Midnight Desire: A Midnight Riders Motorcycle Club Romance Part 1 by Olivia Thorne Page A
Authors: Olivia Thorne
Tags: Romance
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the next day.
4
After sleeping until 10AM, I backtracked to the Seven Veils and waited out front for a sign of life. The first employee didn’t roll in until 11. He was a big, ugly, bald bruiser in a wife beater and jeans.
“Hey,” I said as I walked up.
He eyed me like I was a puddle of vomit in the street. “What do you want?”
“A job.”
Now he looked me up and down like he was inspecting a slab of meat. “You get paid on tips only. $10 to the DJ, $10 per bouncer, $40 house fees – per shift.”
It took me a second to register what he was talking about. “No – not as a dancer. A serving job.”
He laughed, a sound utterly without humor. “Strip or fuck off, bitch.”
I wanted to plant my foot in his crotch at about 60 miles per hour, but I needed an insider’s vantage point of the motorcycle club.
“You don’t have any serving jobs?”
“Strip or fuck OFF, bitch,” he repeated.
Now I wanted to smash his teeth in with the barrel of my .38 – but I kept cool and just walked away.
I don’t judge any woman who wants to earn a living taking her clothes off, but it wasn’t for me.
Especially not with a fucktard like that for a boss.
I wondered if my refusal to be a stripper meant I was less than 100% committed to finding Ali’s killer… but I told myself that it was the first place I’d looked. And that there was no guarantee it was a good recon spot, anyway.
Plus, I still had options.
5
The options quickly ran out. When I went by the Roadhouse, an even uglier dude with a foot-long beard and a bandana around his head told me that there weren’t any jobs – but he’d be happy to fuck me in the bathroom.
I left even faster than I did at the strip club.
I reassessed my game plan.
I could try to get a bartending job. Not to brag, but I’m not hard on the eyes, especially in a low-cut t-shirt. But then my nights would be tied up, and I needed to be free to do recon.
Office job? No go. I could type about ten words per minute, if that. And a private investigator job was out of the question. Not if I wanted to infiltrate a gang.
I had about five grand saved, but it wouldn’t last forever – and I would look reaallly suspicious if I were just hanging around with nothing to do all day except shadow bikers. So I settled for the standby of every young woman who comes to a new town with stars in her eyes, then abruptly falls hard onto reality, the most unforgiving surface of all.
I got a waitressing job.
6
“Charlie’s” was a greasy-spoon diner on the wrong side of the tracks. I figured they probably saw every disreputable type come in there, so why not? What better way to find out about the seedy underbelly of a town than to serve them breakfast and lunch?
Turns out I was more right than I knew.
I started the day after I applied. My coworkers were older women, sassy types who flirted with the regulars. The customers cut a broad swath: truckers, lots of blue collar workers, and a handful of seedier types who looked like they might be working off some sort of chemical bender.
I mostly kept to myself. I didn’t give a damn about tips; I was there to earn a few bucks and keep my eyes open.
They were open wide when he walked in.
It was Wednesday morning, 7 AM, and I was half-dead from staking out the Seven Veils the night before.
Suddenly in walked two of the most incredibly attractive men I’d ever seen in my life.
One was young, probably mid-twenties. Long, blond hair to his shoulders, clean-cut face with incredible cheekbones, six foot one, body like a college football running back. He had dead eyes and a humorless face.
He was hot enough, though his cold exterior made him off-putting. But the second guy…
…daaaaaaaamn.
He was older, probably early thirties. Short haircut, neatly trimmed beard in a Hollywoodian style. (Not Hollywood; Hollywoodian. It’s a thing, go look it up. And look at George Clooney or Ryan Gosling instead of the other dudes on Google
4
After sleeping until 10AM, I backtracked to the Seven Veils and waited out front for a sign of life. The first employee didn’t roll in until 11. He was a big, ugly, bald bruiser in a wife beater and jeans.
“Hey,” I said as I walked up.
He eyed me like I was a puddle of vomit in the street. “What do you want?”
“A job.”
Now he looked me up and down like he was inspecting a slab of meat. “You get paid on tips only. $10 to the DJ, $10 per bouncer, $40 house fees – per shift.”
It took me a second to register what he was talking about. “No – not as a dancer. A serving job.”
He laughed, a sound utterly without humor. “Strip or fuck off, bitch.”
I wanted to plant my foot in his crotch at about 60 miles per hour, but I needed an insider’s vantage point of the motorcycle club.
“You don’t have any serving jobs?”
“Strip or fuck OFF, bitch,” he repeated.
Now I wanted to smash his teeth in with the barrel of my .38 – but I kept cool and just walked away.
I don’t judge any woman who wants to earn a living taking her clothes off, but it wasn’t for me.
Especially not with a fucktard like that for a boss.
I wondered if my refusal to be a stripper meant I was less than 100% committed to finding Ali’s killer… but I told myself that it was the first place I’d looked. And that there was no guarantee it was a good recon spot, anyway.
Plus, I still had options.
5
The options quickly ran out. When I went by the Roadhouse, an even uglier dude with a foot-long beard and a bandana around his head told me that there weren’t any jobs – but he’d be happy to fuck me in the bathroom.
I left even faster than I did at the strip club.
I reassessed my game plan.
I could try to get a bartending job. Not to brag, but I’m not hard on the eyes, especially in a low-cut t-shirt. But then my nights would be tied up, and I needed to be free to do recon.
Office job? No go. I could type about ten words per minute, if that. And a private investigator job was out of the question. Not if I wanted to infiltrate a gang.
I had about five grand saved, but it wouldn’t last forever – and I would look reaallly suspicious if I were just hanging around with nothing to do all day except shadow bikers. So I settled for the standby of every young woman who comes to a new town with stars in her eyes, then abruptly falls hard onto reality, the most unforgiving surface of all.
I got a waitressing job.
6
“Charlie’s” was a greasy-spoon diner on the wrong side of the tracks. I figured they probably saw every disreputable type come in there, so why not? What better way to find out about the seedy underbelly of a town than to serve them breakfast and lunch?
Turns out I was more right than I knew.
I started the day after I applied. My coworkers were older women, sassy types who flirted with the regulars. The customers cut a broad swath: truckers, lots of blue collar workers, and a handful of seedier types who looked like they might be working off some sort of chemical bender.
I mostly kept to myself. I didn’t give a damn about tips; I was there to earn a few bucks and keep my eyes open.
They were open wide when he walked in.
It was Wednesday morning, 7 AM, and I was half-dead from staking out the Seven Veils the night before.
Suddenly in walked two of the most incredibly attractive men I’d ever seen in my life.
One was young, probably mid-twenties. Long, blond hair to his shoulders, clean-cut face with incredible cheekbones, six foot one, body like a college football running back. He had dead eyes and a humorless face.
He was hot enough, though his cold exterior made him off-putting. But the second guy…
…daaaaaaaamn.
He was older, probably early thirties. Short haircut, neatly trimmed beard in a Hollywoodian style. (Not Hollywood; Hollywoodian. It’s a thing, go look it up. And look at George Clooney or Ryan Gosling instead of the other dudes on Google
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