We move down a narrow hallway until we reach a large freight elevator guarded by a man in a leather vest. The patch on his chest declares himPROSPECT. He looks awfully young to be part of a biker gang, but what do I know?
“You girls lost?” he asks, eyeing us up and down like we’re something he wants to eat.
I cringe as McKenna's eyes narrow to slits.
Oh boy. Here we go.
“Girls? Girls?” McKenna growls, her hands curling into fists at her sides.
This guy has no idea the can of worms he just opened. Fortunately for him, I can’t let my friend blow a gasket right now.
“Uh, we need to talk to whoever’s in charge,” I say quickly, hoping to prevent his murder.
The man looks us over again, his gaze lingering a beat too long on Kenny’s chest before he pulls out his phone. He presses a few buttons, then holds it to his ear.
“Yeah, boss. Got twogirlshere that say they need to talk to you.”
Kenny narrows her eyes at him, but he seems completely unfazed by her death glare. Then again, he’s part of an outlaw biker gang. He’s probably stared down worse than a hundred-pound brunette with a blazing temper.
He nods as if getting instructions from whoever is on the other end of the call. “Yeah. Yeah. Got it.”
The prospect then tucks his phone back in his pocket. “Go on down. Pee Wee’s sitting at the bar.”
He grabs the rolling metal door of the elevator and pushes it up with a loud, grating sound that makes me wince.
“Thanks,” I mumble as I usher McKenna inside.
The prospect pulls the door back down, and we’re locked in. I press the down arrow, and the elevator lurches into motion with a concerning creak.
“Pee Wee?” McKenna giggles, her anger at the Prospect apparently forgotten. “What kind of badass biker is named Pee Wee?”
I turn to her with wide eyes. “I don’t know but you can’t make fun of this man to his face. I need this job.”
McKenna holds up her hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. Scouts’ honor. I’ll be a goodgirl. I promise”
I snort. “You don’t know the first thing about Scouts and you just called yourself a girl.”
She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, yeah.”
The elevator comes to a jerky stop, and the rolling door is yanked open from the other side. Standing there is another huge biker with aPROSPECTpatch on his vest. This one is older, with a thick beard and tattoos covering every visible inch of skin.
“Uhm, we’re looking for Pee Wee?”
The guy eyes us up and down, then points to his left without a word.
We step off the elevator, and my eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Holy shit.” I expected this place to have a makeshiftring in a dank basement, but we've stepped into what looks like a high-end nightclub with a big shiny cage in the center of the room.
Tiered seating that probably holds a few hundred people surrounds the metal octagon. To the left, a long bar runs the length of the wall, backlit with blue and purple neons. The rest of the space is filled with tables and private booths upholstered in dark leather. Everything screams money—from the polished floors to the multiple flat-screen TVs mounted around the room.
A huge man sitting on a stool at the bar waves us over without even looking up. His massive shoulders strain against the leather of his vest, and even sitting down, I can tell he’s well over six feet tall.
“Holy shit, he’s huge,” McKenna whispers as we approach. “He doesn’t look like a Pee Wee to me.”
I shoot her a wide-eyed look, silently begging her to keep her mouth shut.
“Right. Sorry,” she whispers, but I can see the mischief dancing in her eyes.
As we come to stand beside him, I take in the amber liquid in the glass in front of him, the cigarette burning in an ashtray, and the papers scattered across the bar top.
