"Want another drink?" he asks me.
Bishop Briggs's "Tempt My Trouble" comes on over the speakers, the opening beat already getting my shoulders moving. I don't know who put together the playlist for the party, but it's been a good mix of the MC's favorite music, mine, and Esther's.
Except for her love of boy bands, like 5 Seconds of Summer and ESX.
"I want to dance before another shitty Backstreet Boys song comes on." Or before Cliff asks me to move in with him again.
"Oh, come on, you know you love those '90s jams." He laces his fingers through mine and pulls me to the makeshift dance floor.
"I know you do, Mr. Fiona Apple."
Closing my eyes, I let the music take over my body. Dancing is a lot like fucking. You have to give yourself over to it completely. Any lack of confidence, and that body freezes up. If you let yourself go, your body practically does the work for you.
"Fiona Apple was fucking hot in my day," Cliff says over the music.
I crack an eye open. "Oh yeah?" I turn, putting my back to him. As if completely in sync, his arms wrap around me, hands flush against my stomach.
"There's nothing sexier than a pissed off woman." He tugs me closer, and I let him pull me in.
Bishop sings about pretending even though they're neither just friends nor are they in love, and I try not to think about how accurate that is. How things between us are fire when we're between the sheets, but now we're avoiding this next step.
"You keep mooning over Fiona Apple, and you're gonna see pissed off." I actually love her, but I'll never give him the satisfaction of knowing. Unless he sees who I follow on Spotify.
More reasons not to let him move in.
"Don't worry, baby," he says, wrapping his arms around me and holding me close, our bodies moving to the music together. "You're the only angsty girl for me."
I wriggle against him until we're facing each other again. "I'm not angsty." Nor am I the only one for him.
The song ends, the speakers going silent. I put my hands on Cliff's chest, getting ready to put some space between us and get myself another drink. The crowd cheers, lights dimming. Several figures stride onto the main stage, the drummer taking his place behind a kit, the bassist and guitarist strapping on their instruments.
I didn't know we got a band for tonight.
The lead singer steps up to the microphone at the edge of the stage, a guitar strapped across his chest. With the lights down, I can't make out any features. But when he speaks, my skin crawls.
"Hey, what's up," he croons, the sound of his voice churning my stomach. "We're Oh Vile Eye, and this is 'He Said, She Said.'"
The drummer counts them in and they launch into the song, a melody I've never heard before but the lyrics are too familiar. Bile creeps up my throat. Turning from the stage, I run.
I shove past bodies, faces I can't make out, my heart taking shots at my ribs. Pushing through the doors, I burst into the warm evening, the air suffocating. Each breath scrapes my throat. I stumble to the Street Glide, resting a hand on the seat. My knees have turned to jelly. Grabbing my cigarettes, I stagger to the side of the building and sink to the pavement.
I light up with a shaking hand, head spinning. I thought my ex moved out of state. He's supposed to be doing his music shit on the other side of the country. Far from me. If he's really back, I'll never feel safe.
8
Cliff
One second Olivia's right next to me, the next she's gone. She didn't even say anything. At least, I didn't hear her—it is pretty loud in here. Still, I've got a feeling she's given me the slip. I sigh as the band goes right into their next song, and make my way over to the bar.
I sink into a seat, inclining my chin at Stixx, a member I don't talk to too often. It isn't the ink that covers him from the neck down in black, red, and gold that unnerves me. It isn't even the pompadour he rocks, his light blond hair parted, the undercut fade almost down to his skin. It's his pale ice eyes—always a little too wide—that freak me out.
He nods back, hands wrapped around a rocks glass of whiskey—minus the ice.
"You drinking that warm, brother?"
"Yeah." He tosses back the remainder of it, then holds up the empty glass for Trish to refill.
I turn back to the stage while she tends to Stixx. The band actually isn't bad. They're a weird blend of punk, dance, and grunge, but it works for them. It's too bad Olivia is missing this, because I think she'd like them. I scan the club for Esther, but with the club lights strolling through the floor, it's impossible to make out faces. I sigh.
I've been ditched.
"So what's your name?" Trish asks Stixx.
I swivel back around in my seat. "Don't ask," I warn her.
She turns those anime eyes on me long enough to roll them, then bats them at Stixx.
"Stixx," he tells her.
"Sticks?" She blinks.
"That's two Xs." He wiggles his glass at her. "One for each house I've burnt down."
"Okay," she says slowly, taking his glass. She turns back to me. "What can I get you, sweetie?" she asks me, eyes begging me to order something, anything. Stixx has that effect on people.
"Whiskey on the rocks, please." I eye Stixx's warm whiskey and choke back a grimace.
"What's up, boys?" Vaughn claps us each on the shoulder. "Where's the lady of the hour?"
Trish slides our very different whiskeys to Stixx and me, then hands Vaughn an IPA.
"IPAs taste like pine and piss," Stixx says.
"Better than room temp Maker's." Vaughn shakes his head at me. "Seriously, where's Olivia? Ravage wanted to see her."
"I don't know." I suck down my whiskey, a headache cracking across my forehead as I finish it: brain freeze.
"Well, when you see her, send her his way." He lifts the IPA in a salute to Stixx and me, then heads back onto the floor.
The booze works its way through me, but it isn't enough. "Another, please," I rasp to Trish. I thought Olivia and I were okay, but apparently we aren't. I should've known better than to ask her to move in with me. Lucy did warn me, after all. I guess I just thought I was different—that we're different. Olivia spends a lot of nights upstairs with me, anyway. Moving into her place wouldn't change things much.
Or so I thought.
Trish hands me another whiskey with a smile, tucking the tip I give her into her bra. I don't bother telling her that it's not happening. I knock this one back, too, then head outside for a cigarette. Maybe the hot air will clear my head. Or maybe I'll just take a ride.
Maybe it's for the best. In just a couple days, Olivia will be working for the state. I'm not even sure why she's wearing that Prospect cut, because the two don't go together.
There's a lot about Olivia that messes with my head.
The second I step out, I spot her right away, like I'm magnetically drawn to her. Sighing, I light up and walk over to the line of motorcycles.
She leans against the building, the bottom of one boot planted on the brick. Relief floods through me at the sight of her.
She didn't leave.
Still, she didn't say anything. Usually we go out for a smoke together. I'm probably reading too much into it all, but after this morning's botched talk, I'm a little sensitive.
I decide to play it cool. Hanging back by my bike, I follow cars with my eyes as they pass, smoking in silence. Minutes pass, punctuated by each roll of tires and the music thudding from inside. I refuse to be the one to break whatever this is between us. If we're going to work, I have to let her come to me.
"I really do love Fiona Apple," she says.
"Huh?"
"I guess I'm just absurdly jealous of your high school crush." She drops her cigarette and crushes it out. Even though I won't move in with you, is what goes unsaid.
I shrug. "It's cool. It's not like Fiona and I are ever getting together."
"A boy can dream."
"I'm a few decades past that, darlin'." I blow smoke through my nose, relis
hing the sting. Anything to distract me from the bruise of rejection.
She sighs, a soft, sweet sound. Even though her eyes are bright, there's a chink in the armor. I can see it in the way her glance falls down, eyes skating back up to meet mine for a second before she drops them again.
"What is it?" I ask before I can stop myself. So much for playing it cool.
"Just a weird day." The smile she gives me is just as cracked as the wall she keeps throwing up.
It's the beginning of the end.
I knew I shouldn't have asked. Some part of me hoped that since she's keeping extra clothing in my room and a toothbrush in the bathroom, it'd be a natural next step.
"Well," I say through a stream of smoke, "Ravage is looking for you."
She scowls. "Did he say why?"
"I didn't talk to him. Vaughn let me know." I extinguish my cigarette under the heel of my boot.
"This was supposed to be my day," she says under her breath. Straightening, she pushes off from the wall.
Normally I'd offer to go with her, at least take the ride for whatever errand he's sending her on. Right now, I just want another drink.
"See you after," I say, lighting up another cigarette.
Her lips part, tongue running along her lower lip. Those eyes that can send me to my knees dance back and forth, hesitation on her tongue. Then she presses her lips together, turns, and marches inside without another word.
I wish I'd never brought it up. I wish I'd skipped brunch.
It's too late to go back.
9
Olivia
Cliff is mad at me for not letting him move in.
I realize it as I re-enter The Wet Mermaid, the shitty band's music engulfing me. Well, okay—it's actually pretty good. Greg always was. Between his giant ego, bad boy persona, and actual talent, I always knew he'd go places.
I just didn't think he'd come back to haunt me.
He stands on stage, both hands wrapped around the mic, shirt off—probably somewhere in the crowd. I look away, afraid that if I stare too long, he'll feel me and find me. Head down, I move past people dancing. One of the club's dancers catches me with her elbow.
"Sorry, sweetheart," she calls after me.
I keep moving, rubbing my ribs, wishing I could just as easily soothe away the bruises Greg left behind.
The music stops and the crowd cheers. The doors to the Chapel are just a few yards away. I hone in on them until they're all I see. I just have to get inside. Nothing bad can happen if Ravage is with me.
"Thank you," Greg tells the crowd. "I actually grew up here. It's been a while." He chuckles, and the sound sends shattered icicles scraping down my spine. "I did a stint in the military, saw the world. My one true love is music."
Applause and whistles drown out his next words. The path to the doors opens up and I sprint toward them.
"Well," he amends, "music and this one girl. I hear she's the guest of honor tonight."
My hands go numb. I force myself to keep moving. I just have to get to Ravage. Take whatever bullshit errand he's got for me and get the fuck out of here.
Just as I reach the door, the lights come on.
"Olivia, where are you?" Greg croons. "I came back for you, baby."
Swearing, I push the doors open and burst into the cool calm of the Chapel. I slam them shut behind me, drawing in a deep breath. If I was alone, I'd lean against them, take a moment to collect myself.
Ravage sits at the head of the table, his PRESIDENT patch worn and dirty on his cut. "There she is." He grins. "Have a seat."
"Why?" I blurt. Prospects don't get to sit at the table.
"We need to talk," he says, smile fading. His piercing blue eyes appraise me.
I drop into a chair, knees too weak to keep standing anyway. "What'd I do?"
"Easy, kiddo." He runs a hand over his buzzcut, each strand a deep shade of black. I wonder if his hair is dyed or he just supernaturally hasn't gone gray yet. "You didn't do anything wrong. I'm proud of you."
"Thank you," I say, but my eyebrows remain pinched together. If I've learned nothing else after hanging around the River Reapers these past four years, it's this: never question the President. Especially if I want to be patched in—which, I do.
Still, my stomach wraps itself into a tight knot. It's probably just a culmination of the day I've had: boyfriend who wants to up the ante, parents who can barely stand being around me anymore, my sister who took off after barely saying hi . . . Then there's Greg.
I push it all away, focusing on my President. I'm the fucking master of shoving things down.
Ravage slides a thick envelope across the table, flap side up. It's the kind that graduation cards come in. I wasn't expecting anything, especially considering he and the club threw Esther and me this party.
"Thank you," I say again.
"It's not from me."
I flip it over, and gasp when I see the name and return address: Mercy, Lewisburg. "He's been at Lewisburg this whole time?"
"Who do you think watched Cliff's back all these years?" he counters.
I blink. "Why would Cliff need protection?"
Ravage scoffs. "He killed our President, Olivia. Not everybody was happy about that."
My frown deepens. "Wait. Are you telling me that the club made Mercy go to Lewisburg?"
"We took a vote," is all he says.
I stare down at the card. "I bounced back and forth from foster care to Bree. Every time she fucked up, I got sent to another home." I run my teeth across my bottom lip. "I could've stayed with my dad," I say quietly. I lift my eyes to Ravage's.
He waits.
"So what do you want me to do?"
"Go see the old man."
"That's all, huh? You just want me to drop everything and take a trip to Pennsylvania to see my father, who basically abandoned me." I stand. "No thanks."
"He never abandoned you," Ravage growls.
If I'd gone to live with my father instead of landing in foster care, so much of my life could've gone differently. The few memories I have of him are good ones. Not like the memories I have of Bree, of too many drugs and all of the boyfriends who were too mean. He taught me how to ride, sitting on his lap and holding the handlebars while he steered us around the industrial park. The framed photo in my bedroom of him holding me as a baby is a constant reminder that, even though he hasn't been in my life for years, he still loved me.
But he couldn't have loved me that much.
"He left me for the club!" I slash a hand through the air.
"He did it to protect Cliff." He crosses his arms, lifting his chin at me.
"Enough of the bullshit. Why does the club need me to see him?" I cross my arms, too, and stare down at him.
"He needs a ride home," Ravage says.
10
Cliff
I glance down at all the cigarette butts at my feet. I've been out here long enough. All I want to do is go up to my room, but this party won't be over for hours. Then there's Olivia, somewhere inside. I don't know if there's anything I could do to erase the past ten hours, but I'd love to go back to this morning, right before Esther knocked on my bedroom door.
I've got to make this right, or I'll lose her.
I pull open the door and duck back inside. Mercifully, the band is packing up and Esther's boy band playlist is back on. Their music wasn't bad, but the lead singer was a little much. I'll take pop prince angst over predator on stage any day.
The doors to Chapel are closed, neither Olivia or Ravage anywhere in sight. I was outside for a while. Whatever Ravage wants from her, it's important.
I join Donny at the bar.
"Another Maker's on the rocks, sweetheart?" Trish asks.
"Thank you." When she turns to make the drinks, I lean toward Donny. "Any idea what Ravage wants with Olivia?"
He gives his head a single, curt shake.
Esther slips between the two of us, planting a kiss on Donny's cheek. Her arms wind around his neck and s
he nuzzles into him. "Hey guys," she sings.
"Hey, darlin'." I'm glad she's feeling better, even if it's only temporary. That's another reason why I need to make things right with Olivia. Esther needs all of our help. If Donny's going to have any success bringing this to the table, he needs my support.
"That front boy was mackin' on your girl," Esther slurs.
"We gonna have to bury him, too?" Donny jokes.
I stare at the doors to Chapel as if I could wrap up Olivia and Ravage's conversation by force of will alone.
Esther giggles, thankfully not catching the "too." "That might be a yes."
"Yeah?" Donny swivels around and pulls Esther into him, his knees at each of her hips.
"You're changing the subject," she says, but presses into him.
"Damn right." Cupping her face, he touches his forehead to hers, their skin a brown to browner ombré. "How much longer we gotta stay at this party?"
Esther whispers something, but it's in Spanish and I can't hear much of it over her playlist, anyway. The band finishes packing, the lead singer stopping to talk to Mark on their way out. The River Reapers' Treasurer hands him an envelope thick with cash. Smirking, the guy walks out, tucking it into his pocket.
A while back, the MC voted on having a regular band. If this is the band that's going to be our regular, I might have to find a new job. Just the guy's face makes me want to break it in. That cocky shit-eating grin. I haven't even talked to the guy, but the aura of smugness he carries around him is cloying even from here.
Spend twenty years in prison, and you learn to read people really well.
"Another one?" Trish asks me.
I glance down. My drink is empty. I don't even remember her giving it to me.
The Chapel doors open. Olivia comes out alone, her lips crooked, lashes low.
I set my drink on the bar, already out of my seat. I'm pulled over to her as if tethered to her. "What'd he want?" I ask, glancing back at the door.
She stalks to the door leading outside, her strides long. My legs are longer than hers, but I have to jog to keep up. She shoves open the door and bursts into the twilight.
A Risky Prospect (River Reapers Motorcycle Club Book 2) Page 4
