisbeth sucked in a deep breath and downed the shot in one. First, pride swept through her, then a heat that started in her throat and landed in the pit of her empty stomach. When the burn in her throat was overwhelming, she sputtered and choked like a twenty-year-old car.
“Look what you made her do. Here hun.” Madeline shoved the champagne flute in her hand. “I should’ve told you not to listen to a word these assholes say.”
Lisbeth caught her breath, wishing the champagne was a huge glass of water.
“You all right?” Samson sat on her other side. His muscled thigh radiated heat through the material of his pants against her bare leg.
“So, where did an ugly fucker like you find this sweet flower?” Mamba asked, and the others rolled their eyes.
“In case you hadn’t noticed”—Samson threw Mamba the fisheye—“this asshole’s got no filter.”
She noticed none of them had a filter and somehow found it entertaining and refreshing. Lisbeth primarily spent most of her work and personal time with people who filtered their words or said what they didn’t mean or what they thought people wanted to hear. So this frank honesty intrigued her.
“And if I remember correctly, you had no filter back in the day, either.” Joker poured himself another shot and looked at Lisbeth. “I’ve known this guy since I was hooked up with the Raiders, and he was running the streets in Brooklyn, fighting at underground shitholes in Chinatown.”
Joker and Samson tapped fists. “We’ve all come a long way, brother.”
Interesting. So, somehow Joker ended up in Vegas from New York too. Lisbeth didn’t remember him from the Oasis, but she never went to any of Samson’s cage fights.
“So, how did you meet this crazy fucker?” Mamba asked, and all eyes turned to Lisbeth.
“I’m an event planner and—”
“You helped Samson put all this shit at the club together?” Cobra asked.
“No, no, we just met tonight. Well, not just tonight—” Maybe the floor could magically open and swallow her whole.
