Inked. Anne Marsh

of clubbing?

      When I get out, the fresh-faced biker gives me a nod. “You looking for someone?”

      I’ll bet they don’t get too many party-crashers. “Vik.”

      “Inside,” he says. I think he smirks—or possibly rolls his eyes. I’m clearly not the first woman to ask after Vik tonight. “Probably in back by the bar. Might be spinning.”

      I lock my car (although I’m not sure that’s going to stop anyone) and head for the clubhouse. The front door is much more imposing and formidable than the parking lot attendant. In fact, it’s clearly been built for mega-giants, and I wrestle with it for a long moment, my glasses sliding down my nose.

      A thick, inked arm reaches over me and shoves it open.

      “Ladies first,” the arm’s owner drawls. He looks me up and down slowly, taking in my jeans and dressy boots. I suddenly know how a zebra feels when it accidentally steps into a lion’s den. The look on this guy’s face is part amusement, part hunger. I’d like to tell him I’m not a steak, but the patch on his vest says PRESIDENT, and I have a feeling that makes him the king of this particular kingdom. If he says I’m steak, I’m steak.

      “Is this your club?” I like to know who’s in charge, but Mr. I’m-Gonna-Eat-You-Up seems to find my question funny because he just snorts and reaches down to shove my glasses back into place.

      “Yeah. I’m Prez. You got an issue with that, sunshine?”

      I think about that for a minute and shake my head. Despite my invitation, coming out here seems less smart all the time. Some women like living dangerously, but I’ve never been one of them. I prefer my life safe and sane, which begs the question of what I’m doing here. Starting over. Taking a chance. About to suffer public humiliation. You can take your pick, but my car and escape looks better and better.

      “In,” he rumbles, his hand pressing against my shoulder. I decide not to protest, and move forward.

      Prez follows me inside, so close that the front of his thighs brush the back of mine. I don’t think that’s an accident. He cups my elbow, herding me in the direction he wants me to go. This whole life-changing stuff is stupid. Take-charge guys have never been my thing. Except Vik, a little voice whispers in my head. You like him.

      I’m working on that.

      You hear things about motorcycle clubs and the Hard Riders have a certain reputation, or so my Google-fu tells me. While they look after their own and spend a commendable amount of time giving back to their community (Vik wasn’t kidding about the Christmas toy drive), they also ride hard and party harder. There are darker rumors and whispers, too, about how they have a zero-tolerance policy on drugs and are key players in East Las Vegas’s war on illegal substances—although it appears they’re big fans of beer.

      The place is definitely not the bat cave.

      Music blasts from the back of the warehouse. The clubhouse is huge, the entire downstairs floor open and jammed with gyrating, dancing, drinking bodies. Lots of black leather couches have been pushed back against the wall to open up a path to the makeshift bar in the back. Longnecks and red Solo cups are the order of the day. As is skin. I’ve never seen this much skin on display outside of a beach or a Vegas strip revue. As I scan the crowd, looking for Vik, I realize I’m overdressed.

      In fact, clothing seems to be largely optional and I could have saved the money I spent on my shopping trip and just worn my underwear. A brunette in what could be a tube top or a dress brushes past us. The stretchy fabric barely skims her butt, and that’s before she squeals and throws herself at her dance partner. She scissors her legs around his waist. Everyone here is loud and uninhibited.

      A red cup dangles in front of my face.

      I take it. I don’t know where it came from, so I’m not drinking it but I need something to do with my hands, and I’m definitely not doing what the brunette is doing. “Thanks?”

      Prez winks at me. “Who’re we lookin’ for?”

      He’s got a soft, smoky burr of an accent that makes me think of warm Louisiana nights and the bayou. It’s the kind of drawl that almost but not quite distracts you from the fact that this is the guy who runs a biker club and could probably have you killed with one nod of his head.

      I really should care about that. Instead, I pony up the answer he’s looking for. “Vik.”

      Prez rubs his free hand over his chin, his pained sigh gusting over my skin. “Figures.”

      I want to ask what that means, but I’m distracted by the madman bouncing around the dance floor. Shoulder-length blond hair flies everywhere. Vik dances all-out. Muscular, inked arms cut through the air as he thrashes to a beat that bears no resemblance whatsoever to the music vibrating through the warehouse. Faded blue jeans hug his ass and end in a pair of motorcycle boots. Just in case the gift-wrapping on that particular part of the package doesn’t scream open me, he’s wearing his club vest over a fitted white T-shirt. Muscles bulge as he executes another move and part of me wants to hang all over that arm. See how good it feels. Shove it between my legs.

      I’m not the only one with that idea.

      A skinny, fabulously gorgeous woman in a barely there black leather dress shimmies up to him and starts using him as her own personal dance pole. They’re so close that her breasts press up against his arm and she’s riding his thigh as she grinds high and bumps low. I’m so glad I made the effort to come tonight.

      And apparently Vik prefers quantity to quality because not one but two more wanna-be dancers latch onto him as he burns up the dance floor. I feel like I should be pulling a wad of one-dollar bills out of my purse and rewarding their efforts.

      “Is he always like this?” The words fly out of my mouth before I can stop them.

      Prez chuckles. “Pretty much. Man’s the fucking Energizer Bunny when it comes to gettin’ laid.”

      Just great.

      I take a step backward and bump awkwardly into Prez. Shit. Naturally, my reaction is to lurch forward to put some space between my butt and his groin. Prez laughs again, his hands steadying my hips as I rock on my stupid high heels. He bellows Vik’s name, the sound all but getting lost in the general chaos and uproar that is a biker party. Not that I was expecting to be announced by trumpets or a twenty-one-gun salute, but still.

      Miracle of miracles, Vik looks toward us. A wicked grin lights up his face and he dumps the leg-humper off his thigh.

      “Harper!” he yells back. His inside voice is loud enough to carry over the deafening beat of the music. So loud that heads turn to stare at me. I consider beating a hasty retreat, but New Me insists on sticking around. She’s either brave or horny, and I’m not sure I want to find out which.

      Prez chuckles and pats me on the butt. “See you later, sunshine.”

      In a weird way, I don’t mind it because the gesture seems less like a creepy grope and more like a friendly overture. Maybe these guys just don’t have normal social skills. Or were never housebroken.

      Vik bounds over, throwing his arms out. “You found me.”

      “I did.”

      People—bikers—are still staring.

      Possibly, it’s because I’m wearing more clothing than all of Vik’s previous companions combined. I look down quickly just to make sure that I am fully dressed and not having one of those living nightmares where you waltz into a room buck naked.

      I throw caution to the wind and take a sip of my drink, hoping it’s magic. A potion like Alice in Wonderland’s Drink Me, except maybe it will make me articulate. Give me the gift of gab so that I know what to say to this man. This gorgeous, hot biker who ties me up in knots. Of course, I consumed way more alcohol last night and look how that ended up. I have a tattoo on my back.

      Vik grabs my hand. “Dance with me, Harper.”

      I