Beyond Absolution

Ghost sat at the end of the main bar in Ecstasy, taking it all in. Strip clubs were nothing new to him; a few were like his second home back in Cali. There was something mesmerizing and even soothing about watching a woman move her body in perfect sync to the music, especially at a high-end club like Ecstasy, where the girls were hired for more than just big tits and curvy hips.

The brown-eyed beauty behind the bar slid a shot of Jack in front of him, but he waved it away. Her instincts as a bartender were on point. Biker in a strip club? What else would he drink?

“Make that a club soda.” The daily struggle had eased a bit, but even the bangin’ bartender couldn’t make him break. Ghost didn’t have to concentrate very hard to imagine the smoky whiskey sliding down his throat, even after a year.
She paused for half a second, then filled a tall glass with ice, shot the soda gun over it, then anchored a sliver of lime on the rim.

He raised the frosty glass to his lips, enthralled by the rhythm of her body and how she commanded the crowded space with the same practiced moves as the girls on stage. Only this dance consisted of pulling beers and ringing up tabs while running a steady stream of banter with every guy at the bar.

Ghost’s research revealed that Ecstasy sat among the top-five strip clubs most frequented in Las Vegas. Owned and operated by the Serpents MC, they ran the legit club with attention to detail. No drugged-out dancers/hookers grinding guys on the main floor here. If someone wanted that kind of action, they paid for it in the VIP room, and even then, a bouncer stood inside the door making sure the only one taking off their clothes was the dancer.

The president of the Serpents, Cobra, and his sergeant-at-arms, Python, had started the club almost fifteen years ago. Word was when the two had first met, they had a drunken brawl behind the Gold Mine, their clubhouse just off the Strip, and after sobering up, had formed one of the most feared MCs in southern Nevada.

The tight group stuck together and had each other’s backs without side deals or backstabbing, entirely different than Ghost’s club, the San Diego Dusters. Hacker, their president, ruled not by respect but intimidation and would fuck a brother over in a minute.

Ghost’s information on the Serpents came from reliable sources, plus his last year as a nomad made him privy to all kinds of intel. Outlaw bikers might be hard-ass and dangerous, but most of them gossiped and talked shit about each other and rival clubs like a bunch of old women.
It was safe to say, with a few exceptions for the deeper details of their personal lives, Ghost’s knowledge gave him all the intel he needed about the Serpents MC and their strip club. He had to be well informed because making this deal meant freedom, amnesty, and absolution—literally and figuratively.

Ghost zeroed in on the sexy bartender’s name tag when she returned to his end of the polished granite bar top. Roxy. Cool name. She must’ve sensed his eyes on her, and when their gaze connected, he leaned in so she could hear him over the pounding music. “Cobra here tonight?”

“He usually comes in right before closing.” Roxy held eye contact for an extra second while she continued mixing the latest concoction in the silver shaker, probably trying to figure out what he wanted with the Serpents’ president.

In another time and place, he’d easily sit there and get smashed as the fiery liquid smoothed out the rough edges, but that life crashed and burned a year ago. What once settled his nerves and quieted the guilt ultimately became a never-ending circle of despair and depression.

Twenty minutes later, Ghost’s eyes were drawn to the back of the club. Roxy retreated to his end of the bar and nodded toward the back of the room. “Cobra’s the one with his back to the wall.”

Of course, he was. Not only was the president of the most profitable MC in southern Nevada punctual, but he was also cautious.

Ghost paid his tab and pushed away from the bar. He hated giving up his seat, especially when Roxy flashed him a sexy smile, but tonight was about business. No distractions or excuses for fucking up his only chance.

Ghost elbowed his way through the men crowded around the main stage, keeping his focus on Cobra. The flashing, colored lights made it impossible to make out his expression, but his journey came to an abrupt halt when one of the guys at Cobra’s table blocked his way. Ghost quickly examined his patches: Python, Sergeant-at-Arms.

“Can I help you?” Python’s growl translated to Why are you heading toward our prez, and what the fuck do you want?

“Just wanted to have a word with Cobra.” Ghost hated explaining himself. Back in the day, guys cowed to him, but that was before his gambling had sunk his club into debt, and his dick got caught screwin’ his president’s old lady.

Those two fuck-ups sent him way down the food chain; even the mangy cats that scavenged around the back of the clubhouse were on a higher rung.

“I know you don’t have an appointment,” Python spit out.

“Ohh, so you’re his social secretary?” Ghost smirked since he couldn’t harness the wiseass in him, but that only caused Python to scowl deeper and move closer.

Something nudged Ghost’s leg. He lowered his gaze to the glittering amber eyes of a huge black German Shepherd, then back to Python. “What’s with the dog?”

“Piss me off, and you’ll find out.”

Ghost wasn’t sure if the growl came from Python or the animal, currently at eye level with his dick.