Page 11 of Fang (Underground Vengeance MC, NOLA Chapter #3)

“Let’s get you cleaned up and rested while I go talk to Vapor.”

“Okay.” I flash a quick smile. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” he warns.

I follow Fang through the labyrinth of the clubhouse, mapping each turn in my mind like I’m tracing circuit boards.

His broad shoulders block most of my view, but I catalog what I can see: exit points, security cameras, the faces of men who watch us pass with curious, predatory eyes.

My skin prickles with awareness. In this den of leather and testosterone, I’m both an asset and a liability—a hacker with secrets they need and secrets they don’t know I have.

“Keep close,” Fang says, his voice barely audible over the heavy metal blasting from somewhere deeper in the building. “Most of the guys will assume you’re with me, but they’re always looking for some action.”

I quicken my pace, nearly stepping on his heels. “That’s not the kind of action I’m interested in right now.”

He doesn’t laugh, just throws me a look over his shoulder that might be amusement or annoyance.

We pass a room where three men hunched over a pool table straighten like hunting dogs catching a scent when I walk by. One of them, a barrel-chested guy with a beard that could house a bird’s nest gives Fang a questioning look.

“She’s with me,” Fang says simply. It’s enough to make the man nod and return to his game, though his eyes linger on me a beat too long. A shiver runs down my spine. As long as I’m in their territory, I’d better stay close to Fang. It feels like he’s the only thing keeping the dogs at bay.

We climb a set of stairs. At the top, the hallway stretches in both directions with doors lining each side like a hotel corridor. Unlike a hotel, though, there are no numbers, just small insignias burned into the wood—personalized markers for each member, I realize.

Fang stops at a door with an etching that looks like computer code wrapped around a dagger. Without ceremony, he pushes it open and gestures me inside.

“Home sweet home,” he says, though there’s nothing sweet about it.

The room is as sparse as a monk’s cell, though one dedicated to the worship of technology rather than God.

A king sized bed with military corners occupies one wall.

A wooden desk supports three monitors connected to a tower humming quietly to the side.

No photos. No art. Just a corkboard pinned with what look like network diagrams.

Motorcycle gear hangs from hooks on the wall—a leather jacket with the club’s insignia, gloves worn thin at the knuckles, a helmet with a scratch across the visor. The room smells of motor oil and something faintly chemical—cleaning solution, maybe, or the residue of electronic components.

“Cozy,” I say, the sarcasm automatic.

Fang crosses his arms, the movement pulling his t-shirt tight across muscles that seem excessive for someone who spends his days at a keyboard. “You’re staying here until I can talk to Vapor.”

My stomach tightens. “I should go with you. He might have questions only I can answer.”

“Vapor doesn’t trust you. I’m your babysitter until the club decides what to do with you.” His green eyes hold mine steadily behind those thick-framed glasses.

“But I—”

“Or I could take you back to the Quiet Room.”

“That hellhole out by the bayou? No thanks.” I cross my arms under my breasts, not missing the way his gaze drops to watch the movement.

Fang points to a door beside the desk. “Bathroom’s through there. Get cleaned up.”

The bathroom is surprisingly large with a shower big enough to hold four people, a separate toilet with its own door, and dual sinks.

A small window above the toilet is painted shut, the glass frosted for privacy but also eliminating it as an escape route.

I file away the observation automatically, a habit formed from years of calculating exits.

“Towels are on the shelf,” Fang says, leaning against the doorframe. “I’ll be right outside.”

“How generous of you to not watch me shower.”

He shrugs. “I’m a gentleman.”

“You’re a jailer,” I counter, but there’s no heat in it. At least he’s letting me wash all the sweat and dirt off. I’m sure I stink too.

I wait until he closes the door before turning on the water, letting it run to warm up while I assess the tiny space.

The mirror above the sink reflects a face I barely recognize anymore—hollow-cheeked, dark circles under eyes that have seen too much, my black hair a tangled mess, and there’s a smudge of something dark on my jawline.

I strip efficiently, placing my clothes in a neat pile where I can grab them quickly if needed.

Even naked and vulnerable, I position myself so my back is to the wall, never to the door.

A habit I developed living the cartel life.

The shower is brief but glorious, hot water sluicing away grime and tension in equal measure.

I find pine-scented soap and shampoo and use them judiciously, aware that I’m replacing my scent with his.

I dry off with a surprisingly soft towel, then realize I have nothing clean to change into. Wrapping the towel around myself, I crack the door open.

“Problem?” Fang asks, looking up from his phone.

“I need clothes.”

His eyes flick down to assess my body. His gaze is clinical rather than lecherous.

“T-shirts are in the top drawer of the dresser. Bottom drawer has sweatpants with a drawstring. They’ll be big, but they’ll work until we can get you something else.

Vapor said we should eat then he’s calling Church later. ”

“That’s what you call your meetings, right?”

“Yeah. You study up on MCs or something?” His attention is back on his phone as it pings with a new message.

“Or something,” I say, walking past him to get clothes.

Clutching the towel to my chest with one hand, I grab the first t-shirt I can find along with a pair of sweat pants.

Fang turns his back without being asked, facing the door like a sentinel.

I retreat to the bathroom, changing quickly into a black t-shirt that hangs to mid-thigh and sweatpants I have to roll at the waist four times.

I glance at the mirror and can’t help but grin at my reflection.

His shirt has text on it that reads, “I’m not procrastinating, I’m doing side quests.

” The 8-bit style symbols at the bottom of the text are kinda cute.

There’s a red diamond, a gray and black sword, a golden trophy cup, and a blue diamond.

When I emerge, Fang is typing something on his phone. He looks up, assesses my borrowed outfit, and nods once. “Better. Now let’s get you fed.”