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“Yeah. You in?”
Saint grabbed his helmet and then started up his engine. He was in. A few minutes later, Rourke came out, and they took off. This was what it was about, what it had always been about.
The ride.
Chapter Four
She had spent the last two days engulfed in research on the Ghosttown Riders. It was a fail. If anything, the only real information she had gotten was there was no information. No social media outlets or website. The images she came across were all posted by others in an almost investigative style. They certainly weren’t advertising for membership. Who the hell doesn’t have a Facebook page in this day and age? A motorcycle gang.
She pulled up alongside the curb directly across the street. The area was fairly residential, and without the dragon and crossbones donning the building, it might appear to be a bike shop. The garage bay doors were down. Maybe she should come back another time. Maybe they were closed.
Do motorcycle clubhouses close down? Were there hours of operation? Again, useful information that would have been helpful in her predicament.
Several motorcycles lined the front of the building along with a few parked on the street. She silently counted. Seven bikes for seven bikers.
Her cell pinged, and she was tempted to ignore it. But she didn’t. She grabbed her phone and snorted when she saw the text.
Macy: Are you dead?
Cheyenne: Yes, I’m dead.
Macy: LOL Have you gone in yet?
Cheyenne: If you wanted all the details, you should have come with me.
Macy: Uh…hello…working here. Our store isn’t going to happen on our looks and charm.
Cheyenne chuckled. Too bad for them. Opening up their dream shop took more cash than either one of them had. Luckily, Macy was the brains and currently the higher revenue for their future endeavor.
Cheyenne: I’m going in now.
Macy: Text me when you’re out. If something goes wrong…can I have your laptop?
Cheyenne: Bitch.
She tucked her phone into her bag and got out of the car. She drew in a deep, shaky breath. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been this on edge. She shook her hands, trying to calm her nerves, and then wiped her palms down her jeans.
“It’ll be fine,” she said and straightened her shoulders. She draped her satchel bag over her chest, leaving her hands free. She had seen a television special about female safety. Always be ready to start swinging. That was not exactly what it said, but it was how she’d interpreted it.
She crossed the abandoned street. For the first time since pulling up, she realized there were few cars in the quiet, seedy section of town. It was off the beaten path, and the clubhouse was surrounded by businesses that had gone under and never been replaced. It made her wonder if the club had driven them out. She scanned the street, gripping tightly to the strap of her bag. It really was a shithole. A place where people minded their business and looked the other way. Great.
She weaved through the bikes and then stopped at the large metal door. The dent in the center looked as if someone had been thrown up against it. This was getting worse by the second. She wiped her moist forehead with her sleeve and inhaled a deep breath.
“Calm down,” she muttered.
She scanned the outer wall, looking for a bell. Nothing. She drew a deep breath and raised her hand to knock. Her knuckles scraped against the door, and she flinched back when it suddenly swung open. A tall, thin man with a black goatee scowled down at her.
His gazed dropped, perusing her body and back up without losing his furrowed brows.
“Party’s at nine.” He stepped back and started to close the door. She reached out, slamming her hand against the hard wood.
“Wait.”
“What?” he snapped, and she dropped down a step.
“Um…I’m not here for a party.” She cleared her throat and straightened her shoulders. She may have not been feeling it, but she needed to act the part of confident. “I’d like to speak to the person in charge.”
He stared at her, giving no indication he’d heard her.
