“Kenny!” I call out, relieved to see a familiar face and if I’m being honest, desperate to put distance between me and Klutch.
She turns, her face lighting up when she spots me. I rush over and we hug tightly.
“Damn, girl!” she exclaims, pulling back to look at me. “You look hot as hell in that dress!”
A low growl emanates from behind me, and I don’t need to turn around to know it’s Klutch. McKenna’s eyes flick over my shoulder, her grin widening.
“And I see you’ve already made a friend,” she adds with a wink.
Before I can respond, Pee Wee clears his throat. “Klutch, your fight’s in an hour. Better start warming up.”
Wait, what? I glance over my shoulder at him and frown. He’s a fighter?
Pee Wee turns his attention to me. “And you must be Demi. I’m Pee Wee, VP of the Bastard Saints MC.”
“Nice to officially meet you,” I reply, offering him my hand.
His eyes drop to my palm then lift looking over my shoulder like he’s asking for… permission? Bikers are so dang weird. Finally he takes my hand in his massive mitt and gives it a surprisingly gentle pump.
“You too, darlin’. And I see you’ve already met Klutch, our Sergeant-at-Arms.”
So that’s what SAA stands for.
“Yes,” I answer simply, although ‘met’ isn’t exactly accurate.
“This is Hawk,” Pee Wee continues, gesturing to the bartender. “He’ll show you the ropes. It’s cash only, drinks are fifteen bucks. If anyone gives you trouble, find someone wearing a Bastard Saints cut.” He turns, pointing to the back of his vest where a logo of a skull wearing a crown is prominently displayed.
I nod, taking it all in. Klutch hasn’t moved from his spot behind me, and I can feel his eyes boring into the back of my head. It’s unsettling, but not entirely unpleasant.
“I should get to work,” I say, looking at McKenna.
She gives me a thumbs up. “Kill it, girl.”
I turn around, finally facing Klutch. His expression is dark, clearly unhappy about me being here. Well, he can get over it. I need the money far more than I need his approval.
“Excuse me,” I say politely, waiting for him to move.
He stares at me for a beat longer before finally stepping aside. “Stay out of trouble,” he mutters before turning and striding away toward what I assume are the locker rooms.
Hawk, the bartender, gives me a quick rundown of the drink menu and shows me how to work the POS system. It’s all pretty straightforward—take orders, bring drinks, collect cash, don’t mess with the bikers.
The next two hours fly by in a blur of serving drinks and navigating through the increasingly rowdy crowd. Despite the leers and occasional wandering hand (quickly withdrawn when I give them my death glare), most of the people here tonight are surprisingly respectful. I even manage to collect a decent amount in tips, stuffing the bills into my crossbody bag that’s stowed behind the bar whenever I get a chance.
I’m delivering a tray of drinks to a booth full of men in suits when the music suddenly cuts out. The crowd’s chatter dies down as a man with a microphone steps into the center of the cage.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announces, his voice booming through the speakers, “it’s time for tonight’s main event!”
The crowd erupts in cheers and whistles as I hurry to hand out the last of the drinks on my tray.
“In the red corner, standing at six-foot-three and weighing in at two hundred and twenty-five pounds—The Dominatorrrr!”
A massive man enters the cage to a mix of cheers and boos. He’s easily the most intimidating human being I’ve ever seen, with muscles bulging from places I didn’t know muscles could bulge from. His entire body is covered in tattoos, and his headis completely shaved. He paces the cage like a wild animal, eyes cold and calculating.
“And in the blue corner, your reigning champion, standing at six-foot-two and weighing in at two hundred and ten pounds—The Killerrrrr… Klutch!”
My head whips around so fast I nearly drop my tray. Klutch strides toward the cage with the confidence of a man who fears nothing. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of black fight shorts, revealing a body that’s all bulging muscles covered in intricate tattoos. A large piece covers his entire chest and I suddenly want to trace every inch with my tongue.
Shaking off the thought, I hug the empty tray to my chest, suddenly unable to tear my eyes away. Klutch hops onto the step and glides into the cage, his eyes never leaving his opponent. The hair on my arms stand on end. There’s something different about him now—something lethal and frightening I hadn’t noticed before.
