Page 87

Two months later…

The heavy door swings open with a satisfying thud, a gust of cool air rushing out like a whispered welcome. My boots click against the polished concrete, echoing through the vast space like a herald announcing our arrival. Isabella’s hand is warm in mine, her slender fingers interlaced with my own. I squeeze reassuringly as she takes in the vibrant energy that pulses through the room. This is our sanctuary, our fortress.

“Damn, this place has come together.” I gawk at the finished masterpiece.

The overall design is a seamless blend of rugged tradition and upscale luxury. The scent of aged leather and top-shelf whiskey hangs in the air, drawing me toward the massive granite-topped bar. Shelves of liquor gleam under the glow of custom-forged iron chandeliers. A huge variety of glasses in all shapes and sizes glisten, just waiting to be filled.

On the other side of the great room, plush, black leather sectional sofas circle an indoor fire pit. Apparently, Fang was inspired by a 1970s centerfold pictorial which is now hanging in a frame on the wall. Hope he’s banging that nurse because the guy seriously needs to get laid. Who the hell reads old fap mags anymore? You’d think a super nerd would have more access to naked pics than the rest of us.

A sleek poker table with inlaid ebony wood sits between the fire pit and the bar. That’s got to be Diablo’s doing. He’s a shark and loves taking the prospects down to the felt. Then he makes them work to pay off their debt. It’s fucked up, but also genius. That’s Diablo.

Isabella’s eyes sparkle, that fiery spirit of hers almost tangible as she scans the room. “It’s impressive, Ice,” she says, her voice laced with genuine appreciation. “I can’t wait to see it all.”

Her enthusiasm stokes the fire in my chest, and I’m eager to show her every corner that we’ve claimed as ours. As we move away from the heart of the clubhouse into one of the hallways, the buzz of conversations and clinking glasses recedes. This place is a maze. It’s huge.

“You look like you’re almost ready to run a marathon,” Fang calls out, striding toward us with that geeky grin plastered across his face. His muscles bulge beneath the fabric of his graphic tee, a neon-green circuit board design that subtly forms the shape of a dragon, with the phrase “Code Like a Wizard, Debug Like a Warlock” in bold pixelated font across the chest. The thick black frames of his glasses do nothing to hide the gleam of excitement in his green eyes.

“Not quite yet but getting there.” I clap my hand on his shoulder. “Now, show me all the cool nerd shit.”

“Check this out.” Fang pulls a sleek gadget from his cargo shorts and waves it around like a magic wand. “Biometric scanners at every entrance, HD surveillance cams with facial recognition software, and motion sensors in the perimeter—think of it as a digital fortress.”

“That was some cyborg shit at the front gate. Sounds like we’re locked up tighter than Fort Knox,” I reply, impressed despite myself.

“Exactly,” Fang beams, clearly proud of his handiwork. “Nothing gets in or out without us knowing. And if something does go sideways,” he adds, a shadow of seriousness crossing his features, “we’ll be ready.”

“Good work, man.” I high five him, feeling a surge of gratitude for this place and the people who fill it. This isn’t just walls and floors, it’s a commitment, a promise to each other that we’re not alone in the never ending fight against injustice.

“Gotta check on a few more things,” Fang says. “Take a look around.”

“That’s the plan. Let’s go, babe,” I say to Isabella, excitement threading through my words. “There’s plenty more to see.”

As Isabella and I drift away from Fang, we continue to explore the various rooms within the clubhouse. We walk through one of the doors to find a second great room, alive with the crack of billiard balls and laughter. Another, smaller bar sits along one wall. The scent of leather and motor oil mingles in the air, a familiar perfume that speaks of home.

“Eight-ball, corner pocket,” Vicki declares with a confident grin, her voice carrying over the chatter. I can’t help but smirk as she lines up her shot, her focus unwavering even as Tank looms behind her, trying to break her concentration.

“Ya sure ‘bout that, darlin’?” Tank drawls, his tone laced with amusement. There’s an ease between them, a teasing back-and-forth that’s become part of the club’s daily rhythm. “Cuz, you know I don’t go down without a fight.”

“Watch and learn, big boy,” she retorts, then with a smooth flick of her wrist, the cue ball sends the eight-ball rolling, tapping it precisely into the designated pocket.

“Damn!” Tank throws his hands up in mock surrender, the muscles in his arms flexing beneath his skin-tight shirt.“Girl’s got game,” he admits, turning to toss me a nod of acknowledgment. “Hey, Ice, how’s the leg holdin’ up?”

“Don’t need that peg leg after all,” I quip. “Each day’s a step closer to kicking your ass on that table.”

“Is that right?” He chuckles, the sound grounded and genuine. “I should tell you, the club voted on your new nickname.”

“That right?” I smirk.

“Ladies, say hello to ‘Snake Snack.’”

“That’s not even that funny,” I advise with a wry smile.

“Better than ‘Swamp Worm.’ That was the runner up,” Vicki says.

“You guys really need to get more creative. How’s everything going at Voodoo?” I ask.

“Same shit, different day. I’ve got everyone in line.” Vicky grins. I officially promoted her to manager last month because she did a good job running the club in my absense. I’m confident she’ll continue to do well going forward.

“If you need anything, text me.”