“What’ll it be, you two?” asks the bartender, a bottle blonde beauty who happens to be topless. Naturally.
“Whiskey neat,” I tell her.
Devlin raises his eyebrows at me. “Whiskey? Christ. No girly drinks for you, huh?”
“Not on your life,” I smile back.
“Full of surprises, aren’t you? Make it two whiskeys,” Devlin tells the woman. “And make them doubles.”
With a placid grin, she produces a bottle of incredibly expensive booze and pours us each a deep glass. My eyes pop open, imagining what those drinks must cost. I’m not in the practice of letting guys buy my rounds for me. Better start practicing now.
“Aren’t we going to toast?” I ask Devlin, as he makes to shoot back the smoky booze in one big gulp.
He looks down at me as though I’ve just spoken French. “Toast? Where the fuck do you think you are?” he laughs.
“Come on. Here’s to...?” I prod him, swallowing a smile.
Devlin looks me up and down, his gaze leaving trails of heat as it glances against my bare skin. “What are you doing, trying to make me jump through hoops for you or something?” he asks suspiciously.
“Maybe,” I shrug. I’m having way too much fun with this assignment already. Holding the attention of a man like Devlin makes me feel powerful. Poised. In control.
“Fine. Jesus,” he replies, raising his glass gamely. “Here’s to you, Logan. The strangest, sexiest girl I’ve run into on this rock.”
“Now that, I’ll drink to,” I laugh, clinking my glass against his.
The whiskey burns deliciously as it slides down my throat, warming me from the inside out.
“Atta girl. Now come on,” Devlin says, catching my wrist in his strong hand and giving me tug away from the bar.
“Where are you taking me now?” I ask, planting my feet.
“You’re going to finish that whiskey and dance with me,” he replies, brushing a lock of black hair away from my face. “And don’t bother refusing. I’m done taking no for an answer.”
I let Devlin tow me away from the group of girls and bikers gathered around the fire. My heart lodges itself in my throat as I see where’s he’s leading me—straight toward the sprawling, centuries-old fortress that has come to house The Club. I drain the rest of my strong liquor, jonesing for an extra ounce of liquid courage. I have a feeling that I’m going to need it.
“Looking a little pale there,” Devlin remarks, glancing at my over his broad shoulder. “I thought you were a no-nonsense woman of the world, Logan. Don’t tell me you’re scared to see what this place is really all about.”
“Not at all,” I squeak.
“Good,” he replies, as we draw closer to the towering, stone structure. “Because I’m nowhere near done with you for the night.”
The Club stands at the highest point of the island, surrounded on all sides by the thick, rocky forest. Part of me was expecting some dinky little lookout post, but this old building is far from little. It’s the size of an estate mansion, tall and broad. The Club towers over the tree line, looking down on the wild scenes of debauchery unfolding all around the island with approval. The front doors of the structure are flung open—the tall, arched doorway looks like a grinning mouth, ready to swallow me whole.
“Here we go,” Devlin says with a wide grin.
I look at his brooding features, those darkly unreadable eyes. Despite the fact that I’ve only just met him, and know full well that he’s a dangerous outlaw, I find myself trusting him to lead me through the night unharmed. There’s something in him that I recognize. Something I can have faith in, and maybe even understand. I only catch flickers of it, simmering beneath his dangerous demeanor, but I swear it’s there. Or maybe it’s just the booze and my suddenly overactive libido talking. Either way, he’s my companion for the evening. May as well give him the benefit of the doubt.
We plunge through the wide-open doors of The Club, Devlin’s firm hand clasped tightly around my wrist. The stone tunnel we make our way through is dimly lit with torches mounted in sconces on the walls. A second set of heavy oaken doors reinforced with iron braces swims up before my barely-adjusted eyes. This false entryway must have served to keep enemies out during the Revolutionary War—and to keep inmates in afterward. But what do those imposing doors keep hidden now?
A metallic glint catches my eye as the torchlight dances against a thin object Devlin produces from his cut. It almost looks like one of those fancy platinum credit cards. He extends the mysterious object toward the door and feeds it into an obscured slot. The heavy, clanking sound of a lock snapping open rings out through the dark passageway. That shiny sliver is a key card, I realize, as the second set of doors swing inward. I hold my breath, bracing myself for my first ever glimpse of The Club’s shrouded interior.
Sensory overload slams into me like a ton of bricks, knocking the air from my lungs. It’s as though we’ve just taken a thousand-mile step from the woods of New England to the glitziest of Las Vegas resorts. The soaring mirrored ceiling above amplifies the already unbelievable sprawl of The Club below. An expanse of earthly delights stretches before us. Black Jack, craps, and poker tables are scattered about the main room, rivaled in number only with the spinning daises bearing gleaming stripper poles and undulating nearly-naked women.
Smiling, Barbie-shaped cocktail waitresses roam the floor, bearing trays of champagne, plates of gourmet cuisine, and boxes of Cuban cigars. Sunken in the very center of the space is a shining dance floor, presided over by a lounge singer who would make Jessica Rabbit feel downright mousy.
Though the woods just beyond these stone walls are populated by the MC members in residence here on the island, all sorts of men are crowded within the interior of this vice-ridden carnival. Business types with whitened teeth and tanned skin, slender Silicon Valley geniuses in black turtle necks, grungy musicians, slick mobsters—it seems that men from all walks of wealth have been drawn in by the siren song of The Club.
I look over at Devlin Vile, my jaw hanging open in baffled wonder. But the most perplexing thing of all is that the Circle of Death president’s eyes are locked on my face. In the midst of this carnal, indulgent circus, filled with women far more conventionally beautiful than myself, it would seem that Devlin only has eyes for me.