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on my arm. “There are some rules. Things you need to know before we go in there.” She ticks them off on her fingers. “Number one rule, respect the members and their old ladies. Don’t run your mouth or give them attitude. Two, what a biker does in the clubhouse is his business. It’s not your place to say anything to his old lady. Some of these guys are off limits, others not so much. Just keep your eyes open and you’ll learn quick which is which.” Putting up a third finger, she says, “Respect the club and what it stands for. Don’t mock the life until you know what it takes to live it.” Four. “Don’t touch any of the bikes unless you’re invited to do so. Most of these guys love their rides more than life itself.” Five. “Don’t start any fights with any other club girls even if they give you a hard time. My advice is settle shit in private. Last rule, keep your nose clean. No hardcore drugs allowed in the clubhouse. Ever. Got it?”
    I blink, a bit thrown by her last rule. But I’m not in a position to question it. I nod. “Yeah, I got it.”
    “Good. I think you’ll do fine. You’re a little shy, but some of the guys like that kinda thing.”
    Great. My gut knots up even more. Like a dishtowel being wrung dry.
    A heavy exhale leaves her. She pats my arm again, gives me a small smile. “I’ll look out for you. Just stick close to me. And remember, let me do the talkin’.”
    No problem.
    “You ready?”
    The voice of reason inside my head screams a blinding, NO! My heartbeat drums in my ears. I take a steadying breath. “As ready as I’ll ever be.” Opening the door, I exit the car and do my best to wipe the nervous look off my face. I need to be confident. Strong. Fearless. Otherwise, these bikers will eat me alive.

    Three feet into the clubhouse, Lily stops walking and I nearly run into her.
    It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dimly lit room. But as they do, I breathe in a mixture of smoke, cologne, and sweat, and absorb the steady beat of soulful music as it pulses around me. The volume almost drowns out the hum of conversation, and girlish giggles, but not quite.
    The room is spacious with dark walls and rustic, worn wood floors. On my right is a long bar, and behind it are shelves of liquor and a wide mirror that runs the entire length of the bar. The other walls are adorned with motorcycle memorabilia, pictures, plaques, and patriotic oddments.
    In the corner of the room, a couple of feet from the door, an actual motorcycle hangs from the ceiling by thick chains. It sits on a diamond pattern metal platform. The gas tank is a blend of colors from pale yellow to burnt orange that fades into a deep brown-red. All the colors of fire and brimstone, if I’m not mistaken.
    Most of the men are swathed in leather, and scattered around the room. They’re either at the bar, sitting at one of the many tables, or taking residence on one of the couches against the walls. A small group of them are gathered around the pool table on the far side of the room, pool cues in hand. One of the men, a handsome blond, has a brunette pinned against the pool table. My gaze nearly sweeps over him until I catch him pulling down the girl’s shirt and bending forward to suck her nipple into his mouth. She giggles and I realize that’s where the high-pitched giggles are coming from. The man notices my gaze as he straightens. A dazzling smile splits over his face and he wiggles his brows at me.
    I quickly look away.
    Close to a dozen men and at least five women, are here in the main room. Two of the girls are dressed like Lily, more rocker chic, where the other three look like call girls, dressed in revealing clothing, like the girl with bleach-blonde hair wearing a leather miniskirt and a red bra covered by a black mesh top. Or the other Spanish-looking girl with tattoos sitting on a biker’s lap at the bar, her yellow dress looks as if it might work better as tooth floss.
    Moans draw my eyes to