Page 6 of Claimed By The Club

Ghost mounts a sleek bike with dark gray paint and minimal chrome.

Frost chooses the same matte-black Harley I saw yesterday.

They put on helmets, though I notice they’re half-shells with tinted visors, probably more a nod to minimal safety laws than actual caution.

I hustle to my SUV, slip into the driver’s seat, and start the engine.

Following three roaring motorcycles is an experience.

They move in a neat formation, side by side except for Ghost, who hangs back a touch as if guarding the rear.

The road leads us past low-slung buildings, dusty side streets, a boarded-up diner, and eventually an old sign that reads BLUELIGHT BAR.

The place looks rough, with chipped paint, a flickering neon beer logo in the window, and two battered trucks in the lot.

We park, and they kill their engines almost in unison. I climb out of my car, stepping onto a patch of cracked asphalt. Ghost lingers by his bike, scanning the area. Frost motions for me to follow, and we enter through a side door.

Inside, the bar is dim, smells like whiskey and ancient cigarette smoke. A jukebox stands silent along one wall, and a few men in worn denim jackets nurse drinks at a table. A single bartender wipes glasses behind a scarred wooden counter. He straightens when he sees the three men approach.

“Afternoon,” Frost says, his voice steady. “How’s business?”

The bartender shrugs. He’s thin, with a salt-and-pepper mustache. “Slow, as usual. We sold a few cases last night, but the cooler’s acting up again.”

Viper slaps the counter lightly. “Need me to take a look?”

“Sure,” the bartender replies. “It’s in the back, same as before.”

While Viper heads to the rear, Frost turns to me. “This is the reality of our legit holdings. A bar that barely stays afloat.”

I step forward, sliding my gaze around the dingy interior. “Any attempts at live music, themed nights, or cross-promotion with local events?”

The bartender snorts. “We don’t get enough traffic for that to matter.”

I let out a calm breath. “Sometimes you can build traffic by creating demand, even if it doesn’t exist yet. Host a weekly band, promote a ladies’ night, try a small social media push?—”

He shakes his head. “We tried flyers at the gas station once. Didn’t do much.”

“Paper flyers aren’t enough,” I say, undeterred. “We’d need a website, maybe short videos to entice riders passing through. You’d be surprised how many bikers plan routes based on recommended hangouts.”

Ghost, who’s been standing off to the side, takes a step closer. “That actually makes sense. Some clubs do these big group rides and look for places that’ll host them.”

I lift one shoulder. “Exactly. You start building a reputation as a must-stop bar. Doesn’t have to be fancy. Just consistent promotion.”

Frost nods slowly, arms crossed. “We can discuss it with the club members. Might be worth a shot.”

A faint crash echoes from the back room, followed by a string of curses. Ghost and Frost exchange glances, then head in that direction. I follow, stepping into a cramped storage space lined with shelves of bottles. Viper’s crouched near a clunky metal cooler, fiddling with wiring.

“You okay?” Frost asks, eyebrow raised.

Viper points an adjustable wrench at a busted clamp. “This damn piece broke off when I tried to tighten it. Gonna need a replacement if we want the cooler to stop leaking.”

“Well, do you think the hardware store in town has it?” Ghost inquires, hands on his hips.

Viper purses his lips. “They should, but it’s Sunday. Might be closed. I’ll call Dolly at the Rusted Horse, see if she’s got any spare parts lying around from her old fridge.”

This is all so foreign compared to the sleek offices I once navigated, but I feel an odd sense of belonging. These men might live a life light-years from mine, yet they solve problems in a hands-on way I admire. I’m about to step aside when I notice water dripping onto an open box of receipts.

I lunge forward, sliding the box out of harm’s way. “Might not want to ruin these,” I comment, eyeing the soggy cardboard.

Ghost bends down, picks up a stray receipt, and sets it on a table. “Good catch.”

I stand, wiping a stray drop of water off my arm. Viper smirks, handing me a small flashlight. “Mind shining this on the clamp? My phone’s out of battery, and it’s dark in here.”

I crouch next to him, angling the light.

My shoulder brushes his arm, and I catch the faint smell of leather and engine oil.

His green eyes flick to me for a second, a quick smile tugging at his mouth.

My heart gives a curious flutter. After a beat, he gets back to work, adjusting the cooler’s metal piece.

Behind us, Frost and Ghost talk quietly, their voices low.

I can’t quite make out what they’re saying, but I assume it’s about me.

My skin prickles with the sense that I’m being assessed.

Some part of me aches to lay out my entire plan, show them spreadsheets and marketing forecasts, prove I can be more than dead weight.

Another part warns me not to reveal too much too soon. This arrangement is still fragile.

After a few minutes, Viper stands with the broken part in hand. “I’ll take care of this tomorrow when the store’s open, unless Dolly can hook us up today.” He glances at me. “You don’t mind making a stop with me, do you? I’ll drop you back here, or at your SUV, or wherever you want afterward.”

I look to Frost and Ghost, wondering if this suggestion is allowed. Frost gives a nearly imperceptible nod, a signal that he’s okay with it. Ghost just watches me, unreadable but not hostile.

“Sure,” I say, handing the flashlight back. “I could stand to learn more about your local spots.”

Viper steps around me, returning the tool to a cluttered workbench. “Then let’s go. We’ll take my bike. I promise I won’t toss you off on a tight corner.”

I hesitate. Riding on the back of a motorcycle with a man I met half an hour ago? It’s a leap of faith. But I signed up for this, so I square my shoulders. “All right. But if you scare me to death, I won’t help you fix your bar problems.”

He laughs, a cheerful sound that echoes in the cramped space. “Deal.”

We walk out, and I cast a quick glance at Ghost. He meets my eyes, nods once, then looks away as if he’s giving me privacy. Frost thanks the bartender for his patience and mentions they’ll fix the cooler soon. Then we step into the blazing sunlight again.

Viper hands me a spare helmet from a hook near his seat, then climbs onto his Harley. When he’s settled, I slide on behind him, uncertain where to place my hands until he quietly says, “Hold on around my waist.”

I do, feeling the heat radiating from his body.

The engine roars, and a jolt of excitement combines with my lingering nerves.

My heart thuds as he maneuvers us out of the parking lot.

There’s a thrill in the sudden acceleration, the wind tugging at my blouse, the horizon rushing toward us.

We weave through the outskirts of Clearwater Springs, passing dilapidated storefronts and a couple of scattered trailers.

Every so often, I glimpse a roadrunner darting away from the noise.

We stop at a small bar with a sign reading The Rusted Horse in faded letters. A dusty old truck sits out front, and a single large fan whirls behind screened windows. Viper helps me off the bike, steadying me with a hand on my elbow. I realize my pulse is still racing from the ride.

“Not too terrifying?” he teases, releasing me once I stand upright.

I push my hair out of my face. “I survived.”

He winks, then heads inside. The interior of this bar is even darker than Bluelight.

The walls are covered with old license plates, band posters, and a few neon signs.

There’s a jukebox in the corner, currently silent.

A tall woman behind the bar glances up. She’s got bleached-blonde hair piled high and wears heavy eyeliner.

“Viper,” she says in a smoky voice, “what brings you here so early?”

“We got a broken cooler at Bluelight, Dolly,” he replies, leaning on the counter. “Thought maybe that old fridge you got rid of might still have parts lying around.”

Dolly’s gaze drifts to me. “Who’s your friend?”

“I’m Sierra,” I offer, trying to sound relaxed. “Visiting, sort of.”

She looks amused, her glossy lips twisting in a small smirk. “Sure, hon. Let me see if I can find that piece. I stored some junk out back.”

While Dolly disappears into a back room, Viper leads me to a table. The air feels stale but not in a hostile way—just old. Posters advertise upcoming live music nights, although the dates have passed.

Viper settles into a chair, stretching his long legs out. “You seem calmer than I expected,” he says, flicking his gaze to my hands resting on the tabletop. “Most folks freak when they jump into this life.”

I press my lips together. “Trust me, I’m nervous. But if I want help, I have to face all this. I can’t hide forever.”

He taps a finger against the wood. “Not everyone’s got that kind of backbone. Some women I’ve known run for the hills after one look at the clubhouse.”

I recall my first impression: a grim building in the desert. Still, there’s a sense of community behind those walls, even if it’s hidden under layers of caution. “I built my fashion business from nothing. I’m used to pushing through difficult situations.”

His grin softens, hinting at genuine admiration. “Good. We could use some fresh perspective around here. Frost is a good leader, but we’ve been stuck in a rut, trying to go legit enough to avoid constant raids while not losing our core identity. Maybe you’ll shake things up.”

The idea of playing a role in transforming this club spurs a small spark of excitement. Before I can respond, Dolly returns with a small metal clamp in hand. “Will this do?”