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CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
*Lace*
Thought of getting out?
Every. Damn. Day.
Hard to leave what you know best, though. This lifestyle grips you around the throat and squeezes. The hold is too tight to escape and only feeds you just enough sips of air to survive.
Rallies are by far my favorite part of the job. Every Bike Week keeps me from suffocating. I breathe a little easier and can plan my future with a clearer head. The dancers have a lot of fun and get a large dose of non-creepy attention, even if Hell for Leather is a damn handful.
But I adore these men. I kinda want a kiss from all of them. And a hug. And to have mindless conversation. I also really wish I wasn’t rolling on ecstasy and could just chill out instead of constantly having to dip my fingers in everything going on around me. With all this activity, I can hardly keep focused on the one man who needs my attention most because everyone else is drawing me away from him.
The club is buzzing with items to tick off, too — the endo kissing booth being one of them. “Friday, early afternoon. Put it on your calendars,” Baylor directs. “As usual, Becca from The Spot is handling your outfits, and Lace will be in charge of organizing all the smaller details and answering questions.”
The concept is exciting, and I can hardly wait to start planning it even though we’re all still pretty wiped from a big memorial event we just helped organize. One of our own was taken from us too soon — from the very cause we are fundraising for. Kinda.
Everyone starts getting loud, discussing things, but Kal stands up and clears his throat, immediately silencing the room. “Thanks for your time. Take the rest of today off. Club opens back up under Foster’s care tomorrow at eleven. I believe Cash already paid you for the inconvenience.” Good old Foster, always playing the role of mediator between the rival clubs. He really does seem to do a great job playing devil’s advocate, though, in spite of his VP position in the Rolling Stones.
Brodi is the most vocal about the saloon closing early, whining like a baby who lost the teat.
Probably because he did.
Everyone stands up, myself included, but just as all the dancers begin heading to the back to clean up and change, Kal calls my name. “Stay. We have something to discuss.”
Brodi shuts right up, and he goes from trying to stalk the dancers into the dressing room to plopping back down on his ass, dare I say seemingly more alert now than he was before.
The ominous tone is not my favorite way to be addressed, but I tend not to question Kal when he so seldom has reason to address me directly instead of passing the task off to someone else — much less with the entire club present.
He darts a glance over his shoulder at Kris, then to the bartender, and loops his finger in the air, letting them know he expects them to wrap it up and get out of here, stat.
The waiting silence that follows has my thoughts taking a dozen or more backroads until I’m lost in the middle of nowhere and everywhere all at once. My face tingles, and a mix of environmental and drugged panic takes root in my nervous system.
Wondering if I crossed a line earlier, challenging Coty the way I did, I dart a wide-eyed glance at him. I have never been scared of these men, but I have also never given them reason to scare me. Right now, I’m just on this side of pretty damn concerned.
Minute by minute the two remaining employees close down and leave until there’s nothing left but the buzz of silence and dim lighting.
Kal reclines into the leather couch and drags a hand over his face before plopping it into his lap. “Stand up,” he demands, his green eyes steady on mine.
I stand, spine straight, shoulders back, jaw set, no stranger to following instructions in this occupation; despite being independent, we still need to eat and feed our hobbies, after all.
“Undress.”
Not dance.
Not strip.
Not perform.
Undress.
An amalgamation of sounds vortex around me — the creak of wood, rustle of leather, quiet whispers. If any member of Hell for Leather was not paying attention, they certainly are now.
First, I unbuckle and toe off my platforms. While crossing my arms and peeling the black crop top away from my torso and over my head, I steal a glance to Kal’s right where the club Vice President always takes a spot during important meetings. Coty’s silvery eyes are locked on me. Kal’s gaze moves sideways to him with such a quick flick that the look likely went unnoticed by anyone else, Coty included.
Once the lacy item is completely off and on the ground, I make sure it appears I never stopped looking at the man in charge.
I move on to my custom leggings and peel those off, careful not to nick the delicate lace openings with my toes or fingernails. The process is a little less than graceful, considering how tight they are and that Kal instructed I stand to get the task done.
