hunted, she walked to the bar and went inside.
Once inside she figured out what the place was almost instantly: it was a club house for a biker group. From the patches on the backs of several of the riders, she discovered the name of the club was the White Wolves, but she didn’t know anything about them. Again, she reasoned this was a good thing. The less familiar her surroundings, the better.
Tomas was a Narcotics Detective for the downtown police department. He often talked about how foolish drug dealers and addicts were when they were trying to hide. They always went to ground in an area they knew. They stayed in touch with friends and relatives. They used credit cards, hid in hotels, or rented some dive of a place, thinking that no one would look for them there.
"It's so easy to find these shit heads," he told her with a grin.
So, the less she knew about where she was, the better. The White Wolves were, therefore, perfect.
The Log Cabin wasn't large, and it was fairly full of people. Most of the crowd was male, but there were enough women there to let her know that it wasn't a gay club and that she wasn't out of place. In her blue jeans, black knee-high boots, and light leather jacket, she fit in well enough. Making her way to the end of the bar, she took an available stool and ordered a long neck Bud when the bartender came over to her. He nodded, gave her tits a smile, and fetched her drink. The only thing out of place was her roller luggage bag, but it was small enough to slip beside her on the floor; not much more than a carry-on, really.
The beer tasted good and she took a greedy drink, then causally looked around to see if she caused any stirring or interest. Most of the patrons didn't seem to care about her much, though a few of the men were giving her ass and figure a prospective look. This was good. Let them look. She was a single woman in a biker bar, so it would be normal for her to be scoped out, and also normal that she would be looking for company. That idea was not appealing at the moment, but it would be bad to act any other way.
She was just finishing her beer when she noticed a tall, dark-haired man walking toward her from the pool table area. He was dressed in blue jeans, black boots, a black Harley eagle shirt, and a leather vest. His hair was a mane of locks and curls coming down to his shoulders. His body was nearly a perfect V, emptying down into long legs. He would probably offer to buy her next round, and she would accept. After a bit of flirting she would try to find out if there was a diner or cafe some place close.
Just play it cool and act normal.
CHAPTER TWO
Elias Neal, Sergeant at Arms for the White Wolves Motorcycle Club, saw the good-looking blond come in the door and knew instantly that there was something off about her. Whatever her story was, it was anything but normal. She had the look of a woman on the run. He knew that look well. His mother was a battered wife, and when she finally got the nerve to take her two children and run to Houston when he was twelve, she had that same look for the next ten years.
The roller luggage, the fact that she walked here—no head lights glared the windows before she walked in—and the fact that she was in this area at all, told him she was dodging something. And she didn't have the slightest idea about where she was, or where she was going. She probably thought this was a good thing, but he knew better.
None of the other Wolves seemed to be moving in on her yet, so when he saw that her beer was low, he walked over to her. He would buy her a beer, flirt a little, act normal, and see if he could find out her story.
She probably needed to get off the street and into a safe place. He could make that happen for her, if her story was reasonable. Otherwise, he could point her in a good direction and leave her with his phone number.
When he came up next to her, she was
Once inside she figured out what the place was almost instantly: it was a club house for a biker group. From the patches on the backs of several of the riders, she discovered the name of the club was the White Wolves, but she didn’t know anything about them. Again, she reasoned this was a good thing. The less familiar her surroundings, the better.
Tomas was a Narcotics Detective for the downtown police department. He often talked about how foolish drug dealers and addicts were when they were trying to hide. They always went to ground in an area they knew. They stayed in touch with friends and relatives. They used credit cards, hid in hotels, or rented some dive of a place, thinking that no one would look for them there.
"It's so easy to find these shit heads," he told her with a grin.
So, the less she knew about where she was, the better. The White Wolves were, therefore, perfect.
The Log Cabin wasn't large, and it was fairly full of people. Most of the crowd was male, but there were enough women there to let her know that it wasn't a gay club and that she wasn't out of place. In her blue jeans, black knee-high boots, and light leather jacket, she fit in well enough. Making her way to the end of the bar, she took an available stool and ordered a long neck Bud when the bartender came over to her. He nodded, gave her tits a smile, and fetched her drink. The only thing out of place was her roller luggage bag, but it was small enough to slip beside her on the floor; not much more than a carry-on, really.
The beer tasted good and she took a greedy drink, then causally looked around to see if she caused any stirring or interest. Most of the patrons didn't seem to care about her much, though a few of the men were giving her ass and figure a prospective look. This was good. Let them look. She was a single woman in a biker bar, so it would be normal for her to be scoped out, and also normal that she would be looking for company. That idea was not appealing at the moment, but it would be bad to act any other way.
She was just finishing her beer when she noticed a tall, dark-haired man walking toward her from the pool table area. He was dressed in blue jeans, black boots, a black Harley eagle shirt, and a leather vest. His hair was a mane of locks and curls coming down to his shoulders. His body was nearly a perfect V, emptying down into long legs. He would probably offer to buy her next round, and she would accept. After a bit of flirting she would try to find out if there was a diner or cafe some place close.
Just play it cool and act normal.
CHAPTER TWO
Elias Neal, Sergeant at Arms for the White Wolves Motorcycle Club, saw the good-looking blond come in the door and knew instantly that there was something off about her. Whatever her story was, it was anything but normal. She had the look of a woman on the run. He knew that look well. His mother was a battered wife, and when she finally got the nerve to take her two children and run to Houston when he was twelve, she had that same look for the next ten years.
The roller luggage, the fact that she walked here—no head lights glared the windows before she walked in—and the fact that she was in this area at all, told him she was dodging something. And she didn't have the slightest idea about where she was, or where she was going. She probably thought this was a good thing, but he knew better.
None of the other Wolves seemed to be moving in on her yet, so when he saw that her beer was low, he walked over to her. He would buy her a beer, flirt a little, act normal, and see if he could find out her story.
She probably needed to get off the street and into a safe place. He could make that happen for her, if her story was reasonable. Otherwise, he could point her in a good direction and leave her with his phone number.
When he came up next to her, she was
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