Page 5 of Claimed By The Club

SIERRA

I leave the Desert Rose Motel a little before nine, determined to make a good impression despite the anxiety nibbling at my nerves.

My SUV rumbles along the empty road, the sun already glaring at full strength.

Ahead, the blacktop shimmers with mirages.

Every mile out here looks the same: endless sand, scattered cacti, and battered signs warning of sharp turns.

Still, I trust the directions Frost gave me at Ruby’s Diner yesterday.

When I finally spot a squat building surrounded by motorcycles, I exhale in cautious relief.

A hand-lettered metal arch reads Renegade Cross MC, and underneath, a stylized skull with extended wings.

My heart thuds as I roll into the dirt lot, tires crunching on loose gravel.

This place isn’t exactly inviting—concrete walls streaked with dust, a chain-link fence, and barbed wire curled along the top.

Yet, I feel an odd sense of anticipation.

I park near a line of gleaming bikes, noticing how each one reflects a different personality—some decorated with flames, others matte black, one wrapped in elaborate snakeskin designs.

My reflection skitters across polished chrome as I pass by, hugging my tote bag against my side.

Inside that bag are documents—bank statements, a handful of receipts, and screenshots of threatening texts.

Sharing them makes me uneasy, but if this club is going to protect me, they need to know the extent of my predicament.

A heavy metal door on the building’s side stands slightly ajar.

I step closer, hearing muffled male voices.

For a split second, I wonder if I should knock or just walk in.

Before I can decide, a tall figure steps into the doorway.

He’s broad-shouldered, with sandy-blond hair tied back in a small knot and bright green eyes that cut straight to me.

Tattoos wind along his arms—one of them depicting a coiled viper that seems ready to strike.

His gaze sweeps over me, curiosity flickering there. “Hey, you must be Sierra,” he says, voice rich and friendly.

I nod, trying not to let nerves swallow my words. “That obvious?”

He smirks, crossing his arms over his chest. “We don’t get many newcomers, especially none that look like you. I’m Viper, by the way.”

I’d guess he’s in his late twenties. There’s a youthful energy to him, like he’s ready for action at the drop of a hat. Despite his size, he doesn’t carry the same grim air I’ve sensed from other bikers. Something about him feels approachable. Still, I don’t drop my guard entirely.

“Nice to meet you,” I manage, shifting my stance. “Frost told me to be here at nine.”

“Right on time,” Viper says, stepping aside and gesturing for me to enter. “Come in. He’s in the back with Ghost.”

I follow him through a short hallway that leads into a spacious room, half lounge and half bar area.

The smell of leather, tobacco, and old beer hangs in the air.

A beat-up pool table occupies the center, while a sagging sofa lines one wall.

The overhead lights buzz softly, illuminating decades of scuffed floors and patched-up walls.

Three steps in, I spot Frost at a table tucked near the far side.

He’s wearing his usual black tee under a leather cut, dark hair neatly trimmed.

Unlike the casual grin Viper offered, Frost’s expression is stern, his ice-blue eyes reflecting little emotion.

Seated next to him is a man I’ve never seen.

He’s tall, lean, and carries himself with a quiet intensity.

His ash-blond hair is cropped close on the sides, and intricate tattoos of ravens and Celtic knots cover one arm.

Something about him suggests he’s comfortable in silence.

My stomach does a nervous flip. Frost stands and lifts his chin in greeting. “Morning. Glad you found the place.”

I catch the new guy’s gaze. It’s a pale gray, almost silver, and it doesn’t waver. There’s a quiet power in the way he observes me, like he’s cataloging every detail.

Frost gestures between us. “Sierra, meet Ghost. He’s our VP and enforcer. Ghost, this is Sierra King.”

Ghost inclines his head. “Hey.”

One word, and yet it vibrates with intent. I swallow, trying to appear calm.

Viper ambles around me, flops onto a barstool, and props his elbows on the counter. “So, let’s see those papers,” he says, grinning. “I wanna find out how a fashion guru’s gonna help us big, bad bikers.”

Frost shoots Viper a look, but there’s no real anger behind it. Instead, he motions for me to set my things on the scarred wooden table. I perch on a rickety chair across from him, with Ghost quietly taking a seat to my left. Viper remains at the bar but swivels his stool so he can watch.

I take a deep breath, pulling out the folder I prepared.

“I brought documentation showing my former partner’s embezzlement, as well as a summary of my personal finances and brand contracts.

She drained our accounts, leaving me with debts tied to some dangerous people.

If I can reorganize or salvage certain deals, I can repay most of what’s owed. ”

Ghost leans over, scanning a page with a faint furrow in his brow. Frost flips through the statements methodically. His face reveals nothing, but I sense he’s evaluating every line. Viper cranes his neck from his stool, curiosity all over his face.

After a minute, Frost looks up. “You said these debt collectors are connected to a rival gang. Any idea which one?”

I chew my lip, remembering the messages I received. “I’ve heard the name Iron Reapers. They mentioned that if I don’t cooperate, I’ll face them and any affiliates they choose to bring in.”

Ghost’s jaw tightens, but he remains silent. Frost passes a couple of sheets to him, then meets my gaze. “The Iron Reapers cause chaos up in the next county, mostly loansharking and intimidation. If they think you owe them serious money, they’ll keep coming.”

“I know,” I say, voice steady despite the lump in my throat. “That’s why I need protection… or at least time to figure things out. I can pay them back if I get my affairs in order. In the meantime, I can offer you something valuable.”

Viper raises an eyebrow. “Which is?”

“My business expertise,” I reply, sliding a smaller stack of documents forward.

“I’m not bragging when I say I’m good at branding and finding profit where others don’t.

It might not seem like it applies to a motorcycle club, but if you’re expanding or maintaining legit businesses, I could help increase your revenue streams.”

Ghost rests his elbows on the table. “We dabble in bars, garages, and a couple shops around town. Most are on the edge of profitability. Are you suggesting you can fix that?”

“I’m suggesting I can help,” I clarify. “Add marketing. Modernize some aspects. You might laugh, but I managed to turn a simple clothing line into a nationwide brand. I understand how to create buzz and streamline operations.”

I half-expect them to smirk, but none of them do. Frost studies me for several heartbeats. I can’t read his expression, but I sense he isn’t dismissing the idea. Finally, he sets the pages down. “We’ll consider it. But we have rules. Loyalty is big. You cross us, there’s no going back.”

The implication isn’t lost on me. Betrayal isn’t tolerated in this world. I swallow hard but hold his gaze. “I understand. I don’t plan on crossing anyone. I just want a chance to rebuild.”

Ghost nods, tapping a finger against the table. “We’ll have to run this by a few key members and see if the majority supports bringing in an outsider.”

“Fair,” I say. “I’ll do whatever it takes to prove I’m worth the trouble.”

A loaded silence follows, during which I feel their scrutiny almost like a weight on my chest. Viper breaks the tension by pushing off the barstool and walking over. He settles at the border of the pool table, arms folded. “You look rattled,” he says, not unkindly. “Everything all right?”

I realize my hands are clenched in my lap. Exhaling, I straighten my spine. “Just a lot to process. I’m aware this situation isn’t ideal.”

“Doesn’t mean it can’t work,” he replies. There’s a warmth in his green eyes, some genuine empathy under that confident exterior.

Frost slides the folder back to me. “We have a club meeting later. I’ll bring this up. In the meantime, you can hang around, get to know the place.”

I glance around, taking in the mismatched furniture, the walls peppered with photos of club rides and gatherings. It’s a different universe from the sleek offices and high-rise condos I frequented before. Yet, there’s a certain raw authenticity here that appeals to me, even if it feels precarious.

Ghost stands, nodding at Frost, then quietly addresses me. “We’re planning to head out soon, check on a bar we own across town. You can come if you want. See how we operate.”

I hesitate, but curiosity wins out. “All right. I’ll go.”

We move through another corridor lined with battered metal lockers.

I notice a few doors, presumably offices or storage.

Frost stops by one to grab a leather jacket, his movements efficient and poised.

Viper runs a hand over his short knot of hair, checking his pockets for keys.

Ghost remains silent, every step measured, gaze scanning his surroundings.

I get the impression he sees everything, even the smallest shift in the environment.

Outside, the desert sun blasts us. My eyes take a second to adjust. Frost nods to a cluster of bikes. “We’ll ride. You can follow in your SUV if that’s more comfortable.”

I consider the suggestion. “I’ll follow you. Might need my own car anyway.”

“Suit yourself,” Viper says with a shrug, swinging a leg over a black Harley with silver accents. He revs the engine, and the sound rumbles through the still air.