Property of the Outlaw_A Motorcycle Club Romance_Big Cats MC Page 2

  “Hey!” said Patricia. “We’re here to see Marcus.”

  “Names?” said the guard on the left, a massive, bald-headed guy with eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses.

  “That’s Nikki Naylor,” said Melanie, pointing to me. “And I think that’s the only name you need to know.”

  The guards exchanged a glance before turning their attention to me. I felt small in front of these two men built like cement walls.

  “That your name?” one of them asked.

  “Yeah, that’s me,” I said, as if confessing to a crime.

  Without another word, the guards opened the doors and let us all in. The VIP room was an elegant, modern affair. The space was huge, as big as a good-sized apartment, with contemporary furniture here and there. A fully-stocked bar was towards the back, and the floor-to-ceiling windows on the right side of the room allowed for a sweeping view of the dance floor below. I watched for a moment as the hundreds of bodies moved to the beat of the music, lines of neon lights cutting through the air.

  A couple dozen men and women were in the room, and I took a quick survey. The girls were mostly the friends that I’d come with, and judging by the expensive, preppy dress of the men, they were definitely Marcus’ friends. All of the eyes there latched onto Patricia, Melanie, and me as we stepped in.

  “Finally!” shouted Kristine, the cute, raven-haired girl in my group. “We were all wondering just when the hell you guys were going to show up.”

  “Well, we’re here,” I said.

  I wanted to ask where Marcus was, since I didn’t see him anywhere. But I knew that if I asked, it might very well be interpreted as interest. And I was sure he’d be along soon anyway.

  “Okay, which one’s yours?” asked Patricia as she and Melanie scanned the crowd.

  “Umm, I want the blond one in the dark suit.”

  “Ugh, seriously? That’s the exact guy I want.”

  “He’s like, one of the hottest guys here; I think he’s a New York model or something.”

  “Well, we can’t both have him. You have to pick someone else.”

  “No way! You pick someone else.”

  And they went on like that. I took advantage of the little quarrel to make my way to the bar and order a new drink. Once it was in hand, I said my “hellos” and took a position at the windows overlooking the party, a deep sigh leaving my lungs as I considered just what sort of situation I was in.

  It was all wearing thin—no two ways around it. Sure, I was having fun tonight with my girlfriends as we celebrated my birthday. And sure, I was just about done with school and standing on the edge of starting my new life as an entrepreneur. But that didn’t mean I didn’t feel trapped, like despite whatever it was that I wanted for myself, there were forces out of my control railroading me into a life I didn’t want.

  I looked around the party, watching my friends mingle with Marcus’ pals. They all seemed so happy, like they didn’t have a single care among them. I found myself wondering just what was wrong with me that I was having such a hard time enjoying myself, especially on a night that was all about me.

  “Nikki!”

  A man’s voice called my name, and I knew right away just who it had to be. I turned and, sure enough, it was Marcus Goldman.

  Marcus was a lanky, skinny guy, his long, thin body clad in an ill-fitting suit that was, despite the poor tailoring, undoubtedly expensive as hell. His face was a strange arrangement of features; his eyes were oak-brown slivers deeply set into his head, his nose was skinny and small, like a woman’s, and his lips were puffy and red. His hair was a close-cropped reddish-brown and arrayed in a total lack of style. Hardly the best-looking guy that I’d ever seen in my life, and his bland personality didn’t help matters.

  “Oh, hey, Marcus!” I said, doing my best to sound enthused to see him.

  Without saying another word, he stuck out his lanky arms and threw them around me, pulling me into a quick, awkward hug. I stuck my own arms out, not sure what to do with them at first before realizing that decorum would at least require that I hug him back.

  “Happy birthday!” he said. “I hope me letting you use my VIP room is a suitable present.”

  “Oh, thanks,” I said. “It’s great.”

  “Yeah, my dad pretty much lets me use this room whenever I want. Pretty cool, huh?”

  “Very cool.”

  An awkward silence hung in the air among the chatter and the bass.

  “So … what’ve you been up to?” he asked. “I heard you’re about to graduate.”

  “Getting there,” I said.

  “You know,” he said, looking away for a moment, “I still feel bad about what happened with you and NYU. And the rest of the colleges that you applied to.”

  “It’s not a big deal.”

  Marcus was referring to the situation that had taken place during my last year in high school. I hadn’t exactly been the best student in the world at the time, and teenage me had still been under the delusion that having a rich dad meant that whatever I wanted, I could just ask for. So, with my 2.6 GPA and a high school résumé free of any sort of meaningful content, I’d fired off applications to all my dreams schools—number one being New York University.

  I’d spend months daydreaming about my new life in the city, imagining all of the awesome adventures I’d be going on with my new, hip group of friends, fantasizing about just which rich guy would make me his wife and buy me the Upper West Side townhouse I’d always dreamed of.

  Did I mention that I was way more of a rich brat back in those days?

  Then, at about the time I’d gotten my neighborhood choice narrowed down to the East Village and Tribeca, I heard back from NYU. I remembered taking the envelope out of the mailbox, thinking that it was awfully small for an acceptance letter—I was expecting some big packet with all the information about my new alma mater. Then, when I opened it, I got the shock of my life.

  My eyes blurred with shocked tears as I read that I wasn’t accepted. I thought it had to be some kind of mistake, that they must’ve not realized just who my dad was, and all it would take was a phone call for everything to get cleared up.

  But, instead, my dad told me that there was nothing he could do.

  Okay, I thought, no biggie—there’s always Columbia.

  Nope. Rejection from them, too.

  Then I started getting letters from all of my safeties, each of them delivering the same news, that while I hadn’t been accepted, t I was encouraged to put my name on the waitlist and blah, blah, blah. Eventually, just when I’d thought all hope was lost, I finally received a packet of acceptance. Only this one wasn’t for any of the schools I’d wanted. It was from Michener College, a tiny, private business college that wasn’t exactly the most prestigious school in California.

  But it was all I had, so that’s where I went. While I was pissed off at the time, my acceptance to Michener was the wake-up call that I needed. It let me know that I couldn’t just snap my fingers and have Daddy bring me whatever I wanted. Despite my family’s wealth, there were things that I was going to have to work for, that I’d have to earn with my own work. That realization started me on the long path of realizing just how much I wanted to be an entrepreneur. And thankfully, a business school like Michener was just the place to learn those skills.

  “Still,” said Marcus. “I can’t help but feel bad that you didn’t get into any of the colleges you wanted. I bet NYU would’ve been a good fit for you.”

  “Well, it’s in the past,” I said. “And I don’t really need anyone to feel bad for me.”

  Marcus’ eyes went wide at my comment.

  “Oh, sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  I felt a little bad for snapping like that, but Marcus was definitely the guy version of who I had been back in high school—a little rich kid who didn’t understand that not everyone had an insanely wealthy dad. His dad, on the other hand, actually could
move mountains for Marcus. The Marcus family fortune made what my dad earned look like chump change.

  “So, how’ve you been?” I asked, trying to keep the conversation going.

  “Oh, good,” he said. “Just getting ready to take a position with my dad. He’s got me heading up some finance department in a couple of months. Kind of a lot for someone my age, but he thinks I can do it.”

  “Oh?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I’m not really into finance, but you can always hire people to do the work that you can’t, you know? I’ll be doing a lot of traveling, going to meetings and being a representative for my dad overseas.”

  Thing about Marcus was that talking to him was about as thrilling as watching paint dry. I mean, he was nice, I supposed, and he was harmless—not an arrogant, entitled prick like some of the other rich brats I knew. But his niceness was almost a turn-off, as strange as that sounds. Who am I kidding—it was a total turn-off. Talking to him for two minutes was enough to paint a very, very clear picture of just what life would be like with a man like him, and it was enough to make me want to jump through the windows overlooking the dance floor.

  “That’s a nice dress,” he said, glancing down, but looking back up quickly, as though he was a little intimidated by the skin I had on display.

  “Thanks,” I said, summoning all the strength I had to stay focused on the conversation.

  All of a sudden, I thought back to my mother. She’d passed away of cancer about five years ago, and while the pain of her death had diminished with time, I still thought of her constantly, especially in situations like this when I didn’t know just what to do with myself.

  See, my mom was hardly the good-mannered housewife type. She was bold and brash—the kind of woman who’d give you a piece of her mind without a second’s hesitation. I found myself imagining what she’d think of me getting involved with a boring schlub like Marcus, and the answer was clear: she’d throw her head back, let out that raucous, barking laugh of hers, as though the idea of me doing anything other than what my heart wanted was too ridiculous to even consider.

  “You gotta do you, kiddo,” she’d always say to me.

  But as much as I knew I didn’t want Marcus, the answer of just what sort of man I did want was far less clear.

  “So, I hear you’re thinking of being a wedding planner,” said Marcus, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

  “Yep,” I said.

  “Seems risky,” he said. “Starting your own business like that.”

  “That’s part of the appeal,” I said.

  He shook his head slowly in disbelief.

  “Don’t know why you’d go off on your own like that when you can just get a job with your dad. I bet he can easily find an administrative position for you somewhere. I mean, you’re planning on getting married, right? What do you even need a career for?”

  Of course he wouldn’t understand. Guys like Marcus weren’t built to step out from the shadows of their parents, to go off into the world to make their own mark. Part of me wanted to tell him to back off, to let my inner-Mom come out and tell him just what the hell was up.

  But before I could say a word, Patricia ran up to me and grabbed my arm. The guy that she’d had her eye on earlier was at her side, and she wore an eager expression on her face.

  “Guys!” she said. “Sorry to interrupt, but we all want to get back out there and dance!”

  “Sure,” said Marcus. “I’ve got a private table out there that they’ve got reserved for me. We can get some bottle service.”

  “Sounds fucking awesome,” said Patricia.

  Then she flashed me a raised eyebrow expression that seemed to suggest that I should be taking advantage of this whole situation … in more ways than one.

  “Ready to get out there?” asked Marcus.

  “Ready as I’m gonna be,” I said.

  And with that, the group gathered up and headed back onto the deafening floor of the club. We strode through the crowd, catching the attention of just about everyone we passed. Our group just screamed out “money,” and the clientele could smell it. My friends all being total babes dressed in skin-tight outfits didn’t hurt matters either, I was sure.

  But as we reached the VIP table, the entire group caught sight of something that caused us all to stop short. Seated at the long, black table was a group of men. And not just any men. These guys were mean-looking down to the last, all clad in denim and leather; wooly, wild beards on their faces; and fierce-looking tattoos snaking up and down their thick, muscular arms. They drank beers by the pint and were carrying on like a group of soldiers on shore leave. Scantily-clad women were in the booth with them, the girls seated on the men’s laps and giggling and carrying on.

  As we approached, the chatter of the men became silent, and their eyes all turned to us. I said nothing at first, watching as they regarded the men in our group with narrowed-eyed competitiveness and the women with open, horny lust.

  And seated at the end of the table was a man like no other I’d seen before. He was big, buff, and beyond gorgeous. His hair was thick and coal-dark and slicked back behind his ears. His eyes were a striking blue that I could make out even through the dark of the club, and his nose was aquiline, like something you’d imagine on a Roman emperor. His full lips were curled slightly in a sneer, and all of his ridiculously handsome features were set among a hard-angled face of perfect bone structure.

  His body … damn, that was another story. He was thick and muscular, his solid arms draped over the backs of the seats to his left and right like he owned the place. His shoulders were like bowling balls, and his pecs, from what I could see under his patch-covered leather jacket and white T-shirt, were like squares of solid granite. And, like the other men, tattoos covered his arms and chest. Though his were all stripes, like something you’d see on a big jungle cat.

  I felt a strange tightness down below as my eyes settled on the man. Everything about him, from his powerful build to the casual, confident way he sat in the booth, projected confidence and power. I couldn’t take my gaze off him.

  Finally, he spoke.

  “Can I help you all?” he asked, his voice gruff and booming, cutting effortlessly through the din of the club.

  Marcus and his friends looked at one another apprehensively, as though all of them were waiting for one to step forward and speak for the group. As they did, I couldn’t help but notice the contrast of the two. The men in the booth looked like a pack of Viking warriors home from a fresh plunder, while the men in my group looked like the sort of preppy rich kids who wouldn’t hesitate to let you know just who their dads were at the first sign of trouble.

  A long moment passed. Finally, Marcus stepped forward.

  “I don’t know who you guys are, but you’re in our booth.”

  Marcus did his best to make a tough expression on his face. I glanced down and saw that his hands were balled into tight fists. I couldn’t imagine how much damage a blow from one of those soft-skinned fists would do against any one of these muscle-bound brutes, but I had to admire how he was at least sticking up for himself.

  The man with the tiger-stripe tattoos glanced around with a smirk on his face, as if looking for some kind of sign that the booth did, in fact belong to our group.

  “Don’t see your name on it,” he said. “But you know what? I’m feeling generous. How about you assholes scamper the fuck out of here and the boys and I make room for your ladies? Especially her.”

  Then his eyes latched onto me. I froze as solid as a statue as those baby blues looked my way, moving slowly up and down my body, lingering on my curves. I knew that I should’ve felt offended by the fact that this guy was just blatantly eye-fucking me like that, but instead, I felt … a little turned on. Something about his boldness and his rugged good looks made me almost eager for his attention. I couldn’t believe what was coming over me.

  Marcus picked up on what was going on, with the man giving me special attentio
n. A look flashed on his face, one that seemed to show that he was more than ready to defend my honor. Marcus leaned forward, tapping the little sign on the table that read “VIP RESERVATIONS ONLY.”

  “See that?” asked Marcus, seemingly emboldened as he appeared to remember that his dad owned this place. “That means us, not you. So get outta here, or I’m gonna call security.”

  Tension lingered in the air. The men in the booths all shared the same sneering expression, as if all in shock at the audacity of this kid. Finally, the man with tiger stripes spoke.

  “Whatever, kid,” he said, wrapping his hand around his mug of beer. “Plenty of other tables in this joint; go find one of them.”