I have no idea how I’m going to pull this off.

What if the bikers see right through me? What if they don’t, and they do allow me to stay? I’ll have to play the part. Act like I want to be there. Let them touch me, and do heaven knows what to me. Am I ready for that?

A small voice in my head yells . . . no.

But sadly, this is what I have to do. Once again, I’ll mask my feelings and my pain. The promise I made to myself about loving the next person I sleep with will have to be broken.

Lily takes the next exit. We pass a large casino, take a right, and head down a four-lane road.

“By the way, people at the club don’t call me Lily. It’s Lil’ Bird, or just plain Lil’.”

I nod in acknowledgment and rub my hands on my jean shorts. Sweat beads profusely on my palms and has nothing to do with the weather.

A few minutes later, Lily pulls up to a privacy fence and stops. Hanging on the fence is a black and orange BEWARE OF DOG sign. Only DOG is crossed out and HOCs is written above it in terrible handwriting. In my side mirror, I see Rigor dismount his bike, and Officer Davis parks his cruiser down the street.

Rigor trudges up to the gate and opens a console. Seconds later, the gate automatically slides open.

Rigor’s handsome in a broody bad-boy sort of way. His mouth set in a frown, slim build, long dark hair pulled back into a ponytail, and dark aviators shield his eyes.

Lily lowers her window and calls out to him, “Rig, this one stays between us. Okay? No harm done. He doesn’t need the stress.”

“He’s tailing you. He followed us the entire way. He’s parked down the fuckin’ road. You don’t see that as a problem?”

“He’ll leave. He always does.”

Rigor doesn’t respond right away, but then he starts shaking his head.

“Rig!”

Throwing his hands out, he says, “Fuck, Bird. He’s gonna string my ass up either way.”

“No, he’s not. Because he doesn’t need to know shit happened.”

“Fine, I won’t say shit. But one of these days this is gonna blow up in our fucking faces. And he’ll have both our asses. Now go.” While walking back to his bike, he mutters, “Been callin’ me non-fuckin’-stop for the last hour. Whipped motherfucker.”

Lily expels a long breath and rolls up her window as she pulls into the lot. She explains, “My old man doesn’t need to know about our run-in with Davis. It’ll just piss him off and he’ll do something stupid. That, and he’s not good with stress. So telling him about Davis isn’t a good idea. We’ll keep it to ourselves. All right? Also, if anyone asks you, you were already checked out by Dr. Alister before we came here.”

I blink and am about to ask why, when she says, “Trust me, I have a plan. I know how these guys work. Just . . . let me do the talking.”

“Okay.”

She parks the car. The parking lot is about the size of a football field. It’s presently occupied with a half-dozen cars, trucks, and about as many people, including two leather jacket wearing bikers.

The privacy fence surrounds quite a bit of land and three buildings. The first, a gray cinder block building with a massive brushed metal sign hanging over the front doors, proclaiming it, “Home of the HOCs, Harbingers of Chaos Motorcycle Club, Mother Chapter.” The bottom reads, “PRIVATE.” In the middle is their insignia, a rough looking set of wings, a demented skull with blood dripping from its mouth, and a symbol that looks like an eye on its forehead. Chaotic arrows point in every direction behind the main design, and claws sink into a banner that reads, “Revel in chaos. Regret nothing.”

I swallow thickly and pull in a deep breath.

Rigor walks past Lily’s car into what I’m guessing is the clubhouse. His jacket doesn’t have the insignia on it like the other bikers. The bottom patch is white with black lettering and reads, “PROSPECT,” instead of, “NEW MEXICO,” like theirs. I believe this means he’s not a full-fledged member yet, but trying to be.

Lily turns in her seat and rests a hand 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.