Twenty minutes into the reception, I’m already taking bets with myself on how long the hot photographer is gonna last before she freaks out and runs away.

As soon as the wedding ends, I head into Geno’s house to put away my guitar, before one of the men gets drunk and disorderly and does something stupid like use it for batting practice. It’s not a very expensive guitar, but it has a lot of sentimental value. It’s the only thing I have left of my older brother, who died when I was seventeen.

This morning, the brothers set up everything necessary for an epic party in the field behind Geno’s house. At the club level, the preparations for this day have been going on for weeks. This is one of our brothers who’s getting married, after all. And not just any brother, either. Ghost is our Sergeant at Arms — the man who keeps our club in order. Normally he’d be the one making sure things didn’t get dangerously out of hand today, but as the groom he’s officially off the clock, so all bets are off.

The whole point of today is to make goddamn sure that Ghost and Jenna start off their married life with a blowout that will be the stuff of club legend.

Our VP Angel, Ghost’s best buddy and Jenna’s brother, has had enough booze and food brought in for as long as the Lords can keep this party going. A bunch of long tables are set up in the middle of the field, probably by the prospects early this morning. A couple of the tables are laden with main and side dishes and desserts, courtesy of the old ladies and club girls, who make it a point of pride to feed their men well. Our enormous custom-made grill has been hauled here from the clubhouse, ready to be filled with steak and chicken for the men and women, and hamburgers and hot dogs for the kids. Off to the side, our smoker is emitting the fucking delicious smell of barbecue, expertly manned by Tank.

When I come back out of Geno’s place, the huge sound system that Striker and Tweak set up is already blasting classic rock at a volume that’s almost hard to believe. If Geno had anyone living close by, we’d be at risk of getting the cops called out here. But as it is, he’s so far out of town there’s no one anywhere near close enough to be bothered by us. Geno does not like neighbors. Or people in general, really.

The older kids have rounded up the younger kids to take them inside for their own party, a massive sleepover in Geno’s basement. His man cave features a seventy-five inch flat screen TV, a game system, a popcorn machine, and more movies than any one man could watch in a lifetime. The kids will hang out and eventually crash there, leaving the adults to get on with their own craziness. Already, a bunch of the brothers have started to party in earnest. There’s a few groups trading shots of whiskey over at one table. Some others are gathered over by the smoker trading stories and laughing their asses off. More than one has decided to skip the formalities and go straight for the pussy.

I’ve been watching the hot photographer since even before the wedding ceremony started. She is definitely not the kind of chick you usually see hanging around an MC. Not that our club girls and old ladies aren’t hot. Shit, our women could compete with any women from any MC I’ve seen in terms of looks. But the photographer stands out among all of them, in more ways than one. For one thing, she’s dressed differently, in a no-nonsense black button-down blouse and black pants. It’s clear from her clothes she’s trying not to be noticed, and I guess that makes sense. After all, I suppose it’s tough to take pictures of people acting naturally when they’re aware that you’re watching them with a camera pointed at their every move.

The thing is, though, even with the inconspicuous clothes she’s wearing, there’s no way in hell this girl could ever be invisible. She’s fucking gorgeous: long, straight, glossy chocolate-brown hair, a tiny waist that rounds out into full, luscious curves, and big, dark, doe-like eyes. It doesn’t look like she’s wearing any makeup, but Jesus, she doesn’t need to. Her skin is absolutely perfect, her mouth full and pouty. As I watch her move unobtrusively around the crowd and snap pictures of Jenna, Ghost, and the others, her brow furrows in concentration and somehow it makes her even more beautiful. When she bites her lip while staring down at the screen of her camera, I want to bite it for her.

In my experience, people who’ve never been around the club before tend to be pretty fucking intimidated by us. And probably with good damn reason. So I watch in surprise and amusement over the next hour or so as this chick seems to barely acknowledge that any of the shit happening around her is anything but completely normal.

She takes tons of pictures of Ghost and Jenna, dutifully averting the lens whenever their kissing and groping starts to turn X-rated.

She moves in close to capture a shot of Beast — who’s got to be almost two feet taller than her and weighs close to three times as much — as he downs half a bottle of bourbon in one go to win a bet with Gunner.

And she doesn’t bat an eye when Tweak passes out first, and a few of the brothers decide to tie ropes around his bike and haul it up into a tree for him to find when he wakes up.

I’m staring in open admiration at her when Thorn comes up behind me, his eyes following my gaze.

“She’s a ride, isn’t she?” he says, his Irish brogue deepening as it always does when he’s been drinking.

“That she is,” I agree, chuckling appreciatively. “I’ve been thinking about riding her ever since she stepped foot onto the farm.”

Which is true. My dick’s been standing at half-attention for a while now, wondering if he’s gonna be called into duty. I should leave the girl alone, though. She’s just trying to do her job. And Jenna might be pissed if I scare away her wedding photographer.

Just then, Melanie, Rachel, and Tammy, three of the club girls, come over to where Thorn and I are standing. All three of them have progressed to the drunk and giggly phase.

“You’ve been ignoring us!” pouts Tammy, batting her heavily mascara’ed eyes first at Thorn, then me. She leans forward toward Thorn, but then stumbles on her high heels and falls clumsily against his chest.

“You’ve already had a bit of a craic, haven’t ye?” Thorn laughs, setting Tammy to rights.

“What?” she asks, confusion twisting her pretty face. “I have not!”

Thorn snorts. “No matter, love. English is optional for what we’re about to do.” Before Tammy knows what’s happening, Thorn’s picked her up and swung her over his shoulder. She squeals in mock-protest, but pleasure is obvious in her voice.

“Careful not to shake her too hard,” I call out with a laugh as he carries her off. “She’s likely to spring a leak.”

“So noted,” he calls back.

Melanie and Rachel sidle up next to me expectantly. They look like twins, even down to what they’re wearing. Both of them have a full cascade of almost white-blond hair — though Rachel’s definitely isn’t natural. I know from experience how good they are in bed, and that they really get off on giving a man a show together before moving on to the main event.

“So,” Melanie purrs, running a long, lacquered nail down my chest. “You wanna come help us find someplace private? We’re bored, and Rach was just saying how fun you are.”

I’m not in the habit of turning down a little fun, especially not in the form of a threesome. But just as I’m opening my mouth to answer, I happen to glance over toward the tables of food. The hot photographer is standing there, camera raised, but she’s not looking at the tables. She’s looking at me.

Our eyes lock. She freezes, like a small animal caught in a hunter’s rifle sight. For a second, neither one of us looks away. It’s a repeat of earlier, when I caught her taking my picture playing guitar at the beginning of the wedding.

Then her eyes shift, taking in the girls as they hang on me. A slight look of disgust flashes across her features, and she looks quickly away, her lip curling a bit. Her whole demeanor stiffens, and she crouches down and goes back to her work, positioning the camera so as to take in the spread of food and some of the people laughing and eating in the background.

I don’t know why I care. It’s not like I’m all surprised that a nice little white-bread girl would be shocked or disgusted by what people in the club get up to. Outlaw MCs exist precisely because people like her look down at people like us.

But somehow, it kind of chaps my ass. She’s been completely professional and hasn’t batted an eye about anything all afternoon, and she then chooses me to have a fucking problem with.

For the next minute or so, she ignores me so completely that I almost fall for it. I almost mistake her act for indifference. But just as I’m about to leave with Melanie and Rachel and find us a private spot to fuck, I catch the photographer just barely turning her head toward us, and I realize she’s sneaking a glance to see if I’m still there.

Then it hits me. Whatever she feels about me, it’s sure as shit not indifference.

I should leave her alone, I tell myself for the dozenth time. Let her survive her brush with the wild side unscathed, and go back to photographing little kids’ birthday parties or whatever she does most of the time.

But damned if I don’t want to hear what her voice sounds like, and watch her bite that lip from close up. I want to see her skin flush as she pretends she hasn’t been watching my every move.

It can’t hurt anything to just go talk to her.

So, ignoring my better judgment and my better nature, I tell Melanie and Rachel I’ll take a rain check, and head over to say hello.