As we ascend into the rolling hills, my thoughts begin to race ten times faster than Matthew’s Harley. Am I really up to this? Will they see right through me? What if I can’t find Kassie, and everything goes to shit? But the time for asking questions is over, it seems. Matthew turns off down a dusty trail—off the beaten path, indeed. As we trundle along over the uneven road, a battered wooden sign rises up on our right.
Emblazoned on the slab of wood is the haunting image of The Devil’s Wraiths sigil. The wraith herself reaches her skeletal hand out toward us. She welcomes us, beckons us forward, as dangerously appealing as ever. As we pass her by, I know that I’m in her domain now. For better or worse.
Finally, we come up on our destination. But this right here is no Forty-Five Club. The Wraiths’ home base is a veritable compound. There are at least ten structures scattered about the land, and a dozen Harley’s parked around the complex. Men lumber about the space, sporting black cuts and ruthless eyes. Cigarette tips glow red between their fingers, rising again and again to their bearded faces. There are plenty of women about as well, far more than I expected. But as we get closer, it becomes clear why that is.
“A strip club?” I shout over the engine.
I stare, baffled, at the biggest building on the lot. It’s a hive, buzzing with scantily clad women and desperate-looking men. A blinking neon sign in the shape of a curvy woman’s silhouette adorns the otherwise nondescript box. And above the narrow front door is the club’s scintillating name: The Devil’s Playpen
“Of course it’s a strip club,” Matthew yells back at me, “Gotta rake in the dough somehow, right? Would you rather it be an opium den?”
“Maybe,” I mutter.
We pull up in front of the adjacent building, a long low structure that looks more like a barracks than anything else. Matthew cuts the engine and glances back at me as he lifts off his helmet. I must look more than a bit alarmed, because he suddenly looks concerned.
“You gonna be sick?” he asks, “Don’t puke on the ride, alright? I just gave it a good washing yesterday.”
“Duly noted,” I mumble.
“Maybe I should have let you drive up yourself,” Matthew says, “I just didn’t want the Wraiths’ first look at you to be in a cage. It’s kind of a turn off.”
I look around, trying to take in everything that’s going on around me. I was expecting to be dropped off somewhere akin to the Forty-Five Club; just a simple watering hole where the Devil’s Wraiths meet. But this place looks like a village in and of itself. Apart from The Devil’s Playpen and the long building before us, there are sheds and showers, RVs parked alongside fire pits, the works. Do the Wraiths all live here? That defies everything I know about MCs. But maybe I don’t know as much as I’d like to think.
“Come on,” Matthew says, “I told Mac we were coming.”
I step down off the Harley, my thighs sore after the ride. The door of the long building swings open, and a man in a Wraiths cut strolls out with a busty, very topless brunette under his arm. I get a little peek inside and see a series of doors, opening into barebones bedrooms. Dante’s Nine keeps a couple of small rooms in the back of the Forty-Five Club to suit members’ needs—I should know. I spent a couple of nights in one of them with Sam. But an entire separate building? Makes me wonder if the girls working at The Devil’s Playpen are strictly strippers.
Matthew leads me across the dusty lot, straight toward the Playpen. The strip club is the largest and central building of the compound. Eyes of men and women alike follow me and Matthew as we approach the club. I suppose I stick out like a sore thumb in my dark wash skinny jeans and fashionable black blouse. Especially since the female uniform around here involves little more than some pasties and a thong.
I take a deep breath as Matthew pushes open the door of The Devil’s Playpen. This is it. The smell of booze, sex, and cigarettes is unmistakable; sweet and sinful. I lift my chin with as much confidence as I can muster, shaking out my mane of black curls. Willing myself to be brave, I follow Matthew into the darkened club. Stepping through a heavy velvet curtain, we enter together, and I get my first glimpse of The Devil’s Playpen.
The cavernous space is high-ceilinged and dimly lit, save for the three raised platforms bearing shiny stripper poles—those are lit perfectly. Deep, cushy booths line the walls, with more tables spread across the floor. A few men sit close to the stages, staring slack-jawed at the scantily clad women who are dancing at this early hour. The strippers writhe casually on their sharp stilettos, surely saving their energy for the big spenders who roll in from Vegas come nightfall. It’s not as though they have to try too hard to be sexy, after all.
Gigantic mirrors take up most of the wall space, amplifying the space of the club. The dancers and patrons are reflected endlessly all around us. It’s easy to lose track of what’s real and what’s imagined, here. But I suppose that’s probably the point. Along the back wall stretches a long bar, stocked with every sort of liquor imaginable. But it isn’t the rows of delicious looking booze that catches and arrests my gaze. It’s the two men sitting there, eyeing me across the room. Mac and Leo lean back against the long bar, sizing me up as I stand frozen in the center of the room. I have to force myself to breathe as Matthew tows me toward the President and VP of the Devil’s Wraiths. I haven’t seen Leo since the night Kassie was abducted. But even after that, he’s still been starring in my every passing fantasy. How fucked up must I be to still want him after what’s he done to my best friend?
In a plain white tee and perfectly broken-in jeans, Leo is the picture of all things tough and thrilling. He brings a cigarette to his full lips, and the smoke snakes all around his hard, sculpted features. Intricate, beautiful tattoos cover just about every inch of his thick, muscular arms. The most prominent piece, of course, is the image of the wraith herself that covers the entirety of his left upper arm. But as I draw up before him, I notice that a feminine figure is inked onto his right arm, too.
This second tattoo is a stylized, gorgeous portrait of a young woman. Her dark hair hangs in smooth panels, her chin is lifted defiantly. Her eyes look sad but sure, and scrolled beneath her image is a name, “Emilia”. It’s clear by her rendering that she’s very special to Leo. Surely no less than an old lady. I feel my heart hardening into stone, guarding itself as. Of course he’s spoken for. Why wouldn’t he be? That means I’m going to be stuck here in the lion’s den without even the hope of a good fuck to keep me going. It figures.