Chapter One
T here’s little doubt that the Devil’s Spawn is the last bar that any self-respecting professional woman should be standing outside – never mind thinking about entering. Booming rock music and even louder chatter, the pungent stench of stale beer and sweaty masculine bodies, the cold glow of the flickering neon signs that provide much of the bar’s ambient lighting... it’s all an unwelcome assault on the senses.
Calling the place a ‘dive’ would be a disservice to actual dives. No, it falls more under the banner of a seedy inner-city biker bar – not in least because it’s frequented by members of the Heaven’s Assassins Motorcycle Club. Or, as they’re more frequently referred to on the evening news, “a notorious local biker gang”.
And yet, the Devil’s Spawn does have its good points. Namely, it’s in the same decrepit downtown neighborhood as my low-rent apartment, and it’s usually jam-packed with available men – both highly useful attributes if your primary goal is to scratch an urgent itch by picking up a guy.
Or, more accurately, be picked up by a guy, since I’ve found that it’s much easier to let them come to me. And in a place like this, they always do come... sooner more often than later.
It’s a little after ten o’clock on a Friday night when I pull open the stiff metal front door and make my way inside the overcrowded bar, wearing the sexy blue strapless dress I selected just for this purpose. I’ve come directly from the big law office where I work, having completed a grueling five hours of overtime prepping client exhibits for trial early next week. I don’t particularly enjoy having to work late, but it’s one of the main downsides to being the only girl there with no obvious personal life – at least, none that I would voluntarily broadcast.
However, no matter what my work schedule may demand of me, my body has its own particular needs that must be satisfied on a regular basis.
Tonight, those needs are leading me through a mob of rowdy drinkers to the last remaining empty stool at the bar, where I wedge myself in a long row of semi-drunk, heavily tattooed, black leather-clad men, and tittering young women of obvious loose moral character.
Not that I should judge.
Settling into my seat, I can feel everyone’s eyes fixed squarely on my back... or, more likely, my ass. No doubt, I stand out like a sore thumb in a place like this. I’m sure no one can fathom what this unimposing twenty-something girl in eye-catching business attire is doing inside this wretched den of crooks and cook wannabes.
Then again, I doubt that any would be particularly surprised to learn the truth!
The tall, dark, and rather handsome bartender comes over, deftly flips a cardboard coaster onto the bar top in front of me, and sets down a martini I didn’t need to order with a friendly wink. I’ve only been here twice before, the last time more than three weeks ago – so it’s telling that I was memorable enough for him to recall exactly what I liked to drink. He may have even figured out why I visit there of all possible watering holes... and potentially what I’m hunting for.
If nothing else should come up tonight, he might well be offered the chance to learn first-hand!
But, as I take a lengthy sip of my unexpectedly competently mixed drink, it doesn’t seem as though that’s going to be a problem.
“Hey, bartender! Another drink for the sexy devil in the blue dress.”
A man I’ve never met before is standing close behind me. I’m sure he thinks he’s being clever.
I turn my head slightly and observe what I can through my peripheral vision: average height, studded leather jacket with the Heaven’s Assassins patch, casual clothes beneath, long brown hair tied back in a bandana, medium-length stubble on his face. Overall, good looking, without being too imposing.
I’ll nibble.
“As you can
T here’s little doubt that the Devil’s Spawn is the last bar that any self-respecting professional woman should be standing outside – never mind thinking about entering. Booming rock music and even louder chatter, the pungent stench of stale beer and sweaty masculine bodies, the cold glow of the flickering neon signs that provide much of the bar’s ambient lighting... it’s all an unwelcome assault on the senses.
Calling the place a ‘dive’ would be a disservice to actual dives. No, it falls more under the banner of a seedy inner-city biker bar – not in least because it’s frequented by members of the Heaven’s Assassins Motorcycle Club. Or, as they’re more frequently referred to on the evening news, “a notorious local biker gang”.
And yet, the Devil’s Spawn does have its good points. Namely, it’s in the same decrepit downtown neighborhood as my low-rent apartment, and it’s usually jam-packed with available men – both highly useful attributes if your primary goal is to scratch an urgent itch by picking up a guy.
Or, more accurately, be picked up by a guy, since I’ve found that it’s much easier to let them come to me. And in a place like this, they always do come... sooner more often than later.
It’s a little after ten o’clock on a Friday night when I pull open the stiff metal front door and make my way inside the overcrowded bar, wearing the sexy blue strapless dress I selected just for this purpose. I’ve come directly from the big law office where I work, having completed a grueling five hours of overtime prepping client exhibits for trial early next week. I don’t particularly enjoy having to work late, but it’s one of the main downsides to being the only girl there with no obvious personal life – at least, none that I would voluntarily broadcast.
However, no matter what my work schedule may demand of me, my body has its own particular needs that must be satisfied on a regular basis.
Tonight, those needs are leading me through a mob of rowdy drinkers to the last remaining empty stool at the bar, where I wedge myself in a long row of semi-drunk, heavily tattooed, black leather-clad men, and tittering young women of obvious loose moral character.
Not that I should judge.
Settling into my seat, I can feel everyone’s eyes fixed squarely on my back... or, more likely, my ass. No doubt, I stand out like a sore thumb in a place like this. I’m sure no one can fathom what this unimposing twenty-something girl in eye-catching business attire is doing inside this wretched den of crooks and cook wannabes.
Then again, I doubt that any would be particularly surprised to learn the truth!
The tall, dark, and rather handsome bartender comes over, deftly flips a cardboard coaster onto the bar top in front of me, and sets down a martini I didn’t need to order with a friendly wink. I’ve only been here twice before, the last time more than three weeks ago – so it’s telling that I was memorable enough for him to recall exactly what I liked to drink. He may have even figured out why I visit there of all possible watering holes... and potentially what I’m hunting for.
If nothing else should come up tonight, he might well be offered the chance to learn first-hand!
But, as I take a lengthy sip of my unexpectedly competently mixed drink, it doesn’t seem as though that’s going to be a problem.
“Hey, bartender! Another drink for the sexy devil in the blue dress.”
A man I’ve never met before is standing close behind me. I’m sure he thinks he’s being clever.
I turn my head slightly and observe what I can through my peripheral vision: average height, studded leather jacket with the Heaven’s Assassins patch, casual clothes beneath, long brown hair tied back in a bandana, medium-length stubble on his face. Overall, good looking, without being too imposing.
I’ll nibble.
“As you can
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