The distant roar of a motorcycle hit Camshaft’s ear. He identified the rumble as a classic Harley cruiser that needed a timing update. The sound wasn’t unusual around this Pittsburgh neighborhood, since this was the area where the Iron City Knights MC kept their two businesses and clubhouse, such as it was. One was the machine shop and forge, mostly owned and run by Quillon, a senior member and current vice president. The other was a titty bar where the members met and hung out. Cam worked for both.

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The noise got closer and slower. Only a few members owned Harleys, and Cam briefly wondered who it was, but as the sound faded in and out, he put it out of his mind. He glanced at his watch as he stood outside the strip joint, the crisp air burning his nose as he took in the late-fall twilight. His break from working security for the place was almost over, but no one worried about a time clock. Typical Thursday night, although not many patrons graced the stools surrounding the stage. No drama, which was nice for a change.

After the past few months, some easy, boring nights were just the ticket.

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A rival club, the Slaggers MC, had tried to move into the neighborhood, bringing drugs and racketeering to the local businesses. The Knights had to deal with that, along with the internal struggles of restructuring. Ultimately, the club elected a new president, Wolf, and the Knights pushed out the bad guys.

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He was afraid this might be the calm before the storm.

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The distant motorcycle wasn’t so distant anymore. A big red machine cruised down the street, one Cam had never seen before. The distinctive potato-potato-potato sound came to his ears as poTA—to-poTA—to. Cam frowned at the uneven chugging. None of the Knights had a bike that color, nor would they let the timing of the V-twin engine get that far off. New rider, but of what kind? Friend or foe? He put his hand to the gun he now carried on his hip and held his breath as the vehicle slowed down and parked on the street in front of the club. The Slaggers had done a drive-by here some months ago. No one got hurt, and the Knights wanted to keep it that way. They’d ramped up their vigilance, and for now, everyone carried a gun except for Wolf.

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The person who dismounted from the bike wore black riding chaps and a red leather riding jacket with black gloves and boots. The full-face helmet sported an open-mouthed lizard demon theme. Cam’s frown deepened. No one he knew would be caught dead in such a getup. This guy was a wannabe biker or some college kid with more money than sense.

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A moment later, Cam’s curiosity piqued as two thick blonde braids appeared when the rider took off the artsy headgear. Icy blue eyes met his in a direct stare as the woman secured her vehicle and confidently strode up to him.

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“I’m looking for Walter Arborough. Is he in there?”

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Cam jolted at the smooth Southern alto. “Uh… who?”

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The woman rolled her eyes, then cocked out a hip and crossed her arms. “Waaaallllteeer Arrrrborrrroooooough.” She drew out the name as if he would recognize it any better if she said it slower. “Is he in there?”

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His irritation flared up. “I don’t know any Walter, period.”

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She huffed. “I’m told he hangs out here all the time.”

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Cam crossed his own arms and stood his ground. “Well, sweetheart, it doesn’t matter if he’s in there or not. It’s a private club. You can’t go in.”

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She gave him a saccharin smile. “Well, darlin’, I’ve spent the last two days driving my van up from Sarasota, Florida, dragging my bike and other gear in a rickety trailer to find him. It’s sitting over at Planet Fitness while I finish this long-ass journey. That’s around eleven hundred miles and roughly twenty hours. I’m sick of being on the road and dealing with stupid drivers who either don’t know what a turn signal is or poke along in the left passing lane for miles. I’m tired, and I’m cranky as hell. Therefore, I don’t think you’re gonna stop me.” She moved around him to the plain front door and opened it.

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“Yo, I said you can’t go in there!” Cam shouted as the woman barged straight into the club. She was right. Unless he put his hands on her and made her stay out, he was helpless.

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The few patrons around the stage were more interested in drinking than paying attention to the dancer. Though to be fair, Ellie wasn’t putting a lot of effort into her performance either. So when the blonde woman burst into the bar, all eyes targeted her.

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“Walter Arborough. Is he in here somewhere?”

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Cam jumped at the authoritative yell. This woman wasn’t messing around.

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Melter leered as he took in her leather boots and riding attire. “You want an audition, baby?”

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The blonde huffed and rolled her eyes.

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Cam tried to stop her once more. “Look, lady, this is a private club. I don’t know any Walter—”

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“He’s the owner, from what I understand.”

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He blinked. “You mean Scrap?”

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She flipped an impatient hand at him. “Whatever. I’m here to meet the owner of the bar. He’s supposed to be the president of the Iron City Knights, so someone here has to know him. You gonna find him for me, or do I need to keep hollering until he shows up?”

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Cam’s inner alarm bells started ringing. Something told him he was going to regret his next action, but like a mudslide rolling down a hill, there was no stopping this. He pointed to the back of the room, where Scrap and Baghouse were engaged in a game of chess.

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The woman squared her shoulders and then seemed to hesitate, taking several deep breaths through her nose and blowing out through her full lips. It pissed Cam off, as she was so gung ho to get into the club, but now had gone cold in her quest.

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“That’s him? The president?”

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Cam nodded. “Ex-president, but yeah, that’s him.”

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She shook herself before dropping her self-confident mask back into place. Her steps were sure and steady as she clomped across the wood floor toward the two men, stopping right next to their table.

“Are you Walter Arborough?”

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Scrap scowled at the interruption to his game. He raised his head from the board at a sharp angle, partially hiding the black patch that covered his empty socket. He stared at the woman with his one good eye.

Both of them glared at each other like snarling dogs, and Cam’s stomach dropped. A sense of foreboding hit his gut as he noted that the woman’s shocking blue eyes matched Scrap’s single iris.

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“Who the fuck are you?” Scrap sneered with such contempt, Cam thought the woman might burn from the acid.

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She spat back with just as much ire as Scrap. “I’m your fuckin’ daughter. That’s who, asshole!”

 

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