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I take a couple steps back until my ass hits the wall and wait patiently, careful not to press against the paneling and snag the lace of my bodysuit. Not even an eight count later, the office door inches open, and one of the new girls comes out, shortly followed by an “extra,” glassy-eyed and replete and still tucking himself back into his pants. A new crop of hungry babies always shows up just prior to Bike Week. Coincidence? Unlikely. Stoney makes a pretty penny bringing in new dancers when the local economy is blossoming with funds. Newbies are always willing to please — to make an “extra” buck or hundred performing duties beyond simply taking off their top and dancing.
“You two lost?” Foster chides, his light-brown eyes glinting. The customer dashes off, more than eager to get away.
“Yes, sir. Seems I get turned around in here easily,” the new girl says, her stunted heels clicking against the hard floor with each backward step. The response lacks an apology and promise to make sure it doesn’t happen again. Because it will — anytime the manager on duty conveniently disappears.
She’s almost halfway down the hallway when Foster takes a few large steps, wraps his fingers around her upper arm, yanks her to a stop, and brings his mouth to her ear. “Next time, make sure he’s fully dressed before you turn the knob.”
Rookie mistake. The hallways have cameras… the offices do not. She’ll get the hang of it soon enough. That or get kicked to the curb. She’s just lucky Foster is on shift and not Stoney.
She glances down toward the officer patch on his motorcycle vest. Face blanched, she gives him a demure nod. His focus slips from her bare breasts to her cute little micro plaid pleated skirt and up again, tongue wetting his lips. “Tip out,” he says. “You smell like cum. Go get cleaned up, then be back in my office when the place clears.” Her demure nod turns into an emphatic one. He lets her go, and she rushes away.
Foster turns around and gestures toward his office. As I step past him, I slip my house fee into the palm of his hand then walk inside and lean against his desk, using the scant amount of material from my cut-off shorts as a buffer between my skin and the dirty top.
Decorative pillows are scattered about the space, tossed from the couch. One is just a few inches away from my feet on the dusty hardwood floor, teasing the edge of the tattered oriental rug beneath the desk.
“Do well tonight?” he asks with a sigh as he slumps into his chair, unlocks the cash drawer, and shoves my money inside.
“As well as any weekday,” I respond, crossing my eight-inch heels at the ankles. The room smells like a ripe mix of sweat, sex, and the stale remnants of weed. My mouth salivates, my fingers itch to pluck up the discarded roach from the nearby tray and rekindle it, and my inner thighs pulse at the thought of what those two were up to in here just moments before.
A creak from the office chair has my attention snapping over my shoulder and locking on Foster’s movements as he leans forward. His wrinkled and weathered hands swipe something off the desk. He jangles some keys up high before cupping them and teasing me with a fake throw. I hold my hands out, and he tosses me the set. “Got some news yesterday. Hell for Leather is coming in early. Coty wants his bed to smell like you when he calls it a night after their long, grueling day on the road.”
My eyebrows rise into my hairline. “VP of the rebellious Hell for Leather Motorcycle Club, said that… to you… VP of the infamous Rolling Stones?”
Little wrinkles form at the corners of his downturned brown eyes. “No, our secretaries crossed swords. Their guy relayed the details to our guy who then passed on the information to Stoney and me.”
Ah, so Baylor made the call then. The term “secretary” often comes with an unfair stigma much like the term “stripper” does, in my humble opinion. Where motorcycle clubs are concerned, secretaries have some of the most dangerous responsibilities. Baylor really does make the perfect MC secretary — tough and smart as a whip.
He and Chaz — aka “Cash” on account of his treasurer position — both graduated two years before me. Chaz barely passed, whereas Baylor closed out the year as valedictorian. Baylor exchanged greetings with me a few times, doing his due diligence as the representative of his class, but nothing much beyond that. I actually had a huge crush on Chaz my freshman and sophomore years. That man commands a room, usually because he is doing something incredibly stupid or hilarious. Needless to say, I noticed him pretty easily. Back then, we ran in different circles, though.
“Baylor give any details? Who, what, where, when, why? Anything?” I ask, testing my luck.
Rumor has it, Hell for Leather might be making money in this territory somehow. Gossip probably stemming from the fact that the club is pretty well-to-do, yet it seems not a damn person knows how they make bank outside of their decoy jobs back in Georgia. One of these days I wanna figure it out, though; I refuse to be in bed with them if Kal led his club down a similar path as his father.
“Not a chance. But you know even if they did, mums the word.” Foster guffaws and shakes his scraggly, gray head.
“Can’t blame a girl for tryin’.” A slow smile spreads across my face as I tilt my head down and look up at him from under my lashes.
Foster eases back in his chair, vest gaping wide and giving a little peek at the gray hairs escaping from his white v-neck and the Rolling Stones tattoo underneath. “That look doesn’t work on me.” He wags a finger.
My lips quirk up to the side, and I shake my head in amusement. “You’re one of the good ones, Fozzy.”
“Damn straight I am. Now come lay a wet one on me, then get out of here.”
I adjust so the edge of the desk is digging into the front of my thighs, lean over, and give him a peck on the cheek.
“Sleep well.” He winks and shoos me away.
