The clubhouse doors open onto a large reception area, in which sits a decommissioned motorbike. The handlebars are rusted brown, and the metal is mottled with it. The seat is threadbare. The tires are nonexistent. It sits raised in bricks.

 

“The bike of our first leader,” Maddox explains. “Led the club up until ‘49.” A small corridor leads to the right. “That’s the offices and beds, for when the men are too drunk to ride home, or if I want to get some work done.”

 

To the left, another wide wooden door is flung open, and the main section of the clubhouse revealed. The bar is a large hall of a room, long and wide, with a high ceiling. Looking up, it reminds me of something from some fantasy video game. The wooden rafters and crossbeams look decades-old. Which they are, I remind myself. -49, remember? The bar itself is filled on one side with tables and chairs. Along one wall sits a series of desks, chairs, and computer terminals. On the far side are a long conference table, a poker table, and a pool table. The walls are covered with photographs, some black and white, others color, of men sitting on motorbikes, standing beside them, or gathered in group photos outside of the club. As we walk, I realize that from left to right the photographs move chronologically, from the oldest black-and-white photo to the newest color, which is a group photo with Maddox at the front.

 

The men have already made themselves comfortable. Jackets are flung over the backs of chairs to reveal chunky, tattooed arms. A few of the men smoke cigarettes, the air swirling with it. Four men sit at the computers, typing frantically. Typing, I think in awe. An outlaw club and they sit there typing. There are about thirty men in the room in all, most of them bearded, large, and tattooed. Rough-looking is the term. Their hands are callused, and the older men’s faces are worn from smoke and alcohol. They laugh loudly. As Maddox and I walk through, the man with the Irish accent, the one with the scar down the left side of his face, thumps the poker table and lets out a chortle.

 

“There’s a main office in the back,” Maddox explains, as we weave through the tables. I stay as close to him as I can, like a child clinging to an adult’s shadow in a crowded street.

 

Another door, smaller, leads to what appears to be a small subsection of the main bar area.

 

When we get near the poker table, a few of the men crane their heads and smile at me. All of them smile at me, in fact. But these men seem more confident. I see that Markus is with them. The upper echelon.

 

The Irish man calls over the din, “Another girl in the clubhouse, Boss?”

 

Another man laughs. “He never stops!”

 

They smile good-naturedly, and there’s no malice in their words.

 

The Irish man shouts, “Boss, tell me your secret! Woman after woman after woman!”

 

I look to Maddox and see that he’s smiling.

 

The Irish man smiles at me, his scar tugging at his flesh. “Sorry, I don’t mean any offense.”

 

“Someone get him a drink and shut him up!” a man from behind laughs.

 

“Another woman!” Another man giggles.

 

I feel my cheeks go red, and curse myself for it. What did you expect? I ask myself. A guy like this must have women lined up for him. You saw how it was in the coffee shop. You can’t honestly believe you’re the only one.

 

Maddox must be able to sense how uncomfortable I feel – either that or my cheeks are super-bright red – because he takes me softly by the elbow and leads me away from the table, through the door, and into the adjoining office.

 

“Sorry about that, Eden,” he says, shutting the door.

 

As soon as the door is closed, the sound cuts out. The door is padded, sound-proofed.

 

“No problem,” I mutter. “I can’t be surprised, can I?”

 

The bitterness in my words makes my cheeks even redder. I’m not his girlfriend, I remind myself. I have no right to be bitter.

 

The room is small, or perhaps it only seems small because the desk that sits at one end of it is so large. It dominates one-half of the room, the wood dark, sanded, and shining. There are no windows in the room – just padded walls – but an electric light emits a pale yellow light. The room is bare except for the desk, two chairs, and some weight-lifting equipment. A computer sits on the desk.

 

“This place helps me think,” he says.

 

Then he walks to the desk, around it, and drops into the chair. He waves at the chair opposite. “Take a seat.”