Page 12 of Fang (Underground Vengeance MC, NOLA Chapter #3)

The clubhouse kitchen is a large space filled with state-of-the-art industrial appliances.

Framed photographs of motorcycles and men wearing the club’s colors hang on the wall.

The savory aroma of sizzling meat mixes with a cloying wave of cotton-candy scented perfume.

I’m sure the second scent is coming from the woman standing at the stove.

She’s sporting a head of poofy platinum blonde hair that looks as if it’s been teased half to death.

She stands with one hip cocked, her denim shorts so tiny they’re practically dental floss.

She turns when we enter, her smile for Fang wide and practiced, while her glance at me is dismissive.

“Fang, baby,” she coos, voice pitched to a frequency designed to make men stupid. “I was just about to send Mikey to find you. Dinner’s almost ready.”

“Thanks, Trixie,” Fang says, and I file away the name, though I doubt it’s the one on her birth certificate. “This is Mina. She’s staying with us for a while.”

Trixie’s smile dims a few watts as she gives me a more thorough once-over, taking in my borrowed clothes and damp hair. I see the calculations running behind her heavily mascara’d eyes: not a threat, not competition, not worth the effort.

“Well, aren’t you just swimming in Fang’s clothes,” she says with a saccharine laugh. “Hope you like chili. It’s my specialty.”

From the casual way she tosses ingredients into the pot—a handful of this, a splash of that—I doubt anything is her specialty except the art of strategic cleavage display. Her tank top is stretched so tight across her chest that the club’s logo is distorted into unrecognizability.

“Smells good,” I say, moving deeper into the kitchen to observe my surroundings.

The space is well-used, with knife marks scoring the wooden cutting boards and burn patterns on the industrial stove.

A massive refrigerator hums in the corner, its surface a collage of magnets—motorcycles, beer brands, and pin-up girls in various poses.

The wooden table dominating the center of the room could seat twelve easily.

Fang leans against a counter, watching Trixie with an expression of patient tolerance. “How many are eating tonight?”

“Just us three,” Trixie says, giving her hips a little wiggle as she stirs. “Most of the boys are out on a run with Vapor. Won’t be back till late.” She looks at me again, eyes narrowing slightly. “You’re that computer girl, right? The one who’s supposed to help with the cartel thing?”

I offer a noncommittal hum, neither confirming nor denying. Information is currency, and I’m not spending any of mine on her.

Fang intervenes smoothly. “Mina’s helping us with some tech work. That’s all you need to know, babe.”

She pouts, lower lip glossed to a shine that catches the overhead lights. “I was just making conversation. No need to get all secret-agent on me.”

Trixie turns back to her cooking, adding a generous splash of beer to the pot—half for the chili, half for herself as she takes a swig from the bottle.

She moves with the languid confidence of someone who is used to being watched, every action choreographed for maximum effect.

I wonder briefly how long she’s been here, and what her story is.

Everyone has one. No one ends up in a biker clubhouse by accident.

“Grab a seat,” Fang says to me, nodding toward the table.

He walks over to Trixie and murmurs something only she can hear.

She giggles before reaching up, exposing her taut belly and the underside of her braless tits as she grabs two bowls.

To his credit, he doesn’t ogle her boobs, but I’m still annoyed.

This all feels like a giant waste of time.

“When’s Vapor coming back?” I ask.

“Couple of hours.”

I sigh. There’s no point in trying to hurry anything along. I’m stuck on the club’s timeline now. I just hope the cartel isn’t moving Rory while I’m sitting around waiting for help.

Trixie ladles chili into each bowl with a flourish, spilling drops onto the counter without bothering to wipe them up. She distributes the bowls at the table, placing Fang’s with a lingering touch to his arm, and mine with barely a glance.

We settle at one end of the long table, Trixie positioning herself directly across from Fang, her elbows propped on the wooden surface in a way that maximizes her cleavage display. I sit to Fang’s right, maintaining a clear view of the kitchen entrance.

The chili is aggressively spiced, more flavor than heat, but I’m hungry enough not to care.

I eat methodically, watching as Trixie performs her mating ritual—laughing too loudly at anything Fang says, touching her hair, leaning forward to give him the full benefit of her enhanced assets.

She eats with her mouth partially open, talking through bites, a piece of meat caught briefly on her lower lip before she licks it away with a pointed glance at Fang.

“So how long have you known our Fang?” she asks me, the question casual but her eyes sharp.

“Long enough,” I say, keeping my voice neutral. I have no interest in feeding the gossip machine. If there are more like her lurking around this place, I’d better be careful about what I say.

Trixie’s sugary-sweet perfume wafts across the table each time she moves.

It makes my nose itch, but I resist the urge to sneeze.

My mother used to say you could tell a lot about a person by their perfume.

When I was fifteen, I tried a fruity body spray for the first time.

All the girls at school were wearing scented lotions.

I just wanted to fit in, so I picked up a cheap body mist from the drugstore.

Mom said I smelled like a cheap dessert, easy to consume, and easy to forget.

“Fang’s our resident genius,” she continues, oblivious to my disinterest. “Aren’t you, baby? The things he can do with a computer.” She giggles, as if technology is somehow innately hilarious. “It’s like magic to me. I can barely work my phone.”

I doubt that’s true. Women like Trixie are usually far more capable than they let on. Playing dumb is a survival strategy. I understand that, even though I’ve never used it. My employers would have killed me if they thought I was stupid.

Fang eats steadily, acknowledging Trixie’s chatter with occasional grunts that she somehow interprets as encouragement. He’s mastered the art of seeming to pay attention while his mind is clearly elsewhere. I do the same thing.

Trixie dabs at her mouth with a napkin, leaving a crimson smudge of lipstick.

“You should’ve seen what Fang did last month when some asshole tried to hack our security system.

He tracked them back to their house and sent them a little surprise.

” She laughs again, a sound like breaking glass.

“I wish I could have seen the looks on their faces when those pigs showed up to bust them for drug running!”

This actually earns a small smile from Fang, the first genuine expression I’ve seen from him. “It wasn’t that complicated.”

“Don’t be modest,” Trixie says, reaching across to squeeze his forearm. “You’re a fucking genius.”

Her nails are acrylic talons painted neon pink, tapping against his skin like impatient insects. I find myself staring at them, calculating how quickly they would break if she had to defend herself or type on a keyboard. Impractical. Like so much about her.

I finish my chili and push the bowl away slightly, the ceramic scraping against wood.

Trixie’s bowl is still half-full, forgotten as she continues her one-woman show for Fang’s benefit.

She twirls a strand of her platinum hair around her finger, head tilted at an angle designed to display the column of her throat.

“The chili was good,” I say, more to interrupt the performance than out of genuine compliment. “Thank you.”

Trixie looks momentarily surprised, as if she’d forgotten I could speak. “Oh. You’re welcome.” She turns immediately back to Fang. “I was thinking maybe after dinner we could watch that movie you mentioned last week? The one with the hackers? I bought some microwave popcorn…”

Fang’s eyes flick to me, then back to Trixie. “Not tonight. I’ve got work to do.”

The rejection is gentle but firm. Trixie’s smile falters for just a second before she reconstructs it, brighter than before to compensate for the crack in her facade.

“Maybe tomorrow then,” she says, voice slightly too high. She stands, collecting the bowls with a clatter. “You two probably have boring computer stuff to talk about anyway.”

As she carries the dishes to the sink, I catch Fang watching her with what might be pity.

It’s the most human expression I’ve seen cross his face, and it makes me reassess him slightly.

There’s a story there too, beneath his stoic exterior.

Everyone in this clubhouse is playing a role, wearing a mask. Even me. Especially me.

The kitchen feels different the moment Trixie leaves—quieter, clearer, as if someone turned down the saturation on a too-bright screen.

Fang’s shoulders drop a fraction of an inch, his posture softening now that he’s no longer being watched like a prize bull at auction.

I find myself mirroring him, tension easing from my spine as I lean back in my chair.

We sit in silence for a beat, two people accustomed to keeping our thoughts to ourselves, until Fang clears his throat and shifts his weight, a prelude to words I can tell will matter.

“So,” he says, eyes fixing on mine with an intensity that makes me straighten again. “About your brother. Let’s go back to my room and talk about a few things before I meet with Vapor.”

I nod and follow him, paying close attention to every turn to reinforce the mental map in my head. Although I feel safer inside the clubhouse than I did in the Quiet Room, it doesn’t hurt to know all the ways out in case I have to make a run for it.