Leather & Lace - Hell for Leather (Book One) Sample by Adell Ryan

Leather & Lace is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Copyright © 2021 by Adell Ryan All Rights Reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher and the copyright owner constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights. Published by Upside Down Red Umbrella First Edition: May 2021 Cover Art by Upside Down Red Umbrella Edited by G. Surley

CHAPTER ONE *Zane - Hell for Leather Initiate*

A schwack rings in my ear and my head slings sideways from the impact. Blinking repeatedly, I jolt upright, palm pressed against the sting radiating along my jaw and cheek. The outline of a face, features barely discernible in the black room, appears in my gradually sharpening vision. Brodi yanks my hand away and gives my cheek a little love pat. Flashing me his classic, manic grin, his bright teeth are visible even in the dark. “Goodfucking-morning, sunshine. Get your ass out of bed.” Heart thundering, uncertain as to the reason for this early-morning visit, I struggle to figure out how to respond. One wrong comment or move, and that love pat could turn into another slap. Or worse. A rapid memory of one of my first wakeup calls flashes through my mind: they had forced me to get drunk the night prior, an easy thing to do since I had never so much as tasted alcohol before. Then, they tucked me in for the night at a park. Naked. My phone alarm went off bright and early the next morning. An 5

incoming text told me I had thirty minutes to use all the playground equipment as an obstacle course. From there, I was required to make my way to the clubhouse to get dressed. The reward for successfully accomplishing those tasks ended up being my club uniform — prospect patch included. My focus returns to the present just in time. Brodi raises a dark eyebrow and the corner of his mouth ticks upward. I narrowly escape more harassment, ducking my head under his next swipe and scrambling out of bed, wrestling with the bunched sheets along the way. The overhead light flickers on, revealing my sparsely furnished studio apartment and a second club member — the executive officer who made my prospect patch official. Blood drains from my face, leaving me in a cold sweat. The white thread of his Vice President patch catches my eye as he steps forward. Seeking out the Tail Gunner patch on Brodi, my hazy focus flicks toward him again as he steps back and leans against the wall beside the door. Sure enough, both men are fully dressed in their reinforced, black motorcycle jeans and club leathers. Head tilted down slightly and watching with wide-eyed attention as our superior approaches me, Brodi gnaws on his thumbnail, a small lightning bolt tattoo peeking out from the cuff of his jacket. Clearly underdressed in only my boxers, I straighten my spine and pin the VP with what I hope 6

passes as a confident glare. “Did someone die?” I ask, trying to piece together why they would be paying me a visit at — I dare a quick glance at the clock — three in the morning. This is a new hazing record for any of the members, executive or not. “Lord knows you don’t need me for an eloping.” I chuckle nervously and consider including something about nobody being crazy enough to marry him but decide the one gibe probably tested my boundaries plenty. Too much, even. His half-smirk drops. “Smart ass.” The smug grin returns, leveling out my pulse just as it started to increase. “I like it. Keep up the good work.” Grinning wide, Brodi speaks up from his perch at the door: “Drop the ‘Lord’ next time, though, and add in a good ‘fuck off’ instead.” Right. Not a chance. The day I start telling Coty “Coyote” Reed to fuck off is the day I meet my Maker, and as tight as we are, I’m not ready for that yet. I might be able to get away with that behavior with Brodi, since he is only one link higher than me on the food chain, but not with “Coyote.” No way. He would eat me alive. The animal in question grins, the silvery streaks in his hair highlighted under my fluorescent lighting as he looks down at the watch on his wrist. “You have thirty minutes to get dressed, pack your snorkel, and 7

do your ‘studies’ or whatever the hell it is you do in here at these god-awful hours.” He puts a unique spin on the air quotes around “studies,” curling his fingers into a fist and pumping near his crotch. “There’s been a change of itinerary. Duty calls. Prez wants us — you included this time — to ride out for Florida before the sun rises.” “D-duty?” All pretending to be a tough smart aleck drains. “This week? Y-you said I would be a prospect for at least a year before getting my first assignment.” Bile singes my throat, leaving behind an acrid tang. No longer caring what the VP does to me, I sink onto the edge of my bed. They’ve been slavedriving me nearly every day since Brodi found me living on the streets. Over the course of the past few months, Coty has even taken it upon himself to toughen me up — to make sure I have the skills to do what true membership requires. I know what to do and what my initiation entails. But now that it is real— “Stand up,” he demands. Legs tingling and unable to move, I remain seated, and my unfocused gaze bores a hole into the worn Bible tucked under my motorcycle helmet on the bedside table — my only true physical possessions other than my bike and the clothes on my back from when I ran from home six months ago. Coty steps into my sightline, grips my jaw, and slams our foreheads together. My focus goes cross8

eyed on the center of his nose. “I said stand up… Father,” he sneers, reminding me both of my responsibilities as soon-to-be club Chaplain and why I joined Hell for Leather to begin with. “Time to earn your officer patch.”

CHAPTER TWO *Lace*

Slow, sultry music and muffled conversations filter into the dressing room through the saloon walls. A light touch brushes against my arm, pulling my attention from the piles of money on top of the vanity to the attached mirror in front of me. Jess’s green eyes lock with mine in the reflection. “Foster is askin’ for ya.” Head bobbing in response, my mouth moves in a silent count as I drop my focus and finish thumbing through the last few bills. “Okay, hun. Thank you.” When she doesn't leave right away, my gaze floats up again and meets hers. The Hollywood-style lights cast a soft glow on her heavily hooded eyes and sagging cheeks. She looks about how I feel — worn out. Not just from tonight but from life in general. I gather each stack of cash, keeping them separated between my fingers, and spin on the swivel stool to face her. “Ready for one helluva weekend?” I ask, bouncing my eyebrows. 10

Jess bends in close to the mirror, rests her elbow on the distressed wood, and pulls down the skin under her eye. “Damn, I look like a hooker at the end of a long night,” she sighs. “Story of our lives.” Soft, pathetic chuckles pass between us as I force myself off the stool. “Can Foster wait, or do I need to stop by his office first before making my rounds?” Jess shrugs, props her hip on the edge of the vanity, and adjusts her cleavage. “No clue. To answer your first question, though, Bike Week can’t start soon enough. Keeps us busy and our purses full.” More like keeps us distracted from all the worldly shit. “Yeah, I hear ya.” Her eyes shift toward the other dancers as they begin entering through the paneled swing doors, and she leans in closer, flicking her dark-auburn hair over a shoulder. “The outlaws are gettin’ antsy, ya know? Hell for Leather can’t just keep on comin’ without a slap on the wrist eventually. Better the outlaws teach ‘em a lesson than the other way around. At least that’s the word on the street.” Three years ago, the locally infamous Rolling Stones Motorcycle Club divided—father versus son. Beefy hogs versus sleek sports bikes. Leather cuts versus reinforced jackets and suits. Comfort versus speed. Outlaw, veteran, motorcycle club members… 11

…versus a contemporary, new age club of speedsters and stunters. No one outside of the clubs knows what caused the initial rift. All the community knows is that Stoney told his son to leave the territory. Since that divide, Kaldon Griggs shows up every Bike Week with the club he established to spite his father, taking advantage of the bi-annual ceasefire the rally provides bikers from all over the nation. The rivals bump fists and keep things amicable for those few days, with stipulations understood only on a needto-know basis. All the Hell for Leather executive officers and I went to the same high school, but I met most of them for the first time a couple years after graduation. Kal and the club Enforcer, Kio, graduated the year before I started attending. Coty, the Vice President, was a senior when I was a freshman. As soon as Coty and I officially met, he claimed me as his favorite saloon girl. The rest is history. For that reason and more, I have a unique take on Bike Week and am privy to certain intimate secrets. Some. Not enough. As a result, Jess seldom lets me off the hook. Her mouth curves upward, a faint spark lights up her eyes, and she pokes me in the side. “I saw ya get all googlyeyed thinkin’ just then. Even yesterday wasn’t soon enough for you.” 12

Heat rises to my cheeks and a tingle of excitement buzzes through me. Ignoring the dig, I roll my eyes, press my lips together to hide my own stupid grin, and step past her. The last thing I hear while rushing out of the dressing room is Jess chortling at my expense. I decide to get the jump on tipping out, hitting up the DJ booth first then making the rounds to the bar and security before I call it good on my house fee with Foster. En route to the office, one of our regulars — “Half Cut Hal” as we refer to him since he pretty much stays wasted — flirts with danger, bumping shoulders with me. The stench of spoiled trash and sour alcohol hits me hard. “You getting on stage again tonight, Lace?” he asks, stealing a glance at the nearest bouncer. “Nope ‘fraid not. Just takin’ care of a couple things before last ca—” As if my words manifest the moment, the music softens, and the DJ taps her mic. “Well, ladies and gents, time to prove to all these beautiful dancers that you know how to get it up. Last chance to wet yer whistles, then it’s time to blow this joint.” Several customers and dancers get a good laugh at the double entendres. Part of the fun at Tit for Tat Saloon is hearing how Kris will announce last call. Unfortunately, getting people to leave the warm, dry 13

saloon in exchange for the nasty, wet storm outside might prove problematic tonight. I give my suitor an apologetic smile and step past him, tossing a wink over my shoulder and keeping eye contact for a few extra steps so it doesn’t seem like I’m brushing him off… even if I kinda am. Head tilting down slightly, he shoves his hands into his pockets and tugs the front of his jeans forward to give himself a smidgen more room. I return my attention to the dark hallway ahead and quicken my pace before he makes a request and I have to refuse — can’t keep the manager waiting much longer after all. Plus, last call might give enough time for the patrons to get another round of drinks or one more private dance, but I hit my cash goal early and am more than ready to call it a night. As soon as the rustic, engraved manager sign is at eye level, I drum my knuckles against the wooden door. Shuffling and murmurs come from inside the room, but the creak of a door opening farther down the hallway draws my attention just in time to spot Foster exiting the bathroom. 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 14

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 15

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 cutoff 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 16

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 17

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-todo 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.

CHAPTER THREE *Coty “Coyote” - Vice President*

“Why am I the only one who didn’t know we were leaving early?” is the first thing out of Zane’s mouth when we roll up to the clubhouse and five other bikes are already parked inside the garage. “Initiation day, my man, and failing your first test is not the best way to kick off things. You really need to work on the element of surprise. Sleep with one eye open next time… or at least lock your damn door,” Brodi lies, walking at a clipped pace ahead of us. We circle around, slip in the side entrance, and make our way through the dark gaming area toward the beam of light coming from the boardroom. Since rank dictates the order in which we receive information, Brodi only beat him by a sleep. He got a late-night call from Vee and failed to pass on the update to his prospect before passing out again. The rest of us found out not too terribly long before that. “Another tip might be leaving your phone on,” I supply. “House calls aren’t usually my thing; you’re lucky I like you. Baylor texted everyone the meetup 20

time a little after midnight and said you didn’t respond, so I took it upon myself to tag along with Brodi while he paid you a visit.” The part I keep locked tight is that I had an ulterior motive for going out of my way to be there. Someone had to break the news to him, and his response would have been less than stellar if the news came from Brodi. Zane already knew he was supposed to attend his first Gulf Coast Bike Week this season, but not that we were leaving a day earlier than originally planned or that he would be going as an initiate instead of a prospect. “Um, thanks?” The reply comes out shaky as he fumbles to remove his phone from the cargo pocket of his riding pants. All the device gives him is a black screen when he tries to turn it on. His nostrils flare and eyes shut for the span of a deep breath before reopening. He stops walking a couple feet away from the throw line for our dartboard, flips over the phone, and pries off its back cover. Brodi sucks in a breath, eager to finish the meeting and get on his bike to ride away that constant pent-up energy. But his direct-line prospect needs a moment, so he waits, patiently by his standards, adjusting from foot to foot. Zane’s fingers wrap around the battery-less cell, and with an exaggerated exhale, he clenches his hand, and the panel snaps back into place. 21

“Right. Like I said, keep your door locked.” Brodi beams, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet at this point. No doubt Chaz is the culprit who snuck into his apartment last night to fuck with him. Simply locking the door would’ve at least challenged Chaz a bit more. Maybe the jangle of the attempted break-in would have roused Zane in time. Hard not to laugh at the poor kid, but I manage. Scarcely. Just when I think that phone is about to become a makeshift dart, the clenching of his teeth stops, his jaw slackens, and he sniffs, hands curling tightly at his sides. “Hey.” I duck my head down to capture his dejected attention, slowly straightening my spine again and encouraging him to hold his head high as a result. “Just because one of the guys got one over on you doesn’t mean you’re not ready. And just because you’re ready doesn’t mean it’s happening this exact moment. We have a lot of pavement to ride first. Tighten up that attitude, hm?” The kid has been on the fast track since day one, but we chose to withhold that information from him. Our club is too small. Kal had to lie low and build slowly after he broke away from the Rolling Stones; we’ve been filling our officer spots and making impressions for three years. Zane meets all the criteria, aside from his innocence. But what makes him even 22

more ideal is that, like the rest of us, his innocence was jaded by circumstance. The fact that he had just been on a church mission before running from home is an added bonus. Zane shoves the inoperative phone into his pocket and storms past Brodi and me, eating up the last several steps into the boardroom. “Nice of you sleeping beauties to join us,” Kal gruffs, lounging at the head of the table, boots kicked up on the corner. His surly gaze turns to our secretary. “Kick us off, Bay.” Knowing this meeting and a few hundred miles are the only things separating me from a weekend in the Gulf Coast, my body buzzes with anticipation. Feigning indifference, I sit to the right of Kal as rank demands and let our brigade do their thing despite wanting to skip the formalities and get the hell out of here. The sooner we leave, the sooner I can see Lace. Stealing a quick glance down at my watch, I note that if we get there early enough I can even pay her a surprise visit. The ginger clears his throat and begins his secretarial duties: “Raise your hand if you’re not here.” His gaze scans every member, saving Zane for last. “Appears everyone is accounted for.” Baylor then flicks his attention to Vincent for the traffic and weather report. “What are we doing today, Captain?” 23

Vee spits out a string of Italian, also affording Zane an amused glance. He then leans back in his chair and flashes Zane a toothy grin, his eyes practically glowing under the scattered light casting from the billiard chandelier. Women get stupid over his eyes. To me it just fucking looks creepy; no one should have eyes that bright blue. Plus, I know firsthand how ruthless the man is, so the way his eyes gleam only makes him look even more like a feral animal in my opinion. Based on how Zane swallows hard upon being the recipient of such a look, he might be inclined to agree. “Everyone get that?” Kal glances at each member, lips barely twitching at the corners. The entire club is all about getting this over with but not at the expense of having our initiate break formation before we can even toe up the kickstand. One by one, each member behaves in a way that not only lightens the mood a bit but also jostles him — keeps him alert. Zane speaks up, voice unsteady, eyes checking both our President and our silent and brooding Enforcer. “N-nope. Not a word. Come again?” My indifference blossoms into pride. Speaking up during meetings can be risky for prospects, but not being clear on what the hell you’re doing when you hit the road is a greater risk. What he doesn’t know is that none of us understood a damn thing Vee just said.

Since the day we took Zane in, we have all just played along. Gripping his shoulder, I give Zane a supportive squeeze as our Tail Gunner repeats the details of this run… in English. Brodi picks up a pen, for no useful reason other than to be an annoying twat, and starts rapidly clicking the plunger while running through the details as quickly as possible. “We’re starting with the scenic route, cruising through Blood Mountain on the way to Atlanta. Then, we’ll slab it. There’s a band of storms rolling through North Florida right now, but the ride should be clear. Last I checked, no hurricanes are planning to muck up the weekend either.” Chaz, knowing the treasury report is up next, takes advantage of the order of events and hones in on Zane before jumping into his responsibility. He leans forward, the rustle of his one-piece motorcycle suit echoing through the room, and plasters on a smirk. “Slabbing it means we’re taking the interstate.” Zane rolls his eyes. “Right. Got it.” When the kid isn’t pissing himself, he has quite sizable balls. One day, maybe he will get brave enough to flash them. “Apparently we have a couple of parrots in attendance.” Kal groans, still playing along. This somewhat pleasant — dare I say playful — behavior from him is unusual. If I didn’t know any better, I’d wonder if he’s actually looking forward to getting to our home-sweet-hometown a day ahead of schedule. 25

As long as his hard-on is for a different reason than mine, I’m good. I glare at him, trying to read into this strange version of our typically bland Prez. “Chaz…” Kal prompts. “Everything on par for this trip? Would hate to get there early and waste our time when we can be anywhere else but there.” Kal locks his gaze on mine, and his jaw ticks with a combination of gritted teeth and an accusatory sneer. I raise an eyebrow, lean back deeper into my chair, and cross my arms — guess my anticipation must’ve not gone as unnoticed as hoped. Chaz delays, focus darting between us, mouth quirking to the side. Every member knows I have it bad for this woman. Of course I love the club life — doing what we do — but she just makes it so much better. And, yeah, I’m not dense, they all like her too. For reasons I prefer to not think about. Maybe that’s why I took to Zane so easily; he’s the only one who hasn’t met her yet. Plus, considering his prudishness, he’ll probably be a virgin his entire life. Not a damn thing to worry about with him this weekend. I use my position to set Chaz back on track. “The fuck you looking at? You got a report for us or not?” I ask over the incessant click, click, click still coming from Brodi. That shifty smile disappears instantly. He pushes his hands through his long, shabby hair and leans back. 26

“Everything is good to go. Our employer requested to serve us the papers in person, though. Payment is contingent on that this time. But we have enough in the emergency fund to cover the weekend if something falls through.” Considering Kal is able to keep a neutral expression upon receiving this news, I assume he already knew about it. He told Baylor, Chaz, Kio, and me about the early assignment but failed to mention that little tidbit about being served in person. Every single member, myself included, shifts uncomfortably. But Kal gives our club Enforcer a nod of approval, and Kio takes over to do what he does best — enforce the rules. Having chosen the only spot at the table that doesn’t have a stream of light spotlighting him because of a busted bulb, Kio leans forward, revealing his sharply angled features. “Seeing as our employer has been the one responsible for keeping us above the poverty threshold for a few years now, it’s best to accede.” Prez leans forward, and his heavy-soled boots land with a thunk on the stained concrete floor. He scans everyone, a single dark-blond eyebrow lifted high. “Any dissenters?” The look pretty much serves as a threat in and of itself. Dissent, and you can leave. For good. Things have been shifting lately. The club is coming into its own. A little flip-flop of that old adage: 27

when the tough gets going… the going gets tough. Get tough. The time has come. After a few generous minutes, Kal rests his elbows on the table, cups his hands together, and bows his head. “Zane, bless our trip.” Vincent slaps Brodi on the back of the head, and he finally stops clicking the damn pen. Zane jolts to his feet, clasps his fingers, and closes his eyes. The satisfying instrumental of leather creaking and boots hitting the concrete as everyone adjusts to follow suit is music to my ears. For me, though, his prayer goes in one ear and out the other. As soon as several “amens” echo through the empty warehouse, I clap him on the back and am the first to walk out.

CHAPTER FOUR *Lace*

Most nights, the club is completely cleared before I leave. For the first couple years, security fought my wishes to be left alone due to the general saloon rule that all dancers must be escorted to their vehicles. I would simply get in my car and drive away only to come right back and park my house on wheels for the night once all was clear. Sure, I live behind a gentlemen’s club, but the lot is not at all visible from the road, which makes it ideal for a squatter. Or, in my case, someone living out of their vehicle. Plus, I can take moonlit strolls on the beach and baths in the gulf across the street. As an added bonus, it’s also only a few blocks from my parents’ house. Fine-tuning my mobile living arrangement has been a seemingly never-ending venture, so I still keep a few odds and ends at my childhood home. For now. Not for much longer, though. Hopefully. 29

Almost time for this birdie to leave her cage. An extra percentage of my tips every shift was eventually enough to persuade security to stop chaperoning me. Well, a little extra money and Foster’s blessing, of course. Who is to question why Fozzy approves of my staying late, after all? Do I care that most of the staff probably assumes we have some sort of extracurricular agreement? Nope. Let them think what they want. Whenever possible, I try to run things by Foster rather than Stoney. For one, I tend to get my way. Secondly, Stoney is an incredibly vile person. Outside of Bike Week, I try to avoid him as much as possible in general — even going to the extent of only working when Foster is on the schedule. That larger tip out also ensures word doesn’t get around to Stoney that I have a key and am the one who locks up the club most nights after staying late to practice pole tricks. No practicing tonight, though. Foster is still here making sure the new doxy properly understands the saloon rules. And, last I saw before stepping out, a couple stragglers were still hanging out under the front awning, waiting for the rain to let up a little — much like I’m doing right now at the backside of the building. 30

Tired of waiting, I give in to Mother Nature, make a dash for my wagon, pop open the trunk, and use the raised hatch as cover while converting my makeshift home back into a regular ol’ wagon. Breaking down my bed and the small drawers beneath the frame that hold all the necessities for my miniature kitchen and dining things only takes a jiff. Hauling each bulky item, one trek at a time takes longer, though. After a couple trips to the thin strip of property alongside the building, all the deconstructed pieces are temporarily stored and safe from the rain under a tarp. Since the construction stuff is now out of the way — a feat I attempt only on rare occasions — I collect and unzip the duffle kept stored under the flattened rear seats, pry up the trunk floorboard, and store a quarter of my earnings from tonight into the hidden compartment and a quarter into the bag. Before work tomorrow, I can make a bank deposit for the rest. Dad always taught me, “Best not put all your eggs in one basket.” Visiting Mom and Dad is not something I do often. I left that toxic environment for a damn good reason. Only to waltz right into another type of toxic environment, apparently. Nevertheless, looking a lot like I have been ridden hard and put away wet, I load up and head that way to swap out some things for a mini vacation at the

condo Hell for Leather rents every time they come down. When I drive around to the front of the building, those lingering customers are still there, getting wet for all the wrong reasons, both because the saloon has closed for the night, and they’re too drunk to drive. Getting to my parents’ house only takes a few minutes. I pull into the driveway and park. As soon as I swing the wagon’s heavy door open and hop out, a muffled, blood-curdling wail from inside cuts through the heavy patter of rain. My heart drops into my stomach, and I race toward the house, slipping in the door that opens directly into the living room. Mom, in her constant state of being fucked up, seldom remembers this entrance exists as the sliding glass door is covered by long, vertical blinds. No matter how often she tries to lock me out, Dad just goes right behind her and unlocks it. I rush through the living room, following the hiccupy wails of my baby sister into the dining room. Tilting my head back, I discover Reece had somehow climbed up to the loft and gotten her leg stuck between the wooden slats. Blood drains all the way to my toes. I bound up the winding staircase and drop to my knees at her side. “Shh, hey sweetie. There, there. Ace is here. I got you, baby girl.” 32

With one hand, I whip my cell phone out and turn on the flashlight while pressing my opposite fingers between her chunky thigh and the wood. Her leg is wedged pretty tight, and the bright flashlight reveals that it is starting to turn a purplish-blue. Thank the Universe I showed up. Brushing wispy hair out of her watery eyes, I explain that I’ll be right back. But as soon as I stand, her screeching returns. Leaving her becomes that much harder. I charge down the steps, nearly falling on my ass in the process, and hurry toward the garage to pilfer some tools. A hammer is easy to find, seeing as I know Dad’s shop like the lines in my palms. As soon as I reenter the house, scale the stairs, and squat at Reece’s side again, her wail turns into a distracted sniffle. I plop onto my butt and carefully lay her backward, catching an eye-watering whiff of stale diaper contents with the movement. She lies still, her hazel eyes wide and watchful, and gives me all her trust. To protect her from the swing, I cover her head and face with my opposite hand and forearm before wrenching the hammer back and slamming it against one of the two slats that have her pinned. The first couple hits accomplish nothing. On the third strike, a little squeak comes from the end where the nail connects the slat to the railing.

“Almost there, baby girl,” I grunt, giving the wood another good whack. The top of the slat separates, and I focus my aim on the bottom piece. After a final hit, the slat falls down into the dining room below. Its echoey clatter mixes with the jangle of keys and the metallic click of the front door being unlocked. “Shit,” I murmur, scooping Reece up with one arm while scooching backward on my butt and shoving the hammer under the frameless mattress that used to be mine. With shaky fingers, I quickly turn off the flashlight, haul to my feet, and scurry down the stairs. I manage to shove my phone in my back pocket and pick up the wood just as Dad walks inside and flicks the light switch. Free arm behind my back, holding the piece I just busted off his loft railing, I bounce a hiccuping Reece on my hip while Dad stumbles backward, his hand coming over his chest. “Jesus Christ, Ace. What the hell are ya doin’ in here in the dark?” he gasps. “Singing lullabies and whispering secrets,” I answer as his blue eyes go from a drunken haze to sharpening in disbelieving curiosity. When he turns around to hang his keys on the hook by the door, I use the opportunity to toss the wooden slat toward the living room, hoping it’ll land on the couch. A soft plop tells me I’m in luck. 34

When Dad faces us again, though, Reece has her arm outstretched, little finger pointing up toward the loft. Dad’s eyes follow the movement, but I rush forward, wrap my free arm around his waist, and give him a side hug. The nostalgic mix of his spicy-woodsy cologne and the several beers he drank hits me, and I squeeze a little harder. His softened gaze drops back to Reece and me, and he engages in the hug, wrapping us up tight. He then places a kiss on the top of her head. “Mmm,” he hums. “You girls are the best thing that has ever happened to me.” But once again his focus sharpens and body stiffens. I step away and slowly walk backward toward Mom and Dad’s bedroom door. Dad’s cheeks blaze red and eyes go wild as he tries to solve an assumed problem by checking me from head to toe, studying the oversized sweats I stole from Vincent and the baggy class shirt I pilfered from Baylor. “What are you doing here, Ace?” “Just popped in to grab a few things.” I flash him a grin. “Figured I’d get some cuddles before I left.” His eyes move over my shoulder toward his bedroom door. I continue blabbering, hoping it’s enough of a diversion. “Reece is getting so big,” I coo, rubbing my nose against her plump cheek. “Climbing and crawling now, I bet.”

“Yeah. That’s a new trick,” he responds, a fake grin twitching the corner of his lips, momentarily distracted by the conversation. The gig is up, though; I just know it. His eyes scan the dim room, find the hole in the railing, then hone in on Reece. He studies her rotund body right down to the sagging diaper that is barely staying attached and further to her discolored leg. The blood flow is improving, but her leg is certainly not back to a normal color yet. Dad steps forward, hands fisting at his sides, rage burning in his eyes. He grabs me around the bicep and wrenches me to the side. “Dad. Dad, no,” I beg as quietly and calmly as possible. But it’s no use. He slings the bedroom door open, and a faint hint of ammonia wafts through the air. The scent immediately drags me into euphoric recall, and my stomach cramps tight with the sudden craving. I draw Reece closer to my heart, using her innocence as a shield. A deafening roar echoes through the house. I snuggle Reece and peek into the bedroom just in time to see Dad swipe an arm across the dresser, and all the paraphernalia goes flying across the room. Mom is drugged out, limp on the bed. Dad grabs and shakes her. “Wake the fuck up, woman!”

She won’t stir. And I know Dad. He’ll wait. He’ll pace. He’ll run his boots into the ground until she comes to. Right now, his mind is just as gone as hers, consumed by a rage that has been building over a number of years and stoked every time Mom slips — every time her lapse in judgement puts Reece in danger. Nothing brings out the beast inside my father more than harm befalling his girls. When Mom is awake and feeling enough to remember it — to understand — Dad will gain retribution with a harrowing fist for the neglect of his child. Then, to take away both the physical and mental pain, Mom will use all over again. Reece and I stow away in the nursery. I lay her on the floor, grab all the diaper stuff, clean her up, and settle us into the old glider. Rocking, I lull her to sleep counting each incessant thump, thump, thump of Dad’s stomps like a kid who grew up in a normal household might count sheep. Before long, I doze off, dreaming about leaving this wretched place far, far behind and making a new life for myself — taking Reece with me as a stowaway. But she would only be moving from one type of hell to another. After all, the apple never falls far from the tree. 37

CHAPTER FIVE *Chaz “Cash” - Treasurer*

Fuck all this coddling the guys are doing with the initiate. The kid needs a feed of adrenaline, not hugs and well-wishes. Baylor made me ride bitch all the way to Florida for my initiation rally. Sent my bike over in a goddamn car hauler. Keeping my balls a comfortable distance away from his back for several hours was a fucking challenge of epic proportions. Most miserable trip of my life. “Time to pay your dues, oh Wise One.” After slipping the gaiter around my neck, I drag half the material over my head, hoodie-style, to contain all twenty pounds of my hair. Zane covers a vacant expression with his helmet, eyes glaring at me through the open visor as he clicks the clip beneath his chin and tucks his curly mop under the comfort liner. Brodi waltzes over, coming to a stop beside us, helmet gripped and hanging at his side, gaiter pulled tight over his forehead, bandana style. He shoves the skid lid into my chest for temporary safe keeping, steps 38

up to Zane, and dusts off the invisible weight on his shoulders. He then proceeds to harass him with a physical pre-ride inspection. Making sure his strap is tight enough, the velcro on his gloves is secured, the gaiter he chose to wear loose is covering his neck thoroughly, his jacket is zipped up… casually slipping the cell battery I stole into the breast pocket. “Hope you like that back door entrance,” Brodi states, giving his chest a final, firm pat. “Because you’re riding ass with me for the next several hours.” Zane coughs and clears his throat, the sound muffled through layers of protection. The sexy, loud rumble of Vee’s Ape firing up draws our attention toward the front. The bonethrumming, mechanical clatter of Coty’s Duc follows, preluding a melody of other delicious exhaust tones. Kio finishes tying back his hair and folding his gaiter balaclava style before padding forward toward the garage door, light-footed in his vented riding shoes and looking like a damn biker ninja. He then slips his gloved fingers under the bottommost edge of the garage door and pulls it up, revealing to anyone in a ten-mile radius of our presence with how the open garage always projects sound like a damn speaker. Lips curled in a psychotic grin, Brodi turns and yanks his helmet out of my arms. “Cash, don’t do

anything reckless. Oh Holy One here might piss himself.” I suck in a greedy breath of the intoxicating, exhaust-filled air before responding. “Not making any promises. You stocked on first aid, Bro?” I address Brodi but flash my teeth at Zane. Knowing damn well our Tail Gunner has the trauma kit locked and loaded, I don’t wait for an answer. “Rumor has it the kid likes his doc-tr-ine,” I taunt, flicking a glance at the tattered Bible he’s carefully packing into his tankbag. The blank stare I get back tells me the pun is wasted. Damn, I thought that was a good one. With a selfsatisfied smirk I swipe my helmet off the seat of my Ninja and slip it on over my head before slapping Zane upside his. “See you behind bars.” His eyes widen and he swallows hard. A bark of laughter busts out of me. “Dude. Calm down. I meant handlebars. See you on the road… behind bars? You know.” Zane gawks at me for a second, takes a steadying breath, then gets on his bike. Chuckling, I pull Brodi aside for a quick checkin. “Everything in line for the prelims tomorrow? You get the paperwork in?” “Yeah, everything is set.” “Lace has no idea, right?” “Far as I know.”

I squeeze his shoulder and waggle my eyebrows. “Stay vertical, Bro.”

CHAPTER SIX *Lace*

Ten in the morning comes way too early after not getting out of the club until half past four, passing out with Reece, and still having to drive to the guys’ condo rental and wash all the lust off me after my long shift. Being able to take a real shower and sleep in a real bed made it all possible, though. Four hours of rest feels more like six since most nights sleeping on the makeshift bed in my wagon strips at least two hours of adequate rest due to all my tossing and turning. I am used to it by now and quite like my living arrangements, but soon, I’m gonna take my home on the road. Be a wanderer. Just me and my trusty wagon. What comes even earlier is my next shift. Thanks to Bike Week, my hours have changed from the late schedule to now having to come in before lunch. The longer I lie here, arms and legs sprawled across the over-sized mattress, warm sunshine beaming down on my face, the less time I have to get ready. At the behest of Coty, I wiggle against the cool fabric once more to make sure the bed smells plenty like me for his arrival. 42

Then, with a groan, I pitch the covers off my naked body and swing my legs over the edge, stealing a covetous glance at the sparkly gulf through the large crystal-clear casement windows. An unexpected knock echoes through the condo, encouraging me to my feet. I pop my head inside the en suite bathroom, pull down one of the hanging robes, push my arms through the sleeves, and wrap the thick terry cloth belt around me on the way to the front door. While crisscrossing and tying off the strip of fabric, I stand on tiptoes and peer through the peephole. Seeing only a parcel delivery guy, I pad backward a couple steps, unlock the door, and swing it open with a sleepy smile. “Morning, sir.” Little goosebumps rise on my legs from the rush of chilly air left behind after the storm. The man, not much older than me by the looks of him, gives me a couple gawking blinks before speaking. “I have a package here.” I bite my tongue from saying I bet you do and tilt my head to the side, waiting for him to finish. “Never can tell with these condo rentals if it’ll get to the right person. Umm” — he glances down at the label and back up again — “Lacinda Kensington?” “In the flesh.” Holding my arms out, I accept the delivery.

He gives me a nonchalant head-to-toe scan while transferring the box to my possession. “You don’t look much like a Lacinda.” “Does anyone?” I chuckle. His eyes move up toward the balcony covering, deep in thought, before sinking back down to me again. “No, I suppose not.” “How about Lacey or Lace? Are those more suitable?” The focus he’d been trying awfully hard to keep above my collarbone drifts down toward the tattoos on my legs. “Yeah… definitely.” “Good. Lace is the one that makes me money.” Recognition flashes in his eyes. I see a lot of men, but only a few tend to stick in my memory. Guess my name imprinted well enough in his. Paperboy gets a bit awkward, swallowing hard. “Yep, okay. Duty calls,” he stammers. I press my lips together, stifling a chuckle at his expense, and concur with a sigh. “Sure does.” “Have a good day, ma’am.” He pinches the rim of his work-issued ball cap and tips his head. Package propped on my hip, I flash him one last smile and wave goodbye while nudging the door closed with my toes. I practically run to the living room while clawing at the package, unable to stand waiting even ten more seconds to get from one side of the condo to the next. 44

Sitting on top of the loose, crumpled paper shoved carelessly inside the box is a small gift note timestamped less than twenty-four hours ago, indicating overnight shipping: If you’re not wearing this when I find you, my little siren, there will be hell to pay. - Coyote With an ear-to-ear grin, I toss fistfuls of the packaging behind me, creating arcs of brown paper confetti, until I reach the bottom. I didn’t think my stupid grin could get any stupider, but the sexy-as-sin piece folded neatly inside nearly makes my face hurt. I hold the studded, hollowed-out, leather and lace leggings up high and blow a low, drawn-out whistle. At first glance, I can’t imagine being able to actually get my ass into them. No way can I wear them while dancing, either. Taking them off will likely be even harder than getting them on, and I just don’t see how I could manage doing that without rolling all over the stage like a horse in labor. I can wear them between dances while I’m mingling with customers. Coty will just have to suck it up. My lips curve into a sly smile. Watching him struggle to take them off of me promises to be fun —

because he undoubtedly will take them off. Or insist I do. Probably the latter. I tilt my head to the side and study them from the laces that make up the front, down to the thin, black lace that makes up the sides and inner leg panels. The rest is leather starting at the hips, curving down toward the inner thighs, and looping around the calves. The only thing I don’t like about them is that the floral lace on the outer top portion will definitely clash with the decorative thigh welts of my stocking tattoos. I push the material inside out and study the stitching. When I’m confident my tampering won’t screw up the overall sturdiness — thanks to the rivets holding everything in place — I toss them onto the table in search of some makeshift supplies. Scissors in hand, I carefully cut away the topmost section of lace so my permanent body lace shows through. I don’t bother to touch the inside from the knee down, though, since the only thing that would show through that portion is my tattoo’s inner seam. Because this is clearly a hand wash or dry-clean item and time is of the essence, I decide there’s no harm in wearing them fresh out of the box with a gstring beneath. If Kal and the club left North Georgia around the time I was finishing my shift this morning, they should arrive sometime after lunch today, depending on how many stops they make. It’s usually not like them to 46

show up before the sun goes down, but since they’re coming in early, that might change things. With Coty, I better not take any chances by guessing incorrectly, so I make sure the leggings are the first item to go in my bag. Everything else I need is in the wagon or my locker at work. Time dwindling, cut short by my tailoring efforts, I dig through the cabinets for a grab-n-go breakfast item but come up empty handed. Baylor, designated details guy, must not have had enough time to instruct one of their local contacts to stock the place yet. No big deal, though; after hitting up the bank, I can just swing through the gas station down the street and pick up a quick protein bar.

CHAPTER SEVEN *Brodi “Bro” - Tail Gunner*

Blood Mountain, paradise in Georgia. Today, we leave behind the twisty mountain roads for a weekend spent on nothing but flats. Gulf Coast Biker Week is fun for the booze, bimbos, and bumps, but not for the thrill of the topography. The farther south we get, the straighter the roads are. At least it has a beach — something we definitely are lacking up here. Hanging out at the saloon and seeing Lace is always a bonus, too. This early, the traffic is sparse and the temperature is cool. Perfect morning to ride. Against the still faintly-dark sky, with the gleam of the waning moonlight bouncing off our waxed shines, we look like a group of black beetles on the move. Big, loud, fast ones. The first main straight hits, and Chaz, a couple car lengths ahead beside Baylor, raises his hand high, middle finger up. Five seconds later, his chest is balanced against the tank, arms and legs out, body forming a U like he is a glorious superhero. Fucking 48

blowhard. Chaz is the reason why I always carry a trauma kit, long trip or not. We all stunt, but he brings the risk to a whole new level. He and I are night and day when it comes to our body’s response to riding. He buzzes from the thrill of stunts. Getting on my bike acts as a tranquilizer for me. The steady vibration of tires against asphalt and my constant need to cycle my focus between riders, ensuring everyone’s safety, calms me down. Only a few things in life have the ability to do that; otherwise, I pretty much stay chronically on edge. Zane is riding to my right, his sleek Beemer carving the curves. Even though Hell for Leather has been running in this area for a while now, most of the Florida natives of the group still hesitate to lean far enough to spark the pavement on the mountain edge side. As a Midwest native, Vee has experienced his fair share of mountainous terrain. Zane and I were born in these North Georgia twisties, though, and will probably die in them. If we survive the responsibilities our employer pins on us each rally, that is. Throwing Zane to the wolves this weekend promises to be interesting. I may not be a man of faith, but I do have faith in my prospect. Zane might be timid as a mouse at first impression, but my junior year I watched him — a freshman at the time — make a kid his bitch. The idiot surprised Zane with a right hook, and that surprise quickly escalated into a schoolyard 49

fight. Kids are still talking about it six years later, memorialized like the stories in that damn Bible he carries around. As for me? I knew what that reaction meant; he had to react before. Numerous times. Was it surprising that I found him on the street six months ago, freshly returned — early — from a church mission? Nope. Leaving might have promised to change him, but his absence only worsened things at home while he was gone. I knew from the get-go that our executive officers would accelerate the leadership process when they met him. Sure enough, he quickly proved himself to the club members. Straight shooter, never misses. Can grapple like a pro. Plus, he has that weird empathy thing nailed. All in all, having someone I kinda know be accepted into the ranks is nice. I just hope he doesn’t tuck tail and run after his initiation assignment. Just as Kal at the front is teasing the pegs at the next turn, a deep, bassy horn blares behind me, mixing with the noise from the wind blowing through my helmet and gaiter. Scanning the formation, I watch for cues from each rider, ensuring they all heard and are preparing for what that honk means — tighter grips, posture adjustments, side-mirror glances. Every time I hear that sound, it brings me back to when I was a kid riding as a passenger in a cage, 50

pumping my arm up and down while passing a semi truck with the hopes that they’ll honk their horn. Now, truckers who recognize our patches are the ones begging for a show. All the riders’ eyes go to the front, waiting to see if Kal is peppy enough today to give the signal. He is. Three fingers go up. After counting three Mississippis in my head, I pop into a sit-down wheelie. As the member with the fastest bike, I tend to complain about my position as Tail Gunner, but not when we perform a group wheelie. From this vantage, I see everything we stand for. Family. Going from sixteen wheels to eight on a mountain straight is fucking beautiful. Plus, since no one can see me except for the trucker, I get to keep it up a little longer than the rest of them. Brake lights flash at the front of the formation, and their bikes lean, pulling onto an overlook. The truck gives us one more friendly honk as it drives past. Everyone parks, dismounts, and removes their helmets. No one speaks while the sky changes colors one slow minute at a time. The club may have decided to recruit a Chaplain, but this’ll always be the way we really pray before a trip.

Nothing beats a come-to-Jesus moment while watching the sunrise from the top of a mountain. You’re here, alive, and guess-the-hell-what? This may be your very last dawn. There’s no better way to spend it than here, as close to Heaven as you’ll ever get. As close to Heaven any of us will ever get. The members of Hell for Leather have an afterlife table reserved with the devil… …and we’re okay with that.

*TO CONTINUE, PURCHASE THE FULL COPY ON AMAZON!*

ABOUT THE AUTHOR Adell Ryan is a hubby/wife pseudonym. Adell writes unconventional love stories about fierce women and their numerous male suitors. Because let’s be honest, we need more than one to satisfy our multi-dimensional needs. Right? Ryan simply puts up with Adell’s crazy fantasies and toots her horn regularly. Occasionally he’ll add in a shoulder pat, and a deep, sexy “Damn that’s good stuff.” That southern boy (bless him) stole this northern girl’s heart and they live together in the deep south, raising their three boys. When Adell isn’t writing she’s homeschooling — primarily working on dictation, making sure they say ‘creek’ instead of ‘crick’ and ‘fire’ instead of ‘fer.’ She also dabbles in photography and graphic design. Oh yeah, and reading. Every. Night. Much to Ryan’s dismay. Sometimes she puts the steamy stuff down and gives him a quick kiss on the forehead though. To be the first to know about new releases and exclusive behind-the-scenes stuff, join the fun in her FB Group: facebook.com/groups/authoradellryan/ You can also check out her website at https://www.adellryan.com and sign-up for her newsletter. Still not enough? Find her at the listed social media platforms as well!: Goodreads BookBub

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