“I already texted Amy,” she said, nodding to a cherry-red convertible in between the Harleys. “Since Gwen had the fashion part of our mission under control, she’s got margaritas waiting for us. Trust me, we’re going to need them.”
The weight of what I was doing hit me the second we set foot in the biker clubhouse. I hadn’t let myself think how shitty this was. But no, it wasn’t shitty. It was on-brand for me.
I don’t know what I expected an MC clubhouse would look like, but this was the furthest from my expectations. Then again, looking to Rosie—who I knew was the sister to the President of the MC, a big deal—and Gwen, who was married to said president, and the fact they were swathed in designer clothing, I guessed they wouldn’t really put up with bikers who had used condoms and heroin needles littering the floor.
Not even a few half-naked women and men passed out on various surfaces.
It smelled like Gwen’s store, the same expensive candles burning.
The décor wasn’t exactly elegant but it was classy for a biker compound—enormous sofa in front of a giant TV, man-sized coffee table with a neat stack of books and candles in the middle.
There were a handful of armchairs scattered around, free of stains. Various Harley art hung on the walls and what looked like a framed collection of mugshots.
It was a massive house, much more impressive than it looked from the outside, but my perusal was cut short when yet another beautiful woman came rushing toward us on six-inch Manolos.
Her fire-red hair was falling in excellent curls around her face. Two margaritas were in her hands, in glasses, salt rim and all.
“You’re here,” she said, smiling wide and handing us the drinks.
I took the glass more out of habit than anything. Plus, I’d been through so much these past thirty hours or so, tequila was medically necessary.
Up close the woman was even more beautiful. Her makeup was expertly applied but a dusting of freckles showed through. Her eyes were wild and warm, her smile the same.
She was wearing a white Balmain blazer and white slacks. She looked like she should be sitting at the head of a conference table, not in a biker compound. But somehow, like Gwen, she fit.
“I’m Amy,” she said, the same warmth in her voice that was in her smile. “I could go through the farce of pretending I don’t know who you are, but I’m not going to. You’re Anastasia Edwards, and you witnessed a murder by a really bad dude. Until a couple of days ago, you were in Greenstone Security witness protection on Duke’s ranch in Montana, which sounds like a total nightmare to me but you did the alpha male, badass bitch dance and you got together. But of course, there had to be some badass bitch behavior that landed you here.”
I blinked. I was used to people knowing details about my life. It was part of the game, but all those details were meant to be top secret, not to mention the personal shit.
I looked between the two women. “Okay, I need to know it right now. Did you two make a deal with the devil or something, to give you badass skills, style and overall glam?”
Rosie grinned.
As did Amy. “Honey, the devil wishes he was as badass as us.”
I could’ve seen this conversation going a lot further had two men not entered the room.
Two fricking hot men.
The majority of beauty found in LA was carefully constructed and curated by plastic surgeons, facialists, and makeup artists. There was a slight sheen to it. Everyone looked the same, fake.
Yet every single person I’d encountered in Amber thus far was as attractive as all hell, naturally. And beyond that, they were all unique.
The two men were no different.
Both were large in stature and in presence. They both wore Sons of Templar cuts. The one on the left was taller, leaner, and muscled to be sure. His blond hair effortlessly fell around his face in a way that most talented hairstylists in LA couldn’t replicate. His tanned arms were covered in tattoos, and his eyes lit with a smile focused on Amy, beyond focused, zeroing in, like she was his center of gravity.
The one beside him was shorter, but not by much. He was bald, about the same amount of tattoos, but an air of menace about him.
“Sparky, you’re here. The kids are with a sitter—until further notice—and you’re giving out margaritas. How worried should I be?” the blond guy asked, yanking Amy to his side.
She beamed up at him. “Oh, I’d say about a five.”
His smile dimmed ever so slightly. “Fuck,” he muttered.
The large, bald, scary-looking—but totally sexy—Hispanic man gaped at me. “Ohmigod, you’re Anastasia Edwards. I love your movies.” He said this all in a rush, his cheeks flushing with what seemed like embarrassment. I’d had this reaction before—from teenage girls—but not from big burly men like this one.
It was wholesome and somehow sweet.
“Dude, way to geek out,” the hot blond, but still scary-looking surfer said with a chuckle.
Bald guy glared, and there was nothing at all wholesome about that glare. “She’s the Meryl Streep of our generation. Fuck off.” He then focused on me and extended a tattooed hand, expression changing from the deadly menace he’d shown surfer guy to a soft adoring smile. “I’m Lucky. I’m not going to say I’m your biggest fan, because I’m sure you’ve got people that go through your trash and send you ears and shit. But I’m definitely up there.” He paused. “Not in a creepy way. I’m totally and utterly dedicated to my wife. I’m a feminist. I don’t see you as a sex object. I admire your artistic talent and what you’ve done for movies and women in acting.”
I blinked rapidly at the man, the man who had been totally intimidating...until he started speaking.
Usually I was practiced at handling fans like this, praise like this.
But I was no longer Anastasia Edwards, movie star. I was just...Anastasia Edwards. I tried to grasp the former as best I could. That’s all I would be after this was over.
“Thank you, Lucky. That really means a lot,” I said, smiling. “And I haven’t had any fans that sent me an ear. I have gotten toenail clippings though.”
“Are you fucking serious?” Amy demanded.
I nodded. “Yeah, and that’s not even the worst.”
Her eyes brightened with a spark that I guessed was dangerous. “Oh, we’re going to have to talk about that over cocktails.”
“Church. Now,” a voice boomed from behind us. I jumped, but naturally, the other women didn’t. I guessed they were used to scary alpha males yelling at them.
Cade had entered the room at some point during the interaction with Lucky and he didn’t look happy. He had the whole murderous glower thing down to a T, but no one seemed to blanch in fear, so it seemed I was safe.
And that’s how I felt.
Safe.
Safe around these beautiful strangers, in a fucking biker clubhouse. miles away from the one person my entire body craved like a drug, the person who I could guess was either tearing apart the country to find me or on his way here. Duke was a smart guy. He would’ve made the Rosie, Sons of Templar connection, especially if he even suspected what I might’ve been wanting to do.
That was my mistake.
I should’ve thought this through more, should’ve taken my time to distance myself from him, start adopting my old coldness and bitchiness.