by Ivy Black
“No, I’m not a cop,” I snap.
He frowns, but then nods as if he’s accepting my answer. Because you know, a cop would totally admit to being a cop when he’s trying to do an undercover drug deal. That makes total sense.
“So, like, what do you need then?” he asks.
“Whaddya got?”
He holds up a plastic baggie with white powder in it. A neon green smiley face is embossed on the front of the bag. Heroin, most likely.
“Fifty bucks,” he says.
“Come on, man.”
“Fifty. Take it or walk.”
I pull some cash out of my pocket and approach him like I’m going to hand it over. When I get close to him, though, I reach back then drive my fist forward. The sound of my punching him sounds like a baseball hitting an old leather mitt. At least until the crack of his nose snapping fills the billiard room.
Rip staggers backward, dropping the baggie as he covers his nose with his hands. Blood squeezes out between his fingers, spilling onto and soaking into his black t-shirt. But then, Rip reaches under the flannel that’s wrapped around his waist, and knowing what’s coming next, I close the gap between us. I lash out with my foot, connecting it with his hand. He yelps in pain and the gun goes flying across the room, hitting the ground with a clatter as I deliver another kick to his ribs, forcing another wheezing cry out of his mouth, the air driven from his lungs.
Reaching down, I grab him by the hair and pull him up. I drive my fist into his gut, doubling him over with a choked gasp. Pulling him up again, I lean close to him, forcing him to look me in the eye.
“Blue Rock is our town, Rip. There ain’t no dealing in Blue Rock. None,” I say, my voice low and menacing.
His lips waver, and he looks at me with fear in his eyes, licking his lips. But he tries to stiffen up. Tries to make himself look unafraid of me. It’s a weak attempt, but hey, kudos for trying, I suppose.
Snatching his hand in mine, I twist it awkwardly. He grunts, an expression of agony etched into his features. Giving it another hard twist, I force him to cry out.
“I’ll snap your fuckin’ wrist right now. But I won’t stop there, asshole. I’ll break every bone in your goddamn body.”
“What do you want?” he cries out.
“You’re going to empty all your pockets. All your cash. All your dope. Everything. And when you’re done, you’re going to get into your car, on a bus, or call an Uber, and get the fuck out of here. Forever. You are never going to come back to Blue Rock again. Ever. Do you understand me?”
“Go fuck yourself.”
I give his wrist another cruel twist and he screams like a little girl, then I give him a savage kick to the midsection and bring my fist down on the back of the neck, driving him to the ground. Rip curls into a fetal position and starts to cry. Kneeling down beside him, I search his pockets and clean him out. I take all of his drugs, all of his money, and a fancy switchblade to boot.
Applause draws my attention and I turn to see the guys standing in the doorway. Smiling to myself, I shake my head.
“Get over here, Prospect,” I say.
Derek comes over and I hand him all the baggies of drugs. He whistles low as he inspects the stash in his hands.
“Tell Mike to pour that shit down the drain. All of it,” I tell him.
“Yeah, okay. And you better knock that prospect shit off.”
He walks out and I reach down again, grabbing Rip by the hair. Pulling him up, he stumbles alone as I drag him through the bar. All of the patrons sitting around the tables are watching us with wide eyes as we go. And when we get to the parking lot, I shove him, then give him a kick in the ass, propelling him forward. He hits the ground with a grunt and rolls over, blood covering his face, looking like a beaten man.
“I see you in Blue Rock again, hell, if I even hear of you setting foot in this city again, I will kill you,” I tell him. “Do you understand? I’ll fuckin’ kill you.”
He gets to his feet and stumbles over to some old beater and jumps behind the wheel. The boys come out and we watch him drive off in a cloud of smoke and squealing tires.
“Think he’ll come back?” Cosmo asks.
“Pretty sure he will.”
“Hope he doesn’t. You’ll have to make good on that threat if he does. You don’t, and he’ll never respect your word again. Nobody will.”
I get the point he’s making and nod. “Yeah, shouldn’t have gone with the I’ll kill you line right away.”
“Yeah, you need to give yourself a little wiggle room,” Poe adds.
I shake my head and laugh. I’ve still got a lot to learn. But hey, the important thing is, I scored a win for us. We got some drugs off the street and potentially got a dealer out of town, too. All I can do now is hope he doesn’t come back.
Looking over, I see Cosmo grinning. He’s holding a shiny chrome .38 revolver in his hand, admiring it.
“I don’t want to say I told you so, but I do recall saying these fuckin’ crackheads are always strapped.”
“Yeah, well, he never got a shot off, did he?”
“You’re lucky.”
“Nah. I’m just that good.”
He looks at me, that wolfish smile widening. “If you were really that good, he never would have been able to draw down on you in the first place.”
I laugh. “Don’t be an asshole.”
He shrugs. “It’s just so hard being right all the time.”
“Yeah, whatever.”
Our job done, we mount up and ride back for the clubhouse. And as we pass the coffeehouse, I feel a pang of disappointment when I see that little stunner isn’t still sitting there.
Chapter Nine
Ashley
“You’ve got a degree in psychology from Georgia?” Keith, the manager of the Golden Gate Diner, asks.
I nod. “I do.”
“No offense, but don’t you think you’re a little overqualified to be waiting tables?”
I bristle at the question but put a smile on my face, which I hope looks more real than it feels. It’s a question I expected, and one I’m reluctant to answer, but I know I need to offer something up.
“I’ve just moved from Georgia and need to get my certifications before I can open my own practice here. And in the meantime, I need a job to pay for my day-to-day life,” I tell him.
It’s not one hundred percent honest or accurate, but it’s close enough. It’s as much as I’m willing to tell him anyway. I’m not going to open up and share my whole life story with the guy.
“I see,” he says.
This is the first job interview I’ve been on since high school, and to say I’m nervous would be understating things in a big way. Keith, the guy sitting across from me is tall, gangly, and looks to be a few years younger than I am. Honestly, with cheeks pocked by acne, he seems like he’s fresh out of high school. And he’s the manager. The guy who is my prospective boss. To say I’m not thrilled with the idea would be yet another understatement. But I need a job, and as the old saying goes, beggars can’t be choosers.
“Do you have any waitressing experience?” he asks.
It’s hard to keep from rolling my eyes, but I manage it. “Yes. As I listed on my résumé, I worked a few summers at a local diner back home.”
He picks up the piece of paper that’s been sitting in front of him this whole time and actually looks at it for the first time. He nods and taps the line I referred to at the bottom of the page.
“Oh yeah. Right there,” he mutters.
“Yeah,” I say, biting my tongue to keep anything else from flying out.
“So, tell me why you think you’d be a good fit here,” he says.
It’s such a trite, ridiculous question that I grit my teeth, somehow managing to keep the smile on my face. But just barely. It’s not that I don’t like Keith or think he’s an idiot. He’s just young. Inexperienced. And seems to be interviewing me based on a list of questions he found online somewhere. It’s nauseating
to do it, but his trite questions seem to require trite answers.
“Well, I’m good with people, and I’m a hard worker,” I tell him. “I always do whatever I can to make a person’s experience a pleasant one.”
He nods, no doubt scrolling down the list to the next question in his mind. And so it goes for the next hour, Keith reading off his uninspired list of interview questions, and I give him dry, uninteresting answers. But he smiles like they’re terrific answers, and more importantly, exactly what he wants to hear.
“Well, I think I’ve heard enough. I think you’d be a fantastic addition to the team,” he says
This time, my smile is genuine as the thousand-pound weight I’ve been carrying around is suddenly lifted from my shoulders. It’s not glamorous, and I definitely am overqualified, but I’m not above doing the work. It’s a job, and right now, all that matters is that I have one.
“I’m really glad to hear that. Thank you for the opportunity, Keith. I will not let you down.”
“I have a good feeling about you. So, can you start tomorrow?”
I nod enthusiastically, even though I’m not sure what I’m going to do about Cole. Missy said she’d be more than happy to watch him for me while I’m at work, since she’s already home with the twins. She and Mark are doing so much for me already, and the last thing I want to do is impose on her any further. On the other hand, I don’t know that I’ll be able to do anything by tomorrow morning, so I may need to take her up on her offer as much as I’d rather not. But I need this job, so I’m not really in a position to dictate my hours to Keith right now.
“Yes, of course,” I tell him.
“Great. I’ll see you at eight. I’m going to have you shadowing Nancy tomorrow so you can get a feel for the place and how we do things.”
“Looking forward to it. And again, thank you.”
“Welcome aboard.”
I’m not exactly walking on sunshine as I head out of the diner, but I’m breathing a bit easier. It’s not the greatest gig ever, but it’s a job. And at this point, any income is better than no income, so I’m not going to complain too loudly. Besides, Missy says this is the busiest place in town, so if that’s true, I’ll have a steady stream of money coming in. Fingers crossed.
My mind buzzing as I head for the parking lot, I step around the corner and run face first into a solid wall of flesh. Dancing back a few steps quickly, I look up and find myself staring into the face of the biker I saw from the patio of the coffee house the other day. He doesn’t have his helmet on nor is he wearing those wide, dark sunglasses, but I know it’s him all the same, and I draw in a sharp breath.
The first thought going through my mind is that he’s taller than I imagined he was, seeming to tower over me like a giant, even though he can’t be more than six feet, or six-one at the most. But when you’re only five-four, I guess anybody over six feet seems like a giant.
And the second thought I have is that he’s even more handsome than I realized when I saw him riding by. It’s a thought that makes my face flush with warmth, and all I seem able to do is hope he doesn’t notice how red I’m very likely turning.
“Sorry. I wasn’t paying attention. My fault,” I mumble.
“It was your fault. But that’s all right. If somebody’s going to run into me, I’d rather it be somebody who looks like you than like me.”
He breaks into a wide smile that’s boyish and somehow makes his gruff and rugged features look ten years younger. His hair is darker than a raven’s wing and trimmed short. The distinctive white spots in his beard I saw the other day also stand out to me, and like his hair, is also cut short and neat.
He’s wearing dark blue jeans, a black t-shirt, and the leather vest, on which I notice the patches for the first time. There’s one bearing the name, “Dark Pharaohs,” which is what Missy had said their gang was called, along with one below it that says, “NorCal Original.” The patch on the opposite breast is one that says, “Domino”, and below that is a diamond-shaped patch inscribed with the number “20,” and I have no idea what that means. The number of people he’s killed, maybe?
I’m sure that’s all gang lingo, and I have no desire to mix myself up in anything like that. But I swear, he’s so well put together. If you took him out of all that denim and leather and put him in a three-piece suit, he could well look like a banker or a businessman. Everything in me is telling me to walk away and put him in the rearview mirror, but he’s got green eyes that sparkle like polished emeralds, and they seem to have nailed me right to my spot.
“What was the smile on your face about?” he asks.
“Sorry?” I reply lamely, still trying to unstick my feet from the pavement.
“When you came around the corner—you know, right before you slammed into me like a runaway train, nearly killing me in the process—you had this little smile on your lips. What was that about?”
I laugh despite my unease at being so close to this man, and my frustration with myself for not being able to make my legs work. I look up at him and give him a look of faux indignation.
“I’m hardly a runaway train. Unless you’re making a comment about my weight, and if you are, let me just say you better choose your next words very carefully,” I reply.
He laughs, and it’s a deep rumble that seems to reverberate through my very bones as it sends warm tingles along my skin in the most delicious way possible. It’s a thought that makes my blush deepen, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep myself from saying or doing something stupid. Well, more stupid than saying something that sounded vaguely flirtatious. That is most definitely not the signal I want to be sending out to him.
“No, no. I’m not commenting on anything. Besides, you’re a bitty little thing anyway. Maybe I should have just said runaway caboose,” he says.
I arch an eyebrow at him. “That’s not much better.”
He screws up his face, and then laughs again. “Yeah, I suppose it’s not.”
A moment of awkward silence passes between us, and I slowly start to feel like I’m coming back to myself and feel confident I’ll be able to actually control my own body again. A clumsy smile crosses my face.
“Excuse me,” I murmur.
I start to move around him, but the man steps into my path, a cocksure expression plastered to his face. A flash of annoyance shoots through me, and I grit my teeth as I plant my hands on my hips, which infuriatingly, seems to amuse him.
“I’m Domino,” he says, like it should matter to me.
“Aren’t you a little old for dumb teenage nicknames?”
That seems to stop him in his tracks, and I use the moment to slip past him. But as I head for my car, I hear him right behind me, making me quiver with fear. Quickly manipulating my keyring so the keys are between my fingers in my fist, I spin around and throw a punch as hard as I can. Domino catches my wrist mid-swing, the amused expression on his face never faltering.
“That could’ve hurt,” he says.
I follow it up by driving my knee straight up, attempting to connect with his groin. But for being so large, he’s incredibly quick, and he blocks my knee, turning it aside harmlessly, all while still hanging onto my wrist. If anything, he looks more amused than ever, and it’s really pissing me off. He lets go of my wrist and takes a step back, still smirking at me.
“It was a good combination. But you telegraphed it. I knew what was coming, that’s how I knew how to block it,” he announces.
“What are you, a self-defense instructor?”
He shrugs. “Nah. The Corps prepares you for stuff like that. Teaches you how to defend yourself if need be.”
I nod and let myself relax just a bit. He seems a bit pompous, but I don’t see him as threatening. I hate to admit it, but he’s got a kind of boyish charm about him. As far as I can tell, it’s not an affectation either. It just seems to be who he is, which strikes me as odd given that he’s a gruff, biker type.
“Served in the Marines, huh?” I ask.
<
br /> He nods. “Yes, ma’am.”
I raise an eyebrow again. “Then came home and joined a gang?”
He scoffs. “Hardly a gang. We’re a club. A brotherhood.”
“Probably what guys in a gang would say, too.”
“Yeah, but they probably don’t ride bikes as nice as ours,” he jokes, then his expression grows serious. “We’re not a bunch of gangbangers, you know. I understand some people in town don’t like us and say all kinds of stupid shit about the club, but we’re not a group of murdering, thieving bangers.”
I roll my eyes at him and wonder why I’m still standing here talking to him instead of getting into my car and driving away. There’s something in his voice, a small catch or something that evokes a sense of sympathy in me. He sounds like a man who’s stung by the feeling of being misunderstood, and it makes me feel sorry not just for him but for prejudging him like everybody else.
I mean, if I’m being honest with myself, the guy doesn’t seem like a gangbanger to me. Not that I know any, or anything, but I’ve seen enough news programs and documentaries about gangs, and he doesn’t seem to fit that mold. But that’s not really any reason to let my guard down. Maybe bikers aren’t the same as gangbangers, but they’re still something dangerous. That much I do know.
“Then what are you exactly?” I ask.
He looks down at the ground, kicking away the small stone near his boot, seemingly pondering his answer. He finally looks up at me, and I see the resolve in his eyes and in the way his jaw is clenched.
“It’s like I said, we’re a brotherhood. Most of us are combat vets. We get each other. Understand the things we’ve seen. The things we’ve done. Things that, unless you were over in the shit, taking fire from people who want to kill you, you’ll never understand. But we have. And we do,” he tells me.
As I listen, I can hear the slight twinge of pain in his voice. Maybe he’s still reeling from me calling him a gangbanger. Although I think it’s more likely he’s recalling the things he saw and did when he was in the middle of a battle. And he’s right, it’s not something I can understand no matter how hard I try. All I can do is empathize with him, which seems woefully inadequate for the things I imagine he had to endure overseas.
