Undercover MC

By: Olivia Ruin


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“Ok Leslie, you can do this. Just like you’ve trained for. Simple. It’s not like you are about to try and infiltrate the most dangerous motorcycle club in New Mexico. Oh wait, that’s exactly what you’re about to do.” Not surprisingly, the pep talk to myself wasn’t working.

This was a make-or-break assignment for my career as a covert operative for the DEA, and it was an honor to be chosen so young. If only it wasn’t so damn intimidating!

The tattoo I had rashly gotten on spring break in college had finally paid off. Most of the women working for the agency were the ultra-clean cut and go get ‘em type. The fact that I had a little bit of ink made me the least suspicious person for this mission, despite the tattoo only being a little rose on the front of my left shoulder.

After several nights of surveillance on the Devil’s Roost, I was ready to make my first move. The dingy biker bar played host to the Winged Enemy MC almost every night of the week, and the rows of shiny chrome hogs lined up outside the joint showed that tonight was no different. Most importantly, the distinctive custom machines belonging to the club brass were parked front and center.

I sat in the driver’s seat of the dinged up Volkswagen that was part of my cover. My hands shook as I nervously looked down and double-checked my outfit for the fifteenth time in the past five minutes. Stop delaying, Leslie, just get on with it.

A push-up bra showed a ridiculous amount of cleavage underneath a crop top with a plunging neckline. My midriff was bare from just below my tits all the way down to the top of my denim short shorts. When I stood up, the ragged bottoms just barely covered my ass cheeks. The strings that made up the waistband of my thong peeked out of the top of the shorts. To cap it all off, tall black heels would keep my legs and ass constantly taut enough to bounce a quarter off of.

It was an outfit that screamed “Look at me, boys, I’m easy!” Whether that ended up being the right way to go, only time would tell.

Before my stomach could turn any worse, I got out of the car and got my feet moving. All too soon the door of the bar was swinging open in front of me, and then I was in.

I was nearly overwhelmed by the smells that flooded towards me. Beer, leather. Cigarette, cigar, and marijuana smoke. The hot, musky scent of masculinity. It took a few seconds before I was even able to look around and make sense of what I saw in the dimly lit bar.

My heart flipped in my chest as I realized that most of the eyes in the place were on me. It shouldn’t have been a surprise. With my clothing choices I may as well have been serving myself up on a platter.

A rough voice, deep and of the sort that expected to always get its way, said a word that I couldn’t quite catch. The bikers must have, though, because they turned back to their conversations and drinking, ignoring me except for the occasional looks at my ass or cleavage.

When I located the bar I scurried over, less of the confident strut I had been hoping to pull off and more of a desperate race to get my back against a wall and protected. The bar man looked as though he was older than the town itself. He wore his grizzled grey hair long over top of his colors, but he didn’t look like he would be able to reach the liquor on the top shelf, let alone ride a bike safely.

“Can I get a Bud, please?” It wasn’t my usual order, but something told me that ordering a mojito would make me even more of a target. That is if the old bartender could manage to make one properly.

A toothless grin answered my request, and he held up two shriveled fingers. They couldn’t extend all the way, so his hand resembled a claw out of a horror movie. I slapped down three ones, which earned me a creepy wink before he turned to the fridge behind the bar and pulled out my beer.

I didn’t feel threatened by this old man, so I felt safe enough to cradle my beer while I swiveled on the bar stool and looked around the room. From the prep I had gone through and intel I had read, I recognized several of the bikers sitting at the tables between the bar and the front door. None of them were ranked high enough in the club to bother my time with, so I cast my attention elsewhere.

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