I go through the clothes I’ve stashed in the closet. Most of them are work things, with a healthy side of yoga pants. Nothing screams party. I do a quick Google search for biker get-together dress codes but come up mostly empty. Lots of leather and denim, plus the occasional porn-or Coachella-worthy outfit that makes Princess Leia’s slave girl bikini look like a nun’s habit.
Huh.
Going naked—or even mostly naked—seems like it would send the wrong message, plus I can’t picture myself strutting around in denim shorts and a black bikini top. Maybe it’s all in the footwear?
I could go shopping.
Something tells me that Vik would really enjoy a pair of fuck-me Louboutins, for instance. Or I could wear yesterday’s heels.
But I feel like something new to go with the new me.
I end up calling Brooklyn for a consult, and then she meets me in the lobby and we hit the Desert Passage Shops at the Aladdin. There’s an awesome bar smack in the middle of the mall like the best kind of desert oasis. We make a well-deserved pit stop there for yard-long frozen margaritas that come in fluorescent yellow bongs and manage to achieve both quantity and quality.
After that, we hit the shops. Brooklyn insists that I need to go for a whole new look, and I’m in the mood for a change. She grabs an armload of insanely teeny clothes off the rack in a store I’ve never stepped foot in before. It’s the kind of place that advertises on the pages of Vogue, and I’m pretty sure the fabulously gorgeous clothes will be wasted on a bunch of bikers. So it’s a good thing I’m dressing for me now.
I come home with a ridiculously expensive black tube top and a pair of wicked stiletto booties with ribbons instead of laces. Outside of work, I avoid anything that adds to my height, but new me, new rules, and apparently New Me has decided tonight’s theme is girlish bondage. I shimmy into a pair of skinny jeans that seem to have gotten smaller since their last wash, and then I hit the road.
Vik’s clubhouse is not exactly on the Strip. In fact, it’s most definitely in East Las Vegas, and the blocks get grittier and more dangerous as I get closer. It’s the kind of neighborhood with bars on the windows, bright splashes of graffiti and cars up on blocks. Pots of succulents and geraniums line the walkways adding some hopeful color, and more than one strand of white twinkling lights wrap around palm trees despite the summer weather. Eventually, the houses give way to block after block of slightly run-down, gone-to-seed warehouses. In the movies, this is the point where the bad guys come out shooting or there are gratuitous explosions.
The GPS on my phone announces it’s time to turn. I’m not sure what I expected, but Vik’s clubhouse looks like all the other warehouses—except for the parking lot full of bikes. Who needs a sign reading Biker Party Here or a clutch of helium balloons with all those Harleys reeking of testosterone?
The bikers themselves don’t seem too scary. I mean, they’re definitely not firemen, or lawyers, or anything remotely wholesome-looking or suit-wearing, but they’re also not engaged in any visible felonies, which I appreciate. They’re simply a bunch of guys milling around the bikes, talking and joking. The dress code appears to call for leather and boots. Music pounds out of the warehouse when someone pulls the door open. I don’t recognize the singer, but the song has one of those hard-hitting, pulse-raising beats that makes you want to dance in place or screw.
I so don’t belong here.
Nevertheless, one of the younger bikers waves me into an empty spot next to a row of trucks. I spot a Camaro, a Dodge Charger and a dented-up minivan that looks about as bikerly as I do, so there’s hope for my evening after all. Perhaps the Hard Riders practice a more inclusive form of clubbing?
When I get out, the fresh-faced biker gives me a nod. “You looking for someone?”
I’ll bet they don’t get too many party-crashers. “Vik.”
“Inside,” he says. I think he smirks—or possibly rolls his eyes. I’m clearly not the first woman to ask after Vik tonight. “Probably in back by the bar. Might be spinning.”
I lock my car (although I’m not sure that’s going to stop anyone) and head for the clubhouse. The front door is much more imposing and formidable than the parking lot attendant. In fact, it’s clearly been built for mega-giants, and I wrestle with it for a long moment, my glasses sliding down my nose.
A thick, inked arm reaches over me and shoves it open.
“Ladies first,” the arm’s owner drawls. He looks me up and down slowly, taking in my jeans and dressy boots. I suddenly know how a zebra feels when it accidentally steps into a lion’s den. The look on this guy’s face is part amusement, part hunger. I’d like to tell him I’m not a steak, but the patch on his vest says PRESIDENT, and I have a feeling that makes him the king of this particular kingdom. If he says I’m steak, I’m steak.
“Is this your club?” I like to know who’s in charge, but Mr. I’m-Gonna-Eat-You-Up seems to find my question funny because he just snorts and reaches down to shove my glasses back into place.
“Yeah. I’m Prez. You got an issue with that, sunshine?”
I think about that for a minute and shake my head. Despite my invitation, coming out here seems less smart all the time.