Stadium of Lights: A Second Chance Sports Romance (32 page)

I would have to be if I wanted to pull off what I had in mind. My father would have killed me. He would have straight-up gotten up out of his grave and killed me if he knew what I planned. It was crazy. It was dangerous. It was the only way I knew I’d get justice.

I remembered my father sitting with me at the dinner table, sighing. “They’re tricky, those Blood Riders,” he’d said, running a hand through his mane of gray hair. He’d always had a nice head of hair, though he blamed the MC for turning it gray so early.

“What do you mean, Dad?” I’d asked, eager to soak up as much information as possible. If I wanted to excel at criminal justice, I needed to know all the ins and outs of police work.

“I can’t pin them down. For a bunch of low-lives, they have a legal counsel like you wouldn’t believe, Nikki. I mean top lawyers. Old firms with solid reputations. Not some shady shysters, the way you would expect or see in the movies. I’m telling you, it’s a whole other ball game with those folks.”

“Well, aren’t all lawyers shady by nature?” I’d smirked. Then, “Shady by Nature! Band name! I call it!”

He’d laughed at our little joke. Our talent for accidentally coming up with potential band names—if only either of us had any musical talent.

My father’s laugh had only been half-hearted, though. He was too sick inside to laugh, knowing he couldn’t catch the club. “I know they’re up to something big. I know they’re behind a lot of the drug and gun trade, not to mention other things. Maybe prostitution, though I can’t get enough proof for that. But there’s something. And those lawyers always had an excuse or a loophole. There was always something to make their boys look like angels. All you have to do is look at them to know they’re no damned angels.”

“You’ll get ‘em, Dad. It just takes time.” I’d patted his hand, smiling. I was so sure of myself then. I was confident that my father, the super detective, would take down the bad guys. He was my lifelong hero.

What had they done? They’d gunned him down like a dog in an alley that reeked of garbage, between two Chinese takeout restaurants. All because he was on the right side of the law, and wanted them to pay for what they’d done to the city they called home.

They knew him. He was always a part of their lives, always at their arrests and trials—even if the cases never went anywhere. He was the sticky gum they couldn’t get off their shoe, he used to say.

So they knew him. But they didn’t know me. And I was about to use that to my advantage.

M
y first task
upon getting home was taking off my black bra and flinging it across the room. Another positive part of being alone, with no houseguests or random visitors. I could dress the way I wanted. Off came the blue jeans, and on went the comfy gray sweatpants.

I opened my laptop to do a little research into the perfect “biker girl” look. If I was going to play the part, I needed to look right. I couldn’t give myself away. It would be tough enough mastering their way of speaking, their attitude. I might have been from Queens—complete with the New “Yawk” accent—but I had spent most of my youth in Mentally Gifted programs. I’d participated in the National Spelling Bee as a ten-year-old. I’d graduated summa cum laude from NYU a year early. The right look would take me far, and help me get into my role.

In a stroke of genius, I went to YouTube. Surely these girls would upload videos of themselves, right? The ones my father always used to tell me about. Girls who might have had futures, had they not gotten sucked into the biker lifestyle. The violence, drinking, partying, and the endless strings of sexual partners. I’d been distinctly uncomfortable when my father told me that part, but he thought it necessary that I understand.

“All they want to be is an old lady,” he’d explained. “It’s their goal in life, and they’ll do whatever it takes to make it happen.”

How inconceivable. I’d look at him in disbelief, but he’d insisted. “They make themselves available to every member of the club, hoping somebody will choose them as their main squeeze. Then, they’re off-limits to the others. Not out of respect for the girl, of course, but out of respect for the guy. You would think men with so much so-called pride would loathe the idea of their woman having been with the others. They don’t see it that way—if anything, it’s a matter of pride that they all know how good she is in bed, and that he’s the one who gets that for the rest of his life. Or until he’s tired of her. Crazy, huh?”

“Gross.” My eyes had gone wide, cringing at the thought. Being everybody’s plaything until one of them adopted me. It was disgusting, degrading. Didn’t these women have any pride or self-esteem? I’d understood enough about psychology by then to understand the underlying factors. Terrible home lives, lack of attention from male figures—or far too much of the wrong kind of attention, which could scar a young woman even worse. I would put that to use when I infiltrated the Blood Riders.

Was it a good idea? I wasn’t so sure of myself when I started watching the countless videos from club parties. I’d only typed “motorcycle club party” into the search bar and come up with hundreds of results. I took a deep breath before clicking the first video.

The first thing I noticed was loud, driving music. Then the raucous laughter—the kind of laugh a person expects to hear coming from a rough bar. The girls made the typical duck face kisses whenever the camera pointed their way. It’s universal, I thought, shaking my head.

I paid attention to the way they dressed. Crop tops, t-shirts that had been slashed to bits until they were hardly recognizable as clothing. They were sleeveless, low-cut, off-the-shoulder, and even backless in some cases. Tight camisoles. Mini-skirts, tight jeans. Leather pants. My thighs chafed at the very thought.

Oh, the hair spray. I would have to buy a case of it. Teased hair, curled hair, all of it shellacked into place. Their faces were slathered in heavy makeup, especially the eyeliner and mascara. Dark red lipstick. Lots of cheap jewelry. Boots, usually knee-high but ankle boots sometimes, too.

I made a list of the things I would need, then I focused on the way they carried themselves. They wanted to be sexy. How would I be sexy? I didn’t have the faintest idea. Not that I hadn’t dated, but I wouldn’t have called myself hot on my best day. I was tall, awkward, always picked on as a kid for being taller than the boys. I knew how to look nice, but it was a different world for those girls. They oozed sex. It was their stock and trade, I guessed. Serving the men their cold beer and whiskey, and then servicing them after the party.

I watched videos until I thought my eyes might bleed if I looked at another. I’d started early in the afternoon, but by the time I finished it was dark outside and I was convinced I would never pass for one of those girls. Ever. Would I have to debase myself the way they did? I shuddered to think.

I paid careful attention to the girls in the corners, the ones who weren’t in on the action. Maybe I could be one of those girls. A wallflower. I knew I grasped at straws, trying to rationalize, but it was all I had. If I sought to be the party girl, I would fall on my face. Literally, in fact, judging from the height of the high heels all the girls wore. I would need time to practice.

I have all the time I need
. With my father’s pension coming through any day and a house with no mortgage, I could afford to take a leave of absence. The time off would let me sink deep into the world of the Blood Riders.

My desktop wallpaper, I saw it when I closed the browser. Just me and my father, taken only months earlier. I wore my graduation cap and gown. We never looked very much alike except for our big, cheesy smiles. I touched the screen. “I’ll find out who did this to you, Dad,” I whispered. Soon the tears filled my eyes, blurring the picture.

* * *

I
t had taken
a week before I felt comfortable enough to go out in public with my new look.

At first, I was sure everybody stared at me. Men, women, and children. I might as well have worn a sign around my neck: “Look at me pretending to be a biker girl!” Then I remembered it was a good thing, especially in the case of men. I wanted them to ogle me. It meant I passed.

Still, I couldn’t help jumping a little when I walked past windows and saw my reflection. That couldn’t be me, already tall enough without three-inch knee-high boots to turn me into an Amazon. That wasn’t me with the wavy hair, teased at the crown and sprayed like crazy to hold its shape. I didn’t wear arms full of leather bracelets and cheap black beads. And I certainly never wore shirts that just barely covered my torso.

It was me, though. I could tell because my feet screamed whenever I walked in those damned knee-high boots.

I knew the Blood Riders operated out of Jamaica, Queens which I wasn’t keen on visiting since I knew all too well what went down there, thanks to my father’s bedtime stories. Most kids got nice stories of princesses and glass slippers. The daughter of Detective Robert Bluth wanted to hear about homicides and shoot-outs. No surprise that I grew up to study criminal justice. It was where the action was, though, and I needed to make my face known to the club members somehow.

I would see them riding around sometimes, cruising down the street in pairs and trios. They owned the neighborhood—it was clear from their body language, from the way people waved at them as they passed, even the old ladies. I wondered if they weren’t the neighborhood’s watchdogs. After all, nobody trusted the police. Were they patrolling? It was something to keep in mind. Wouldn’t it be ironic if they saw themselves as the good guys?

It was a particularly warm and humid day, three days into my surveillance. I had to find a way to connect with a member of the club. I thought about hanging around the front of their clubhouse, but that would be too obvious and a dead giveaway. I wasn’t that stupid. I was afraid I’d be picked up for prostitution if I hung out anywhere else along the streets surrounding it, so that was out. I could imagine Tommy’s face if he saw me at the station, looking like I was celebrating Halloween two months early.

The humidity was killing my hair, not to mention the rest of me, so I stepped into a corner store to cool off. The air conditioner was turned up to full blast, and the wave of cold air that hit me the moment I stepped over the threshold was like heaven. I didn’t even care that my nipples stuck straight out against the thin cotton of my cut-up white tee.

“What’s up?” I looked over the deli counter to find an admirer. I lifted my chin in greeting, thinking it best not to engage him any further. He wasn’t the target; though he might be able to introduce me to the people I wanted to meet. I stuck a pin in the idea.

My stomach rumbled, the feeling of genuine hunger a surprise after so many days of avoiding food. I’d lost another ten pounds off my already thin frame, though my height meant the weight didn’t show up as quickly as it would on a smaller girl. I was still thick enough in all the right places to avoid the heroin chic look—nobody thought that was sexy, and I needed to attract a member of the club.

I walked around the store, wondering how long I could stall before I had to venture back out into the late summer heat. Perspiration stood out on my forehead, and I only hoped my eyeliner and foundation wasn’t running. I kept forgetting about the makeup, and I’d rubbed my eyes once or twice to find my knuckles streaked beige and black. Again, not a good look. Nobody wanted to hook up with a raccoon.

The store was tiny, without much room to roam. I picked up a sports magazine, flipping idly through its pages as I cooled off. I could feel the curious gaze of the guy behind the deli counter. It was more than curiosity. It’s working. Don’t be skeeved out. It’s working. He thinks you’re hot.

“Hey, mami. Whatcha up to?”

I smiled, glancing at him. “Hey. Just cooling off. I’ll buy something. Don’t worry.”

“Nah, nah, it’s all good.” I looked at him again, saw the way he smiled. He couldn’t have been older than seventeen, barely able to grow a decent full mustache, but he thought he was Rico Suave. “You brighten the place up, know what I mean?”

I grinned. “Thanks. I feel like something the cat dragged in. It’s so hot outside.”

“Huh?”

“Uh, never mind.”
Not the time to drag out my father’s old-timey catchphrases, Nicole
. I wanted to smack myself for forgetting that I wasn’t Nicole anymore. I was Bree. I had a troubled past. I needed a man to cling to. I loved attention.

Lucky for me, the bell above the door sounded, cutting off anything the deli guy was about to say. I turned to find two men walking in. Both of them wore dark sunglasses, both had arms covered in ink. Both wore leather vests and one of them, the older and harder looking of the two, had a big patch on the back of his. Blood Riders.
Jack-fucking-pot.

“Calm down. You can do this.” I reassured myself. My heart started racing, and my palms went clammy. What could I do? The moment had arrived, and I was punking out. I had no idea what to do, but I had to do something. I couldn’t spend more endless days walking around, killing time, and waiting for something to happen. This was the something I needed.

The older man walked out of the store, lighting a cigarette as he stood by one of the two Harley-Davidson motorcycles. He didn’t look like anyone I wanted to mess with. On the other hand, his friend looked a little more approachable. A bit more human. I chalked that up to his youth. He wasn’t old enough to be so hard-bitten.

I was glad I’d cooled off. It would be twice as hard to look appealing when I had sweat running down the sides of my face.

Think sexy. You want to seduce this asshole. You’re probably the nicest thing he’s seen all day, and you don’t smell like you ate a pack of cigarettes for breakfast.

I pretended to find him sexy, I told myself I wanted him. I actually wanted into the club, but he would be my Sherpa. I made myself like him. I made myself walk over to him, lingering by the deli counter as he placed an order for a dozen cold sandwiches. I waited until he finished, standing very close behind him so he’d bump into me when he turned around.

And just like that, he fell right into my trap, nearly knocking me down when he spun. He had caught me before I fell, and I gave him a genuine smile. It worked out better than I had hoped.

“I’m so sorry, Miss. Did I hurt you?” he asked, and for a second I thought I must have the wrong person. No way that a kid like him, who seemed sweet and courteous, could be a member of the Blood Riders or any outlaw motorcycle club. Then, I caught sight of the patch over his chest.
Prospect.
So, he was new. A rookie. They hadn’t yet indoctrinated him into the ways of violence and misogyny.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” I flirted, touching his arm. Leaving my hand there longer than was necessary. “Thanks for catching me.”

“But … it was my fault you fell.” He looked like he might even be blushing, I noticed. He was too sweet for those creeps. I couldn’t think about that. Eyes on the prize, Nicole/Bree. Go in for the kill.

“No, I’m a klutz.” I gestured down toward my boots, shrugging. “I turned my heel.”

“Yo, man, are you gonna finish your order?” Uh-oh. Rico Suave wasn’t such a playboy once he saw me flirting with another man.
Sorry, pal. You never had a chance in the first place
.

“Uh, yeah.” My new friend read off the rest of his order from the back of a crumpled receipt. Then, he turned to me. “Can I order something for you? It’s the least I can do.”

“Oh, that is so sweet of you.” I touched his arm again, giving him my biggest smile. “An Italian hoagie. Small. Oil and vinegar, please.”