Page 2 of Inglorious (Unwanted Bastards MC #1)

Nanci.

“T here’s someone to see you, Nanci,” Lila said, coming into the room.

“Honey, I go on in five minutes. Inform them I’m not taking visitors,” I replied.

Lila shook her head. “This one’s a dish, Nanci, a real sexy beast, even if he’s older than I usually go for.”

“Well, I’ll tell you what, I’m not expecting anyone. Go get him!” I tucked the last curl into place and checked my makeup again before standing up. My gown fell to my ankles, and my toes peeped out. They were painted a cute pink colour tonight, which matched my short but neat fingernails.

“Okay, break a leg,” Lila said, grinning.

“Yeah, babe, one day I’ll do that!” I laughed.

Lila offered a wink as I headed backstage, where I was due in two minutes.

I rolled my eyes as the emcee introduced me as the headline act.

Slowly walking to the harp on stage, I sat and stared out at the audience. A soft smile crossed my face, and I began to play. This wasn’t what anyone expected, and while I couldn’t see beyond the first few tables, I spotted their puzzlement.

I strummed for a minute and a half before I switched from the classical tune I was playing to We Will Rock You .

Confused faces warped into grins; I’d bet money nobody had ever heard that song played by a harp.

With a final strum, I leapt up and bent, dropping my head down, and shook it.

The pins fell out easily, releasing my long silver hair with its striking black widow’s peak.

Saucily, I flipped my head up as the curls tumbled down my back and, in a smooth move, ripped the Greek gown off.

Dressed in silver hot pants, a white tank top with a red star and black lightning streaking through it.

The audience cheered as I sang the opening lyrics for These Boots Were Made for Walking .

My cowboy boots danced across the stage as the crowd roared approval.

All except for one man. Thank fuck, I was the consummate professional, otherwise Drake Michaelson would have stopped me in my tracks.

Astute eyes watched me while Drake’s face remained expressionless.

There’s only one reason why the President of Rage MC was here, and I didn’t need the grief Drake was about to bring.

However, I danced and sang my ass off, refusing to let Drake affect me.

Eventually, I finished the forty-minute set and headed off stage.

Drake moved as well, and I shook my head.

“Nanci, you okay?” Dan from security asked.

“If anyone wants to see me, I’ve only got twenty minutes before my next act, and I’m busy tonight,” I replied.

Dan sent me a curious look, but nodded as he radioed the guard on the backstage doors. “No probs, Nanci. Do you need an escort to your car?”

“If someone could bring it round to the side kitchen door, I’ll leave through that,” I said.

Dan stayed on my heels as I headed for my dressing room. Being the headline meant I didn’t have to share a changing room with the other acts. My act was broken down into three forty-minute sessions with a twenty-minute break between each.

Dan followed me as I grabbed the next outfit and darted behind my dressing screen.

“Are you in trouble?” Dan asked as I stripped and pulled on a short dress with cut-out sides.

“No. Dan, remember my brother’s death six months ago? Someone from an allied club is here, and I don’t want to deal with them,” I answered honestly.

The pain hit hard and threatened to derail me.

But I was focussed. I had an act to perform, and people had paid to see me.

A professional pushed aside outside influences and concentrated on the performance.

That was me. A real pro and headliner. Nobody headlined in Las Vegas unless you were damned fuckin’ good—and I was the best.

I came out from behind the screen and checked my makeup before drinking a bottle of water. Under the bright lights, it was easy to get dehydrated.

“Nanci, I’ll move your car,” Dan offered.

“Thanks, Dan. Appreciate it. And when I escape, call Drake Michaelson to the front desk and tell him I said go away. Because I’m not interested,” I replied.

Dan nodded.

◆◆◆

I didn’t go home. No doubt Drake had my address, so instead I headed to my friend Linc’s place. Linc was out of town, but I had the keys to his apartment. Long ago, I’d left some of my clothes there, which was great because I was working the next day.

In addition to my headline act in one of the biggest and most expensive hotels in Vegas, I also ran a dance school.

A classically trained ballet and tap dancer, I had evolved to street and modern dancing.

The school covered those genres, plus ballroom and Latin, and we showed ladies how to work a pole.

A smile crossed my face as I parked at Linc’s apartment and headed up.

I rarely taught anymore, as I was caught up in the running of the school.

My parents had great expectations for me, however, and I wondered if my current career was what they’d desired.

Somehow, I doubted it. At an early age, I’d been instructed in how to play the piano, violin, clarinet, and harp.

Out of spite, I’d taught myself the guitar.

My parents didn’t think the guitar was suitable for the young lady they were raising.

In addition to those classes—three hours at a time per instrument once every week—there were the dance lessons.

Sadly, I didn’t go to parties my peers held.

No, not Nanci Rosky. God forbid I wear a pair of jeans, a tee, let my hair down and relax.

The kids at school called me Fancy Nanci, and not in a nice way.

Mom and Dad made my childhood so structured and miserable, they ensured my rebellion at eighteen.

Even as a young child, I wore skirts, blouses, tights, and sensible shoes. Tragically, I was an old lady in a child’s body. My peers had no idea how much I envied their jeans and shorts. My parents moulded me and my brother, Seth, into rigid little images of themselves. No wonder we both rebelled.

Just like Seth, I escaped their suffocating rules and ran away.

Hell, I danced in a strip club for eighteen months, making bank.

Not once had I shown my face. I always wore a mask and built up the persona of Miss Mysteria.

Now, I could walk past those patrons today and they’d never know the girl shaking her ass had been me.

One night, I was singing karaoke in a bar with some friends, and I was spotted.

The agent signed me. After I checked he was genuine, I auditioned for and won a small part in a play on Broadway.

My voice had been noted. Over the next three years, the parts grew larger until I was the headlining name.

The critics loved me, and reviews were always positive.

The following three years were perfect. Until a new producer was brought in and everything became political.

That ended with me screaming in his face about his bullshit policies, and I up and left.

Naturally, it was reported in the media, and I thought I’d tanked my career.

Instead, I was offered a spot in Vegas, and I snapped it up.

No politics, no shit, no backstabbing bitches, either.

And I’d been here for three years.

Hell, I was twenty-nine and had an amazing life. A headliner in Vegas, a dance school, and a naughty little secret. Every Tuesday night, I hit a high-stakes poker game and usually came out a winner. So, I’d a fortune tucked away for a rainy day.

Life should have been roses, but it wasn’t, because I’d lost Seth.

Seth had been ten years older than me and a member of a motorbike club.

He’d left home at sixteen, and despite my parents’ efforts to stop Seth seeing me, they’d failed miserably.

They were too scared of what Seth had become to fight him.

Seth and I had a close relationship, and he was proud of my independence and my breaking free.

Then Seth got involved in a fucking war that wasn’t his.

Of course, Seth naturally stepped up. Defend the innocent—his personal rule.

That cost Seth his life, and I was bitter as fuck.

I blamed Roman, too. Seth joined the Unwanted Bastards MC because his friend Roman had been a member.

It had been a dirty club when Seth was patched in, and he warned me to stay away.

I’d done precisely that after what happened at the Unwanted Bastards.

Since I fled South Dakota at nineteen, I’d never stepped foot back until six months ago for Seth’s funeral.

Now, somebody from South Dakota was here.

I knew exactly who Drake Michaelson was.

Drake was freaking famous in that state. The president of an MC who’d married a billionairess and had eighteen damn kids. Some of whom were renowned themselves. Nope, Drake fucking Michaelson could stay the hell away from me.

I entered Linc’s apartment and headed for the spare bedroom where I usually stayed if we were having a night in. Motorbike clubs had no part in my life, not after they stole Seth from me.

◆◆◆

I was sitting at my desk, reviewing the newest applications for my dance school, as I typically only accepted the best, when my secretary slash personal assistant appeared.

“Nanci, there’s a man here demanding to speak to you,” Fay said.

I sighed. Shit, I knew exactly who that was. Whelp, I’d managed to delay Drake Michaelson for about sixteen hours.

“Send him in, Fay, please,” I replied.

Moments later, Drake Michaelson walked into my office. His jeans fit him well, his tee was black, and he wore his cut, naturally.

“Nanci,” Drake greeted.

“Drake.”

“Sorry, somehow I seemed to have missed you last night,” Drake stated, and I cocked my head. Drake leaned against the wall, all cocky, easy male arrogance. He was as handsome as ever, and as Drake aged, he kept his good looks.

“Drake, whatever it is, I’m not interested. Seth is dead, end of story,” I said, hoping to cut him off. I might as well have tried catching the wind.