Impulsively (Dante’s Nine MC #3)(29)
Author: Colleen Masters

Brooks swings the Harley into the teeming traffic of the Vegas strip. The sun is just setting over Sin City, and the place is coming to life with vivid energy. I stare up at the towering resorts and casinos as we fly by. Pressing against Brooks’ hard body, I feel like the queen of this kingdom of vice. How can anything that feels this good really be bad? How can all the people milling about Vegas, all the MC brothers, be so morally corrupt, just for enjoying themselves? What if life is just too short to deprive yourself of everything you want?

Better not waste any more time, if that’s the case, I think to myself, tightening my grip on Brooks’ perfect body, Tonight’s our night.

We soar beyond the pulsing neon center of the city, tearing through the outskirts of town. I look over my shoulder as we sail past the Forty-Five Club. I wonder where we’re headed tonight? Another biker bar somewhere, probably.

My heart swells with delight as we rip through the darkened desert, uncountable stars wheeling overhead. I never thought this would be the case…but I love the feel of this bike beneath me. There’s nothing between me and the wind, and nothing between Brooks’ body and mine. It’s a feeling I could get used to, if my time with him wasn’t going to be over in a week, that is.

Don’t think like that, I chide myself, Just enjoy the moment, Collins. You deserve it. “How’re you doing back there?” Brooks calls over the roaring wind.

“This is amazing!” I cry back, shaking out my curls behind me.

“I like the feel of you on my bike, Red,” Brooks grins, checking me out in the rear view mirror. “And the look of you, too. You’re the sexiest goddamn woman I’ve ever seen.”

“I bet you say that to all the girls,” I say, squeezing his thigh.

“No,” he says, “I don’t.” And the intent focus of his gaze tells me he’s not lying.

We trail Kelly’s car up into the hills, deeper than I’ve ever travelled before. As chaotic and wild as Vegas itself is, these dark, deserted hills are far more chilling. What’s lying ahead of us, obscured from sight? I guess I’m about to find out.

At long last, we turn down a dusty trail off the main road. Brooks’ headlights illuminate the sprawling landscape before us, and alight on a weathered wooden road sign. I squint at the marker as we rumble past, and feel my heart bash itself against my ribcage as I spot the symbol emblazoned there.

A ghoulish wraith beckons us forward, her skeletal hand outstretched. We’ve entered the territory of the Devil’s Wraiths now. I’ve only ever heard of this place, the compound they call the Wraith’s Nest. But there’s one thing I know for damn sure—I’m not supposed to be here.

Brooks must feel my body go rigid against his, because he peers back at me and asks, “Why so tense, Red?”

“I was just getting used to the Forty-Five Club,” I tell him, “I’m not sure if I’m ready to get thrown into a whole new MC—”

“You’ve met all the Wraiths, and they’re cool with you,” he assures me. “And remember, you’re with me now. Nothing’s going to hurt you.”

Except possibly the other agent on this case, I think to myself. Bruno was furious when I started tagging along with Dante’s Nine. What’s he going to say if I show up right at the heart of his investigation? I’ll just have to pray that this is his night off or something. There’s no turning back now.

The Wraith’s Nest appears over the next rise—a scattering of buildings strewn across the hillside. Most of the structures are low and barracks-like, with one rather obvious exception. At the center of the compound is a tall, brightly lit building, teeming with expensively dressed men and scantly clad women. A red neon sign above the front door broadcasts to the world that this is the infamous Devil’s Playpen.

“We’re going in there?” I ask, as Brooks parks his Harley at the end of a long line of impressive bikes.

“Sure,” he says, cutting the engine. My legs remember the intense vibration as I step off onto solid ground, “This is the Wraiths’ watering hole. There’s a great bar inside. You’re not shy about the whole strip club thing, are you?”

“Hell no,” I reply, shaking out my long hair. “It doesn’t bother me.”

“Good,” Brooks smiles, “It shouldn’t. Even in your nerdiest work outfit, you’re way more beautiful than any woman in there.”

“I think you secretly like that I’m a nerd,” I smile, resting my hands on his tapered hips as he steps off his bike. Brooks towers over me, running a hand through his tumbling curls. He slips an arm around my waist, tugging me protectively against his side.

“You caught me,” he growls, setting off for the Playpen.

“Is it that I’m a challenge, or that I’m something new?” I ask, trying to stay cool as we approach the door.

“Both and neither,” Brooks shrugs. “It’s mostly just that you’re you, Keira.”

I swallow a sharp laugh. If only he could appreciate the irony of that statement.

Kelly and Kassie join us as we make our way into the Devil’s Playpen. The second the doors of the strip club swing open, I’m nearly bowled over by a wave of pounding music and flashing lights. The joint swallows us up as we step inside, and I’m mesmerized by the writhing shapes of women that are spotlit all around. It’s a Friday night, and the place is absolutely packed.

Hundreds of male faces are upturned around the women who dance on lit-up stages all around the space. Audience members vie for the dancers’ attention, waving twenty, fifty, and even hundred dollar bills in the air. I notice that the men in attendance are anything but shabby. Most of them wear perfectly tailored designer suits. These are the big spenders, shelling out for a second of their favorite porn star’s time. Employing adult actresses was a pretty savvy business decision on the Wraiths’ part.

And wouldn’t you know it, there they all are—the eight men of the Devil’s Wraiths are lined up along the bar, enjoying the view. Quite of few of the Dante’s Nine men have joined them. I guess this is tonight’s designated drinking spot. I watch as Kassie and Kelly locate their old men, settling onto their laps with total ease, as if there weren’t dozens of half naked women all around us. But it’s not the dancers I find myself looking at now. Instead, I scan the crowd for a ruddy, bald, familiar face. It looks like I might just be in the clear. I don’t see Bruno anywhere.