Page 118 of Lost Lyrebird

The second we’re over the threshold, I’m greeted by a haze of smoke that lingers in the main lounge area, along with the faint hint of motor oil and the varying scenes of the men who, for the most part, live here, so their scents, too, are interwoven into the walls and furniture.

Van Morrison croons a soulful tune, audible underneath the rough timbre of male voices and the more playful voices of the women keeping them company.I receive a few thorough once-overs, but I pretend not to notice their scrutiny or interest.

Stone’s hand stays pressed to my back as he guides me forward.My gaze travels around the room, and I make confident eye contact so I don’t appear to be easy prey.

Like at the Greenbacks clubhouse, the club’s history is scattered throughout the interior, in every framed photo and memorabilia they’ve chosen to display.However, there’s an added patriotic theme here.

The long bar we stop at is on the right side of the room and spans nearly the length of it.The liquor shelves sit in front of a massive mirror and are stocked to the gills with a large variety of liquor.

Stone immediately orders us a round of beers.I run my hand over the worn bartop and think of all the memories it holds, the years of use and abuse it’s seen.If it could talk, I bet it would have some fucking fantastic stories to tell.

A group of men huddle near the pool table on the far side of the room.The clack of pool balls occasionally cuts through the noise.

As the party kicks into gear and after a few rounds of beers, Stone pulls me toward a group of bikers in the far corner.I play the part, smiling and hamming it up.Griz, with his cocky grin, winks at me, and Bodie gives me a confused look.

It’s the first time he hasn’t flirted with me on sight, and for some reason, it throws me off for a second.When his gaze jumps across the room, I follow it.

Goose looks to have just walked in, and he stops cold a few feet inside the door, frozen there by the sight of me.He’s scowling, his look murderous.

I hate how vulnerable I feel under his gaze, so I focus my attention elsewhere.

I haven’t spoken to him about anything besides inconsequential work details since before Hodge’s funeral, weeks ago.He’s absent from Wet Tips more and more often lately, supposedly due to the headaches, or at least that’s what’s being spread by the gossip mill, aka dressing room chatter.

We’re ships passing by each other, more often than not, passing with barely any acknowledgement.It’s as if we’ve finally gotten pretty skilled at ignoring the connection that seems to tie us together.Sure, at times, we trade half-hearted pleasantries, but we also go out of our way to avoid each other more often than not.

I should be grateful he’s granted me some space.I’m going to need it to do what I need to do here.Because, quite frankly, it will be a whole hell of a lot easier without his presence, but it doesn’t look like I’m going to be able to infiltrate his club without him bearing witness to my methods.

Fucking fantastic.

A layer of torture to add on to what I’m about to put myself through.Awesome.

Stone manhandles me most of the night.I’m treated like nothing more than a lap-trophy and plaything.His hands roam freely and often.I let it all happen, and outwardly it may appear like I even enjoy myself.On the inside, I’m cringing, and it feels like my skin is crawling.

Things escalate as he pulls me to the dance floor.His large hands squeeze my ass to the point of pain as he forces my body against his and attempts to dirty dance with me.His kisses taste like licking an ashtray.He laps at my mouth, but not in a good way, since I have to subtly wipe my face afterwards to get rid of the excess moisture.

I hear a muffled curse and turn my head in time to see Goose walk by.He goes to the bar and not too long after, downs a full glass of brown liquor.

When I look back over at him a few moments later, his dark-blue gaze is colder than I’ve ever seen it.There’s something else there, too, like confusion and frustration.

As the night progresses, more women arrive—hangarounds, there for the sole purpose of entertaining the HOCs in whatever way demanded of them.

The music changes to a more sultry, headier, ominous beat, and things turn from playful fun to sexual, as if the song itself sends a sensual pulse through the room, putting all the wayward souls under its spell.

Thankfully, Stone doesn’t start stripping my clothes off until we’re behind closed doors.Sure, there is plenty of petting, kissing, and foreplay, but the down-and-dirty stuff, which I have to battle with myself internally to perform, takes place inside his room, against a wall.

It’s over within ten minutes, so the torture doesn’t last for long, and I give the excuse of an early morning dance lesson, so I don’t have to stay the night.Instead, I dress and high-tail it out of there as fast as I can without it appearing as if I’m running.

Halfway home, I have to pull over to throw up.

The image of Goose’s face when I descended the stairs and returned to the main lounge area is at the forefront of my mind.He was sitting at a card table with Bodie and a few others, playing a late-night game of poker, as he bore witness to my walk of shame.

The judgment and righteous anger practically leaked off him, making every step I took toward the exit monumental.

CHAPTER 34

Oh, the beautiful lies we tell ourselves to make all our wrongs feel right.

JANUARY 2008