The Biker’s Stripper

Chapter One

Chapter One

The neon lights of the Velvet Cage buzzed with a loud, annoying hum. I stood under the harsh pink bulbs, my hands shaking so much I could barely hold my cheap sequined top.

I was twenty-two years old. My mother was sick in a hospital bed across town, and the bills were piling up faster than I could count. Working as a daytime waitress didn't make enough to keep the power on, let alone pay for her surgery. Stripping was the only choice I had left. Three nights a week, I danced on a sticky stage and let strangers throw sweaty dollar bills at my feet, all while a mountain of debt sat on my chest like a heavy rock.

Tonight, that rock got ten times heavier.

I had been running late for my shift. Rushing across the club's gravel parking lot with my eyes glued to my phone, I didn't see the massive black motorcycle parked right by the employee door. I clipped the front wheel with my bag. The heavy bike wobbled, tilted, and crashed to the ground with a sickening metal crunch. Something expensive snapped.

My heart slammed against my ribs. Panic screamed in my head. Without thinking, I turned and bolted into the club, changed into my costume, and prayed to anyone listening that the owner would never figure out who did it.

Of course, he figured it out.

Halfway through my second set, the music abruptly cut off. The noisy club went dead silent in that creepy way that only happens when real, serious danger walks through the front door.

Six big men in heavy leather vests walked in. The patch on their backs said SKULL MC. The man right in the middle was tall, broad, with dark hair tied back and a nasty scar cutting through one eyebrow. Rector. The president of the club.

His dark eyes locked onto me the second he walked in, like a wolf staring down a rabbit.

They didn't grab me or cause a scene. They just sat at a table and waited. When my dance set finally ended, the club manager walked up to me, sweating and pale. He whispered that a private request had been made. My legs felt like jelly as I followed one of the giant bikers down the dark hallway toward the VIP room.

Rector was sitting in the big leather armchair like it was a throne. He held up a crumpled paper—an estimate from a motorcycle repair shop. The number at the bottom made my stomach drop straight to the floor.

"You ran," Rector said. His voice was a low, rough growl. "Smart. But not smart enough. My men easily tracked down the little brunette who works the late shift. Name's Ashley. Mother's in the hospital. Surgery bills stacking up. You dance here just to keep the doctors paid."

My throat felt completely tight. "I... I'll pay for the bike. I swear. Just give me some time—"

"You'll pay," Rector interrupted, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "Just not with cash you don't have. Starting tonight, you dance for me. Only me. Private sessions, whenever I want. In return, I cover every single hospital bill and every penny of damage to my bike. When your mother is healthy, you walk away completely clean. No club guys, no other men. Just you, on your knees or on that pole, for the president."

I stared at him. My brain raced a mile a minute. I felt proud and terrified, but all I could see in my mind was my mother lying pale and helpless on a hospital bed. I swallowed hard.

"Okay."

Rector didn't smile, but one corner of his mouth twitched up. "Good girl. Clothes off. Slow. Show me what I'm buying."

My fingers shook as I reached behind my back. The sequined bra came loose, and I let it drop to the floor. Then my thong. I stood completely naked under the single bright light while Rector watched me, his eyes dark, heavy, and hungry. He didn't reach out to touch me yet. He just pointed to the small private dancing pole in the corner of the room.

"Dance."

Dancing without the crowd, without the loud music and cheering strangers, felt completely different. Every step, every spin, and every arch of my back was for him alone. Rector stayed completely still in his chair, watching my every move, his legs spread and a heavy bulge visible through his jeans.

When the song ended, he crooked two fingers at me.

"Come here."

I walked over on bare feet. He pulled me right between his knees. His big, warm hands settled heavily on my waist, his thumbs rubbing softly against my bare skin. He leaned in close until his lips brushed my ear.

"From now on, you answer to me," he whispered. "When I call, you come. When I tell you to strip, you strip. And when I decide I want more than just a dance..." His hand slid lower, holding me tight. "You give it to me. Understand?"

My voice came out smaller than I wanted it to. "Understand."

Rector gave my waist a firm squeeze, like he was approving of my answer. Then, he reached inside his leather vest, pulled out a thick brown envelope, and shoved it right into my hand. I opened it just a crack—it was stuffed with cash. More than enough to pay the first big hospital bill.

"Tonight was free," Rector said, standing up and towering over me. He dragged a rough thumb across my lower lip. "Tomorrow, you start earning the rest. My place. Eight o'clock sharp. Wear something easy to take off."

He turned and walked out the door. I stood there alone, holding the heavy envelope in my hand, feeling the ghost of his touch burn against my skin.

Standing in the quiet room, caught somewhere between blind terror and a strange, dangerous spark in my chest, I knew one thing for sure: my days of dancing for random strangers were over.

From now on, I belonged to the president.