Page 14 of Ridin’ Dirty

With my head held high, I offered the three men congregated outside the garage a coy glance before continuing toward my destination. I could hear the music blaring from inside as I approached, and the excitement that sparked inside my chest was like a reminder that I was right where I belonged.

I yanked open one of the double doors, crossed over the threshold, and took in the familiar space. The architecture of the clubhouse was almost exactly the same as the one in Gillette—an open lounge in the main room, filled with leather couches and oversized armchairs around low-set tables on mismatched area rugs. To the right was a fully stocked bar, and near the back were a couple pool tables. Though, I’d learned this chapter spent less time aiming for the eight ball and more time counting chips around the poker table.

“Lyla! Over here.”

I heard Maxine’s voice as it battled its way over the sound of music and the hum of conversation in the room. A quick scan of the place helped me locate her, sitting on top of the bar, her legs dangling over the edge. She was still wearing the same cutoff shorts she had on at work, but she swapped her Route 66 tee for a green, cap-sleeved shirt that laced up the front. She replaced her sneakers with sandals, the straps climbing her calves and tied off in a knot below her knee. Her hair was half up, half down, and she looked every bit like the babe she was.

Sometimes, it still boggled my mind how her parents would let her hang out at a place like this. Sure, she was basically a Stallion princess, and so long as she was around, they knew what she was up to; but the clubhouse wasn’t meant for gentlemen. Given the way Carmy was so adamant about keeping me away from this life, I wasn’t sure I’d ever get used to the acceptance Nighthawk and Viv embraced for the sake of their daughter’s happiness.

It would have been a lie to say I wasn’t a little jealous.

Max was smarter than she was reckless, but she knew how to party, and no one ever stopped her. She waved me over, and I left my envy at the door as I went to join her. She wasn’t alone—Smokey, Crow and Brooklyn keeping her company. From the looks of things, Brooklyn was less interested in conversation and more focused on her target for the night. While Max was certainly a party girl, she wasn’t known for spreading her legs, unlike Brooklyn.

She was a vixen constantly on the hunt.

The curvy, dark-haired woman wasn’t much older than Max, but she was a hell of a lot more unbridled. She lived to party and, as far as I could tell, had no aspirations of settling down anytime soon. She didn’t live at the clubhouse, but she and Max were close, so she was around often. I didn’t know her story, and she wasn’t exactly open about it, so I made up my mind a long time ago it wasn’t any of my business. But I knew she wasn’t a kutte chaser so much as she was a thrill seeker. She was a good time with no strings, which meant she rarely spent an evening alone. Tonight, she seemed intent on devouring Crow, and he didn’t look like he had any objections.

“Hey,” greeted Smokey upon my approach. I caught his eye, and he smirked as he added, “Nice hair.”

“Thanks,” I replied, moving to occupy the barstool next to his.

He didn’t look like it, with his bulky frame, his long braids, and his pale brown skin covered in tattoos, but he was the resident sweetheart. Not to say he didn’t get him some when he wanted it, but I saw the way he looked after the club sluts. He always said his mama would roll over in her grave if he didn’t act like the man she taught him to be. Given the kutte he wore with the patches he’d earned, I was sure he found enough trouble his mama wouldn’t approve of, but he shot as straight as his marred soul would let him. He was one of a kind, and I liked him.

“What are you drinkin’, birthday girl?” asked Max, leaning toward me.

“What’s in your cup?”

“Whiskey ginger,” she replied, waggling her eyebrows.

“Good enough for me.”

She tilted her head back until she was practically upside down and hollered, “Tex! Lyla wants a whiskey ginger.”

I glanced behind the bar and spotted Tex on the opposite end. Until Max interrupted him, the probie was obviously busy ogling Cherry, who was also stretched out on top of the counter. Unlike Max, the sight of her made me want to roll my eyes. She was so extra all the time. I never liked her, and it wasn’t merely because I wasn’t fond of petite little redheads. Her auburn hue wasn’t natural, anyway. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but her desperation for attention gave me the ick.

At present, the only thing she had on was a G-string, heels, and nipple pasties. Her boobs were twice the size of mine but fake and hardly ever covered. After the sun went down, she was the resident topless sheep.

Max sitting on the bar was cute.

Cherry and her naked ass was gross.

I may have spent a few years as a club slut, but I was never that desperate.

“Sure. I’m on it,” replied Tex.

I fought a crooked smile as he eagerly did what Maxine requested, causing Cherry to glare in our direction. The probie had eyes for the redhead, but that was only on account of the fact that he had a dick. Who he really wanted was Maxine, and everyone knew it—except for maybe Maxine. Either that, or she didn’t have it in her to break his heart, so she opted to play oblivious. My guess was the latter. He was a couple years her junior, and he was still a bit young and dumb, but his crush was cute. I especially liked the way it made Cherry jealous.

She didn’t even want the guy. She only wanted to be the most desired woman in the clubhouse.

Yeah. She definitely bugged me.

“What’s goin’ on here?” I looked over my shoulder as Cobra approached. He stopped in front of Cherry and asked, “You up here for body shots or some shit?”

The redhead smiled flirtatiously—the loss of Tex’s attention disregarded under the gaze of the VP.

It was hard to forget how there was an entire season of my life where I craved the attention of a man wearing the Vice President patch on his kutte. I still remembered how he accused me of caring only about his title. While I didn’t wear my heart on my sleeve or express my feelings like some women did, I played my part, and in the end recklessly fell hard in the process. But it wasn’t about his title, and my aversion to Cobra proved it.

Sure, he was hot, with his dirty blond ponytail, his generous mustache and goatee, and enough tattoos that left nearly every visible inch of him covered—but he always rubbed me the wrong way. He was obviously a trusted Stallion, but he was kind of an arrogant dick.