by Zahra Girard
As I watch, the bartender says something to the asshole Switchblade and, whatever it is, it’s enough to get Switchblade to take the knife from the waitress’ throat and wave it at her.
The second that blade leaves the young woman’s throat, she sinks her teeth into Switchblade’s arm and, as the greasy man screams, she squirms out of his grip.
Then the bartender attacks. Bat high, she clocks the man square in the face.
“Oh shit,” Snake says. “Crash, if you’re not going for that, I might. That chick can swing.”
She swings again, catching Switchblade in the gut. And she follows with a thrust to the groin that the creep barely dodges.
All hell breaks loose.
Shouting, screaming curses and threats, Switchblade’s brothers rise from their seats and run to join the fight.
I look over at Mack. He’s got an expression on his face like a rabid dog that’s aching to snap it’ leash.
“This isn’t our fight,” I say. “We stay out of it.”
Then that asshole Switchblade rips the baseball bat out of the bartender’s hands.
And the back of his fist meets her face. She wobbles on her feet, her face snaps sideways, and I see blood drip from her nose.
I’m out of my seat before I know it, charging right into the fight. And my brothers are right behind me. They’ve got their targets — the other Death’s Disciples — and I’ve got mine: that motherfucker Switchblade.
So much for staying under the radar.
The bouncer and I crash into him at the same time, both of us barreling into him and slamming him hard into the wall. I feel the seismic crash as the force of our impact resonates through me, turning me numb for a second, before I regroup, cock my fist back, and ram it into Switchblade’s ugly face.
“I will knock your crooked face back into alignment, you piece of shit,” I growl as I drive another blow into his face, then another, and then punctuate my rage with an elbow that cuts a bloody line across his cheek so deep I can see bone.
He staggers, hits the ground, and I kick him in the face once for good measure. His body goes limp.
“That’s what you get for touching a woman, you degenerate cocksucker.”
I turn to the bartender. She’s wide-eyed, her bright greens lit up with surprise, and her mouth is open in this shocked and sexy ‘o’.
Then those greens narrow. Shock gives way to anger, and her full lips set in a hard-edged frown.
“What the fuck did you just do?” She says, her voice barely rising over the shouting and sound of thudding fists as my brothers let loose drunken brutality on these small-town pieces of shit that think they’re man enough to wear an outlaw’s cut.
“He did this to himself,” I say. “Once he hit you, I didn’t have a choice.”
“I had this under control,” she says, wiping away some of the blood streaming from her nose with the back of her wrist. “Now you’ve just made a whole fucking mess of everything.”
I look at the thick streak of blood on her wrist, then back to her. “That’s what you call under control, huh?”
Behind us, Teddy grunts as he hefts Switchblade to his feet and starts carrying him outside. The rest of the fighting dissipates as my brothers knock the piss out of the locals.
She snorts, and another thick drop of blood drips from her nose. “Fine. Thanks, Mister…” She pauses for a second to eye my cut. “Secretary?” Is that really your road name? How, uh, modern of you.
“Fuck no. that’s my rank. Call me Crash.”
Nodding, she holds out her hand. I take it. For a woman who knows her way around a bar fight and doesn’t flinch at a busted nose, her hands feel soft and delicate. “Nice to meet you, Crash. I’m Violet. And your next round is on the house.”
“Sorry to tell you, Violet, but we won’t be staying to enjoy those drinks.”
“You’re telling me that getting in a bar fight doesn’t make you want to have a few drinks? Are you really a biker?”
“I’m a biker who has shit to do. And I’m a biker who doesn’t like the wrong kind of attention. Which means, after this fucking mess, my brothers and I are due to get the fuck out of town. before the sheriffs start poking around”
“Running, huh?” She says. There’s laughter in her eyes. She knows I’m not running, but she can’t resist pushing my buttons.
“Not a chance,” I say, and I nod toward the blood-spattered bat in her hands. “But it’s not like you need a guy like me around, anyway. You seem perfectly capable of handling those Death’s Disciples on your own, right, Slugger?”
“I’d rather not have to. All I want is to tend bar, have a nice quiet life until ski season starts in Aspen, and then rake in the cash when those rich folks come down to Carbon Ridge to do a little slumming. But now, with what’s just happened, and with Switchblade’s reputation…”
She looks about to say more, but the only noise that comes from her full, flirtatious lips is a scream. And behind me, that scream is followed by another from the bouncer, Teddy, and I turn my head just in time to see him slump to the floor, with Switchblade standing over him, holding a blood-covered knife in hand. Before anyone can react, Switchblade turns and runs, slamming the door behind him. From the parking lot, there’s the sound of motorcycles roaring to life and then the unmistakable explosive crack of guns being fired, again and again.
I can feel my stomach sink straight to the floor.
I lock eyes with Mack.
“God damn it. The truck,” I shout.
We race outside just as the motorcycles speed out of the parking lot and my eyes take in the gut-twisting sight of our cargo truck, full of bullet holes and letting loose a thick column of smoke from under the hood.
Violet’s just steps behind us, with her cell phone pressed tight to her ear and her bat in her free hand. “I need an ambulance and the police to the Timberline Tavern. Please hurry,” she says, kneeling over Teddy’s prone body.
“Teddy, Teddy, no,” the red -aired waitress says as she kneels over the body of the bleeding Teddy.
“Blaze, take care of him,” I say.
“On it,” he says, and the former firefighter puts some of his first aid training to work, gently pushing the waitress aside and kneeling over Teddy — who is bleeding knife wound to his gut — and putting heavy pressure on the wound.
“Mack, Snake, you two pop the hood and take a look at that truck. We need to get it running and get it the fuck out of here before the cops show up.”
The two run to the truck in start surveying the damage. I know I should join them,;the truck is a mess of holes and they could use all the help they can get, but I turn instead to Violet, who’s got a white knuckle grip on her baseball bat and is hovering over her wounded friend. Her green eyes are as wide as dinner plates, and her face is ashen white with fear.
I shouldn’t, but I put a hand on her shoulder.
Tonight was supposed to be low key. A few drinks after a hard day of riding and a little fun before another early wakeup and a day of more monotonous driving.
Instead, I find her.
And now I’m up to my neck in some local MC bullshit.
And, when I should be thinking about our cargo, I’m more concerned with this woman. This woman with steel in her spine and a don’t-fuck-with-me attitude.
And a whole hell of a lot of complications to go along with her sinfully-sweet body.
“Your friend is going to be OK.”
“What do you care?” She snaps.
I shrug. Deep down, I’m grateful she’s got such an icy attitude. With her looks, if she was anything other than a prickly bitch, I’d have a hard time saying ‘no’ to her.
“I don’t. Not really. I don’t know your friend,” I say. The screams of approaching sirens joins the whistle of the cold Colorado mountain wind. For one blissful moment, I pause as Mack and Snake try to start the cargo truck and the heavy engine turns over — and then dies with an ear-splitting screech of steel.
; “You’re a dick,” she mutters.
“All I wanted was a few drinks and a quiet night. If that makes me a dick, then I guess I’m a dick.”
“You know, I wanted the same thing. And now I have my friend bleeding in my parking lot and the local motorcycle club is probably going to try to kill me. Guess we don’t always get what we want, do we?”
I laugh. “No, I guess not. And there’s a good chance your night is about to get even worse.”
Bright green eyes flash warily at me. She tightens her grip on the bat and worries the corner of one plump lip between her teeth; I see the calculus she’s working over in her mind — how many times could I bash this biker in the face before someone stops me?
“What do you mean?”
Sheriff’s cars and an ambulance pull into the parking lot. Flashing lights and wailing sirens. Some balding older dickhead in a rumpled brown uniform is the first out of one of the sheriff’s cars. He’s followed by two other younger men who have the fresh-faced look of deputies.
“There’s cargo in that truck. The kind of cargo that the sheriffs would just love to get their hands on,” I say.
She shrugs. “You’re talking like I care. I don’t.”
“That sheriff looks like he has a hard-on for showing how big a man he is in this town. Am I right?”
“Yes, Sheriff Cartwright is a bit of an asshole”
“How good do you think it’ll be for your business if it’s not only the site of a stabbing and a shooting, but if there’s a seizure of the kind of cargo that’ll make headlines all the way from here to fucking Denver? Do you think any of the richies in Aspen that you count on to come down and ‘slum it up’ will want to come spend their money here?”
She looks towards her bar. It’s a modest wood building, with faded paint and plenty of wear and tear from the hard winters they get here in the Rocky Mountains. It’s nothing special. But, from the way her eyes shine, I can tell this bar, with its hand-painted ‘Timberline Tavern’ sign, is her pride and joy.
“What do I need to do?”
“Simple. You either get this sheriff to fuck off without looking in my truck, or you lose your bar.”
Chapter Three
Violet
As a bartender, I deal with assholes on a near-daily basis. And Crash is raising the bar for all of them; he’s achieving new milestones in assholedom, and he’s doing it with this forcefully calm demeanor that just digs right under my skin; he’s telling me I could lose my bar — the place I’ve lovingly slaved at, night and day, for the last four years — but he sounds as casual and unbothered about it as if he were telling me it’s supposed to rain later.
I hate his handsome face. I hate his calm voice. I hate his toned, tattooed, muscular arms and how they stir this longing inside me to know what it feels like to have them wrapped around me.
I hate him.
Even more, I hate that he’s right.
And I know he’s right not only because he’s definitely got a lot more experience in doing illegal stuff than I do, but because, the second I lay eyes on Sheriff David Cartwright’s smug face, I can see that he is itching to ruin my day. And if rumors are to be believed, it’s not just because he’s a massive prick — which really isn’t a rumor, it’s the truth — it’s because he’s been best friends with Roger ‘Dread’ Deacon, president of the Death’s Disciples MC, since grade school. Any slight against Dread’s club will come with the consequences of the full weight of the sheriff’s office. And with the size of Sheriff Cartwright’s gut, that’s some considerable weight.
“Evening, Violet,” he says, tipping his hat at me. “Looks like we’ve got quite a situation here. You mind telling me what happened?”
He barely spares a glance for my friend, Teddy, who is groaning and bleeding out on my sidewalk.
“Switchblade went after Kendra, and then he stabbed my bouncer. Then his friends shot up the place.”
“Is that all that happened? Because, from the several 9-1-1 calls my office received, it sounds like a lot more was going on up here.”
I look away from his smug face. In the contest to find out who’s a bigger asshole, it’s a tie right now between Crash and Sheriff Cartwright.
“That’s the truth, sheriff. And it’s only two sentences, but I can write it down for you if you have trouble comprehending.”
He rolls his eyes and hikes up his belt. “No, that won’t be necessary, Violet. But I think what will be necessary is that my deputies and I look around. The tip I received is that you’ve got a criminal element patronizing your bar and, from the looks of these motorcycles and these leather-wearing thugs I see hanging out in your parking lot, I’d say that tip is accurate. No, I think we will have to take a good long look at your place. Maybe even bring in a few more deputies and possibly the county forensics team. You could be closed for a long time while we conduct our investigation.”
Crash’s eyes flare. His hand makes a not-so-subtle move to the spot beneath his cut where I know he keeps his gun.
What kind of cargo is he transporting that he’d consider killing a sheriff in front of all these witnesses?
I have to get this situation under control.
“Sheriff, you’re right. You should take a look around. Why don’t we head inside so these paramedics can patch up my friend Teddy without us getting in the way?”
He hoists his belt again. No matter how many times you do that, it will not hide your gut, you asshole.
“Glad to hear some sense from you, Violet. Let’s do that.”
I lead Sheriff Cartwright inside and even hold the door open for him. He walks through without so much as a ‘thank you’ and looks around at the mess like he owns the place. There’s an expression of smug surety on his face, like he knows he’s caught me in something and he’s going to have a great time later telling Dread all about it.
Think again, sheriff.
“Can I get you a drink?”
He nods. Because being ‘on duty’ means nothing to a crooked guy like him.
“That’d be nice.”
We walk around the mess littering the middle of the bar and I do my best not to flinch at the sight — this will take ages to clean up, and the most horrible part of it will be scrubbing my friend’s blood out of the hardwood floor — and keep my focus on doing whatever it takes to get Sheriff Cartwright out of here without turning my bar into a second crime scene.
But how do you deal with the lowest of the low like Sheriff Cartwright?
I’m behind my bar and scanning my shelf for the appropriate kind of alcohol to serve to a crooked and diseased toad like the sheriff — is it Draino? — when I see my answer. I snatch up an unopened bottle, one I keep hidden in a secret spot under the bar, and I plunk it down on the bartop alongside a single highball glass.
“Pappy Van Winkle’s Private Reserve?” He says, looking at the bottle with narrow-eyed suspicion. “Never heard of it. I’ll take some scotch, if you got it.”
I bite back a sigh.
I’m about to waste this booze on a vacuous life-sucking hole like Sheriff Cartwright.
“Sheriff, I think you’d prefer this instead. Pappy Van Winkle’s Family Reserve goes for more than a thousand dollars a bottle.” Before he can answer, I open the bottle and pour a small taste in the glass. “Try it.”
His eyes are still narrowed in suspicion, but the corners of his mealy lips have quirked ever so slightly. “What are you getting at here?”
“Just taste it.”
He picks it up and drinks it so fast I want to cringe. He doesn’t keep it on his tongue, doesn’t smell it, he just picks it up and gulps.
“Tastes good. Real good.”
If he weren’t a troglodyte, he’d mention how it tastes like liquid velvet, laced with cherries and vanilla and a hint of smoke, and how it has a gentle bite like the play-kisses of a loving puppy. Instead, the best he manages is ‘good’.
“You know, maybe you’d like to sit here on this stool, pour yourself a
nother glass of this expensive bottle, and then take the rest of the bottle with you.”
He raises an eyebrow.
I clear my throat. “It’s late, sheriff. And checking out what is obviously just a minor scuffle in a bar is beneath you. It’d be a waste of your time. So, why not have a little drink and then go back home to your wife?”
“You know, I think you’re right,” he says. Then he pours a big glass and takes another big gulp and lets out a lip-smacking ‘aah.’
I turn away and head back out to the parking lot, because if I have to watch that man waste that bourbon any longer, I will throw up.
Outside, the paramedics have Teddy on a gurney and are right in the middle of sliding him into the back of the ambulance. Once he’s in, Kendra hops in her car and drives off right behind them. The sheriff’s deputies are milling about, aimlessly, and Crash and his goons are huddled a distance away, keeping a wary and glaring eye on the deputies while trying to look like they’re doing anything but.
One wrong move, and this whole parking lot could turn into a gunfight.
Behind me, the door opens and Sheriff Cartwright comes out, holding the bottle and grinning. He must’ve finished that glass in seconds. I hate him so much.
“All right, boys, let’s head out. There’s nothing to see here,” he calls out.
I watch as the sheriff and his deputies get back into their cars and, the second they’re gone, I storm over to Crash and slap him square across his cold, handsome face. His eyes flash with anger, but he doesn’t move a muscle. However, his companions aren’t so calm. The heavily tattooed one with the Irish accent lunges toward me and I take more than a couple steps back.
“Easy, lass,” he growls. “You’re on thin ice. Don’t go losing your head and getting yourself into even more trouble, all right?”
I ignore him. As threatening as he is, he’s not my focus; my attention is square on the nonchalant son of a bitch who is so casually ruining my life tonight.
