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Looking back at the building, I catch sight of a black sign with bright pink wording.
Alibi
Alibi? While I doubt it is a last chance sign for prisoners to think up theirs, it certainly does make for an interesting advertisement. I know the Regulators own clubs, but I didn’t expect to be taken here.
More confused than ever, I turn to Tank. “Am I allowed to ask where we are?”
A devious grin spreads across his face. “Strip club.” He gives me a wink, and my jaw drops open in shock.
Why in the hell would they bring me to a freakin’ strip club? Does Sass have any idea that Tank is eye fuckin’ tits and ass when he is away from her? I thought I would be at a home with my patient.
My mind races. I hope like hell he doesn’t live in the back of the club or something crazy like that.
Suddenly, I want nothing more than to punch Tank in his smug face. Unfortunately, I helped nurse that man back to health, and he is nearly as big as his nickname. I would need brass balls and a step stool to accomplish that feat.
Tank laughs as if he can read my mind and then grabs me by my shoulders and turns me around to face Boomer and Shooter. They wave for me to follow then lead the way with me in the middle.
We reach the front door of the club, and I cringe. I read his file. Ethan ‘Hammer’ McCoy. I am here to help him. I won’t have to work a pole, will I?
Suzie, what the hell did you get me into?
I want to hate her and be angry with her. Except, she’s my sister, my now very gone sister. I refuse to taint her memory with the bad, even if the bad is the utmost worst since my life and people I care about are in danger, and we don’t even know why.
With a building sense of dread, I follow the men until we stop at a steel door. Boomer pushes the button on some sort of security system. A small screen above the keypad lights up, and I see a man with dark, curly hair, glasses, and his face to close to the camera when he barks, “What?”
“We’re expected by your prez,” Boomer responds.
Geeky camera guy raises an eyebrow. Then the screen goes black. A minute later, his voice crackles through the speaker system. “Unlocking the door now.”
A buzz sounds, and then I can hear the click of a heavy duty lock sliding out of place. Boomer grabs the door handle and pulls the solid steel door open, waving for Shooter to take us in. I stay right behind Shooter, making it two steps through the doorway before I hear a deep voice speak from ahead of us.
“Shooter, long time.” A man with short, dark hair comes over to greet us.
“Ice.” Shooter smiles, and the two embrace in a half-handshake, half-hug thing with a back slap. He follows that with the same greeting to Boomer.
As Boomer steps back from their greeting, I finally get a chance to take in our greeter. Besides his dark hair, he is wearing a black leather cut like the Hellions do, but his patches are different. I also take note of the “president” patch on his chest. The delicious but scary-looking guy in front of us must be the man expecting us.
Shooter introduces Tripp, Tank, and then me to the Regulators MC president, ‘Ice.’ I can’t help thinking that’s an interesting name as he shakes my hand firmly while the guys step back after sharing a nod amongst them. I am going to assume that nod has to do with me since Ice has been informed of my situation and the need to keep me protected while I help their guy.
Jerking his head to the hallway behind him, he says, “Let’s go out into the main room.”
We follow Ice down a short hallway before entering the main room where Ice walks to a couple of tables in a corner. After a quick glimpse around the club, it finally clicks that we entered the back entrance.
There is a male bartender moving around behind the bar and a woman wiping off tables toward the front of the room by the stages. Besides those two, we are alone.
Waving his hand to the chairs, Ice orders us to sit. Tired and completely over the crate I had to curl myself into, I plop my butt down on the plush-looking chair and give a sigh of relief. My ass has never been more thankful for a good cushion in my entire life.
The men speak some gibberish about rides and runs that I tune out. Instead, I take the opportunity for a more in depth inspection of the club.
Part of me is still terrified they might ask me to dance on a pole for them. I might be fit, and I could dance a little, but the idea of taking my clothes off for men to drool at my girly bits makes my stomach churn. To my surprise, though, I don’t see one stripper pole. Is this some sort of new kind of strip club where the women don’t use the sturdy, shiny poles I have seen in movies and shit?
