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“Damn straight,” I reply.

Tonight, we’re more than a motorcycle club. We’re kings about to claim our kingdom, with the night as our witness.

Vapor sidles up next to me, his sharp blue eyes scanning the club’s entrance with calculated interest. “Think this joint will pull in the cash we need?”

“Velvet’s got the kind of allure that makes wallets open wide,” I reply, my voice as smooth as the bourbon the bartenders will be serving inside. “And the dancers… They’re the best in NOLA. Gonna be pure Voodoo magic on those stages.”

“Wish I’d been on the hiring committee,” Bones grumbles.

“You’d do more fucking than hiring,” Diablo rumbles.

Everyone laughs because it’s the damn truth. We don’t just call him Bones because he’s into Voodoo shit, but also because he ‘bones’ anything that moves. If it’s got a pussy, he wants to fuck it. I keep meaning to check his protein shakes to make sure he’s not crushing little blue pills into them. The man doesn’t need any pharmaceutical encouragement.

Vapor’s gaze remains locked on the entrance. This is more than just a business opportunity, it’s part of a larger plan to deal with our enemies. Trying to bring down the biggest drug cartel in NOLA is going to take more than just manpower—it’s going to take money, and lots of it.

Tank lumbers over, his linebacker build casting a long shadow in the neon light. There’s a furrow in his brow, and I know what’s eating at him before he even opens his mouth.

“Hey, Ice,” he starts, his ageless face tight with concern. “You sure Vicki’s gonna be all right working here? She’s never danced before.”

“Screened every last performer myself,” Fang says, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Vicki, she’s got spark, knows the game. She’ll handle herself.”

Tank chews on his lower lip, the ghost of a kid who’s seen too much lurking behind his eyes. “Just look out for her. She ain’t like the others.”

“We protect our own, you know that,” I say, a bit annoyed that we’re even having this conversation. I’m the V.P. of the club. I’m as trustworthy as they come. Vapor wouldn’t have promoted me to second in command if he didn’t believe I could do the job. But Tank’s young, still wet behind the ears as far as I’m concerned, so I’ll let this one slide. No point in starting any shit with a man who’s just worried about his girl. In a way, I envy the kid. At least he’s got the same woman in his bed every night. Oh well. Maybe someday.

“Let’s head inside,” Vapor declares, wiping sweat from his brow. “I feel like I crawled up Satan’s asshole after he ate twelve cans of chili for dinner.”

Diablo grunts in agreement.

Thanks to the unrelenting humidity, my own shirt’s clinging to my body like a second layer of skin. “Inside’s cooler than a crypt. I rode the AC guy’s ass until he got the system running right. Took a few days to get him in line. Next time we let men prospect, we need to look for a maintenance guy.”

“Will do. Wouldn’t want the clientele thinking they stepped into hell instead of heaven,” Vapor says.

“Only the best for our guests. After all, we’re not just selling a fantasy, we’re building an empire.”

“An empire with working climate control,” Fang adds.

“Exactly,” I say, leading the way. “And speaking of control…” I jerk my chin toward two huge bouncers standing outside the main door. They’re both patched members of the club. They nod at Vapor as we approach.

“Good to see you, Pres,” one of them says.

“Same,” the second guy adds.

“Nice crowd,” Vapor says, glancing past the men at the crowd of men being held back by a long, velvet rope. I added that touch for fun, and now I’m glad I did. It’s just as functional as it is classy.

The buzz of anticipation from the crowd hits me like a palpable wave. It’s a heady mix of excitement and nerves. The patrons’ eager faces are lit by the neon sign, painting them in shades of electric blues and pinks. The line of bodies stretches around the building—a serpentine testament to the allure of Voodoo Velvet.

“Looks like we’re the main event in NOLA,” Vapor grins, his gaze sweeping over the throng of people.

“Damn right,” I reply, feeling a surge of pride. This is more than just opening night, it’s a show of force, a declaration that our MC reigns supreme in this town.

We push through the doors, and the interior of Velvet swallows us whole. Rock music pounds through the cavernous space, rattling glasses behind the bar. I tested the sound system last week, tweaking it so it’s loud enough to feel in your chest but not so loud that conversation is impossible. The girls still need to be able to hear the customers. It’s a fine line, but I’m used to riding it.

The air is thick with the scent of spiced rum and something sweet, like the promise of sin wrapped in sugar. Stripper smell. It’s all that body spray shit the girls use. They’re like walking clouds of cotton candy and soft-serve vanilla. Makes you want to lick them. There were more than a few I wouldn’t mind banging, but this is business, and I never mix that with pleasure. That’s how shit goes south.

“Sweet,” Tank says, his eyes following the neon lights snake across the walls.

Royal purple velvet booths hug the shadows, offering sanctuary for those who seek the thrill of anonymity. My eyes sweep over the dancers gathering along the edge of the stage. They’re dressed in glittering bras and barely-there thongs.