Page 12 of Heat (The Royal HArlots MC, Quebec City-Canada #1)
Chapter Eleven
Engines growled like thunder rolling over asphalt as the motorcycle club rolled in, a storm of chrome, denim, and black leather slicing through the stillness of the afternoon.
A line of bikes stretched down the road, each one glinting beneath the sun, custom paint catching the light like fire.
The deep rumble echoed off nearby buildings, a sound that turned heads and sent a pulse through the ground.
At the front, Diamond rode composed and steady, a silent command in her posture, flanked by the Sgt.
-at-Arms, who scanned the area with sharp, unreadable eyes.
Behind them, the rest of the crew moved in tight formation, riding two-by-two—boots up, patches proud, and expressions unreadable behind mirrored shades.
The scent of motor oil and exhaust clung to the air as they pulled into the lot, kicking up dust and gravel.
One by one, kickstands dropped. Engines cut out.
The silence that followed was louder than the noise—weighted, expectant.
They didn’t have to announce themselves. Their presence said everything.
As helmets came off, it became immediately clear—this wasn’t your typical outlaw club.
This was a female MC, and they wore their presence like armor.
Long hair spilled out in waves, braids, or tight coils, some dyed wild colors, others streaked with road dust. Faces emerged—fierce, focused, unbothered by the stares they drew.
Leather creaked as they swung off their bikes, jackets marked with their club’s patch catching the light. Tattoos peeked from beneath sleeves and collars, silver rings glinting on fingers that had seen both throttle and trigger. They moved with purpose—confident, calm, commanding.
The Harlots didn’t come to blend in. They came to be seen. And judging by the way the crowd parted, the way murmurs swept through like wind, they were impossible to ignore.
The first thing the Harlots noticed was the chaos—loud, messy, and dangerously disorganized.
From the moment their boots hit the pavement, it was clear this rally had gone sideways.
Security near the stages looked overwhelmed, barely managing the crowd as rowdy spectators pushed forward.
Burnouts tore through the middle of the lot, rubber smoke thick in the air as engines screamed and people scattered.
Even the swap meet was a madhouse, vendors yelling, merchandise toppling, and no one stepping in to restore order.
Diamond didn’t hesitate. She led her chapter straight through the chaos and into the Royal Bastards’ clubhouse, the heavy door slamming shut behind them. Inside, she found Teller mid-argument with a red-faced vendor, voices rising above the muffled roar from outside.
The vendor stormed off with a muttered curse, and Diamond stepped forward. “Teller.”
Teller turned, visibly tense, then relaxed when he saw her. “Diamond. Glad you ladies could make the rally.”
She didn’t waste time. “Yeah, brother. Let’s skip the pleasantries. You’ve got problems—and we can help.”
“Can you… help?”
Diamond smirked, already turning to her girls. “Ladies, we need security tightened on the bandstands and the swap meet area. Domino, grab a couple of the Bastards and shut down that fucking burnout party. If they wanna light up tires, they can do it out back where it won’t kill someone.”
Without question, the Harlots moved, a wave of black leather, denim, and purpose, slipping into the fray like they’d been waiting for a fight.
Diamond looked back at Teller with a raised brow. “You can tell me thank you later.”
Teller chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck as the clubhouse vibrated with the sound of order being restored. “Count on it.”
Teller’s gaze cut across the room, sharp and assessing, scanning for any signs of trouble. The place buzzed with noise—vendors arguing, club members coordinating, the occasional shout from outside—but he wasn’t just hearing it. He was measuring it. Calculating.
They needed to get everything back in order, and fast. Vendors. Logistics. Security. All of it had to tighten up before things spiraled beyond repair. The rally was teetering on the edge of chaos, and if they didn’t pull it back, it would crash—and burn—with his name attached to the wreckage.
He’d already been hit with threats. A handful of vendors had warned him they were packing up and leaving if things didn’t change—now. That kind of talk spread fast, and if one bailed, others would follow. Money lost. Reputation trashed.
Teller exhaled slowly, jaw tight. He knew the hired security wasn’t cutting it.
They’d been briefed, told exactly what to expect, and still came up short.
Too soft. Too slow. Next year, he’d do it differently.
Next year, he’d use club brothers—men who understood what it meant to hold the line.
Men who didn’t blink when the shit hit the fan.
He glanced toward the door where the Harlots had stormed out minutes before, already enforcing control with the kind of precision his guys should’ve had from the start.
Lesson learned. The hard way.