“I’ll survive. So, what kind of bike do you ride?” I asked, as if I could tell a Honda from a Harley.

He answered. I didn’t quite catch it, maybe because I was focused on that clubhouse door, waiting for Gabriel to barrel out and give me shit.

“You ride?” he asked.

I shook my head. “Never been on one.”

“I could fix that.” Ricky grinned, as if he was offering to corrupt me in more ways than one.

Whoa. Cute biker was flirting. I guess the “biker” part of that description should have thrown up a big stop sign, but I’d just come out of a relationship with a guy who considered double-parking a walk on the wild side. I was in the mood for a change.

So I flirted back. Nothing overt, but by the time we finished the short walk to the door, the two older men had fallen back behind us, as if giving him space.

Ricky opened the door. Inside it looked like a retreat for business execs who want to get away from the city and pretend they’re just regular guys. The walls were wood, as was the floor. There was a stag head on one wall . . . wearing a White Sox cap.

The long bar was rustic but spotless, bottles stacked behind, a few on the top shelf that definitely were top shelf, at least a hundred a bottle.

Half of the living space was sofas and comfortable chairs, old and worn, but hardly Goodwill material. The big flat-screen TVs and sound system were the sort I’d see in CEOs’ theater rooms.

Tables took up the other half of the room. At one, four guys played poker. At others, guys typed away at laptops, gazes glued to the screen, so intently you’d think they were checking the stock market. Maybe they were.

“Disappointed?” Ricky asked.

“I was hoping for more bullet holes.” I pointed at a stag head. “And maybe a rival club member on the wall instead.”

“Oh, I think we’ve had a few hanging from that guy’s antlers. But we had to cut them down and let them go.”

“Pity.”

He grinned. “I thought so.”

I pretended to give the room another once-over but concentrated on the occupants this time. The mix was about twenty-sixty-twenty. Twenty percent looked like the old, bearded biker. They were the ones lounging on the sofas and chairs. Sixty percent were more like the one who could pass for a construction worker—mostly clean cut and clean shaven, but burly enough that you knew he didn’t sit behind a desk all day. The others, like Ricky, could have pulled off the suit-and-tie look, even if they probably never would outside a courtroom.

There were women, too. They were a little more what I expected. Tight jeans. Tank tops without bras. Evening makeup at noon. Jersey hair. The general vibe varied from “wouldn’t look out of place on a corner of 47th” to “could work at a really nice strip club.”

The men noticed me, but not in the way I might expect from a roomful of men. Just curiosity, with the occasional nod or smile before turning back to whatever they’d been doing. The women didn’t nod and definitely did not smile. I felt like a new lioness walking into a pride, as the others discreetly sharpened their claws. One of the youngest—a blonde at the “really nice strip club” end of the spectrum—even got to her feet, before an older woman tugged her down. As the blonde sat, her gaze went to Ricky, but he wasn’t paying attention.

“We’ll wait for Gabriel here,” he said, pulling out a bar stool for me. “What’ll you have?”

“Beer.”

He leaned over the bar and plucked a can from a bucket of ice. “Bud okay?”

“Sure.”

To be honest, I can’t remember the last time I drank beer, and I’ve probably never had one that didn’t come from a microbrewery. But when flirting with a biker, it didn’t seem helpful to admit that.

“I’m sure your situation isn’t a topic you like discussing with strangers,” Ricky said. “But I just want to say that you were smart to go with Gabriel. I’m guessing he’s getting you some money, as he should. You got shafted. Gabriel will fix it.”

“He’s actually handling other things for me.”

Ricky looked surprised.

“Having money is nice,” I said. “Having money is not everything.”

He leaned over and mock-whispered, “Don’t say that too loudly in here.”

I smiled and shook my head. “I did say having it is nice. It’s just better if you feel you’ve earned it.”

He watched me for a second, then nodded. “Agreed.” He took a long drink from his beer.

“Who’s your friend, Ricky?”

It was the blonde who’d stood earlier. Up close, I could see past the makeup and realized she was younger than I thought. Maybe twenty. Maybe not even that.

“A client of Gabriel’s,” Ricky said.

“Gabriel’s old lady? You let her in here?”

Ricky’s gaze cooled. “I said client. One, do you think I’d be having a beer with Gabriel’s girl? Two, I can let the pope in here if I want, Lily.”

The bearded biker from earlier looked up from the couch where he’d planted himself. “If you read the papers, Lily-girl, you’d know who she is and you’d keep your mouth shut.”

“All right,” Ricky said. “That’s enough—”

“Shit,” one of the men with a laptop said. “She’s the Larsen girl. Gabriel repped her mom, didn’t he?”

“Larsen?” someone piped in. “You mean the serial killers?”

Lily stared at me like I’d crawled out of the toilet. “Your parents are those freaks?”

Ricky’s look made her inch back. “Meribeth? Come get your daughter.”

The older woman had been standing since Lily approached us. Now she hurried over and grasped the girl’s arm. “I’m sorry, Ricky. She had a couple before she got here.”

“Yeah? Well, considering she’s eighteen and it’s barely noon, I’d say you have a problem there.”

The woman scuttled off with her daughter.

Ricky raised his voice a notch. “For anyone who didn’t catch that, this is Olivia. She’s Gabriel’s client, and I invited her in.”

He didn’t say, “Does anyone have a problem with that?” His tone didn’t even imply it. But there was steel in his gaze. Murmurs passed through the room, welcomes for me, and assurances to Ricky that everyone was cool with it. A room full of bikers—most of them older and bigger than Ricky—but when he talked, they listened. Interesting.