Velvet Ivy (The Nighthawks MC Book 1)

by Bella Knight

  Ivy ate breakfast, —whole wheat cinnamon apple pancakes with butter and maple syrup and walnuts. Arsenal paid for his own stack, with a lot of ribbing, because apparently, he’d missed the pancake breakfast held at the club before the ride. Some of the club members ordered their own food after smelling the scents wafting through the place from the kitchen. The entire group ordered lunch to take with them, and Ky got busy making fried chicken, and biscuits, and macaroni salad with chunks of cheddar. They cleaned out the bar’s cans of Coke.

  Ivy went back to put on her leathers, then Ivy and Arsenal watched an increasingly cutthroat pool game between Henry and a huge guy called Hammer. Despite the size of his muscles, Hammer had total control of the pool cue. Henry eventually lost, and money changed hands.

  Everyone washed up, and they were on the road again in a roar of dust. Ivy rode with Arsenal. The day was blindingly hot. Ivy was glad she had invested in a cooling vest and wraparound shades. They made it in good time to Pyramid Lake. They swam, and ate, and talked about past rides. They were considering a Grand Canyon trip.

  Some Paiutes met with Henry, including Numa, and Inola, and they shared some fried bread with the group. Two more of the Paiutes joined them, —a man and a woman on matching Harleys. They drove to the Hickison Petroglyph Recreation Area and saw the twelve-thousand-year-old paintings on the rocks. They then went to Lamoille Canyon, and then down to the Lehman Caves. They then headed back, stopping in Tonopah for dinner. The club left Ivy and Arsenal there and went back to Vegas on a hot summer night.

  Ivy and Arsenal walked around the casino but didn’t play any games. They just held hands. They walked back out into the night, and Arsenal kissed her.

  “Marry me,” he said, “we can go to Reno. Maybe there’s a chapel here. I think there’s one at the Silver Queen.”

  Ivy looked into his eyes, “I’m not going to quit my job. My daughter…”

  Arsenal smiled, “I know. I want you to save up enough money for both your daughter and the job, though,” he looked at her, “I don’t earn much money. I was a mechanic in the military. They club guys, and this amazing woman named Bonnie, are teaching me to work on Harleys. I think I can make a good living doing that. I’m sorry. I wish I could do more, be more. I could sign up with some outfits, and work security. Some of them pay really well. I have PTSD, though, and my sponsor says that would trigger everything all over again, —the nightmares, the flashbacks.”

  “What does your sponsor say about getting married?”

  “He says to date, but that it’s too soon. He laughs and says a hooker is just my speed. I got mad at him and wanted to hit him. But, I didn’t. He laughed when I got mad, said you won’t judge me. He says you are really good for me, that I’m calmer after I’ve seen you.”

  “And about getting married?”

  “He says no major decisions for the first year. He says to wait.”

  She leaned up and, kissed him, “Then, we wait. I’m not going anywhere,” she kissed him again, “and, you won’t be a dad, not yet, not ‘till she can actually notice other people. But, someday, if the school works out…”

  “Yes, Ivy. It’s alright.”

  She stopped, holding back her tears, “I would like for you to meet her. Maybe not right in front of her, but see her ride. She rides a horse, you know. They use them for therapy. I think if she loves anyone, it isn’t me. It’s her pony, Candy.” She let her tears silently fall.

  Arsenal smiled, “Every girl needs a pony,” he said.

  She nodded, and he leaned down and kissed her tears away. They got some ice cream, and took it back outside to eat, under a sky with a million stars.

  Later, Arsenal took Ivy up to the room. They got out of their boots and leathers and fell on each other as if they’d been separated for years. They consumed each other hungrily, clawing off each other’s clothes. Arsenal could barely tear open the condom packet; he was in such a hurry. Ivy rolled it on him. Ivy threw him on the bed and got on top, riding him, rising up and down in a movement so fast he could barely keep up. She stopped and went deeper. She threw back her head, and clamped down, riding the wave. He came with her, high and long. They fell together, gasping.

  They showered together, the hot water washing away the dust of the trip. After, they laid in each other’s arms, Ivy tracing his tattoos.

  Arsenal asked Ivy, “Do you want to get the club tattoo?” He pointed to the hawk surrounded by tribal wings.

  “It’s beautiful,” said Ivy.

  “Let’s do it!”

  “Now?” asked Ivy.

  “Why not?”

  There was a tattoo artist, not two blocks from the hotel, —a heavily tattooed woman with a pierced eyebrow and a shock of blue hair. She took a photo of Arsenal’s tattoo, traced it, and put it on Ivy’s right shoulder. Arsenal held her hand as the tattooist worked. They talked about rides they were going to do, —like to Lake Havasu and the Grand Canyon. The artist covered the tattoo with a gel and then with plastic, and they went back to the hotel.

  They went for a ride the next day to Lake Tahoe. The view from the road down on the water made her grasp. The water was so blue that it seemed to steal the color from the sky. They ate at a bistro overlooking the water. He had linguine, and she had mushroom-cheese ravioli. They split their plates so they could taste both.

  Next, Arsenal took her to a marina, and they watched the boats for a while, then they went to a beach and walked on the sand, hand in hand. The water was stunningly clear.

  “I’d like to get married here,” she said.

  He kissed her and smiled, “We’ll wait a couple months, get to it in the fall. If we wait until winter, it will be too cold.”

  They kissed and laughed. Ivy felt she had never laughed so much, (and over nothing), —a pretentious guy with his nose in the air walking his bulldog, who had his nose to the ground; a hat floating into the air, being chased by the teenager who lost it, into the water; some guys walking by speaking French so animatedly that it sounded like they were arguing.

  They tried to guess what they were talking about, “Pierre is telling Jacques how to cook the soup,” said Ivy.

  “Jacques hates the color of the wallpaper, and he wants Pierre to fix it,” said Arsenal.

  “Pierre is tired of eating at the same restaurant every night,” Ivy laughed, waving her hand in the air, “too boring.”

  “Jacques wants Pierre to move the boat, but Pierre doesn’t want to go sailing!”

  “I love our bikes,” said Ivy, “better than a yacht any day.”

  They kissed again, laughing. They rode out into the sunset and took the velvet dark curvy roads with hot wind in their hair. They blasted road music, —Tom Petty’s Running Down a Dream, Whitesnake’s Here I Go Again, and The Eagles’ Take It Easy. They made good time on the desert roads.

  Arsenal pulled off on a lonely stretch of road that went nowhere. Ivy followed, wondering where they were going. When they could barely see the highway, he pulled off.

  “Why are we stopping?” she asked, “your bike okay?”

  He took off his helmet, “Come over here.”

  She took off her helmet and stowed it. She strode over.

  He bent down and kissed her, “Get on my Harley,” he said.

  She laughed. He sat in the seat, and she got on, facing him. They kissed deeply, the wind flowing through their hair. He stroked her hair and, kissed her. He took off her jacket, and her shirt. She took his jacket off, and grabbed his face, kissing him. She pulled off his shirt and unsnapped her bra. He pulled her to him, and they kissed. He ran his hands up and down her back, the calluses on his thumbs rough on her skin. She devoured his mouth and, grabbed his hair, pulling him closer.

  They began moving against each other, slowly. She fumbled with his jeans. She slid a condom out of her jeans and slid it on him. She drew herself out of his arms and off the bike, and kicked off her boots, jeans, and panties. She carefully slid back on, back to his embrace. He slid her up and onto him.r />
  They moved slowly, the stars wheeling above their heads, the desert winds on their backs. She screamed into his mouth when she came, and he came right afterward. They slid the condom and its wrapper into a plastic bag and put it in his saddlebag. She found her clothes and dressed, shaking out the sand and dust. She was the first one to rev her Harley and head back towards the highway. He followed, laughing into the wind.

  He dropped her off at the Roadhouse. She kissed him one last time before she entered the gate code. He saluted, and turned his bike around, and went back to Las Vegas. She then sat on the other side of the gate and watched him go.

  Attorney

  Ivy called an attorney. The Palomino Roadhouse gave her and her daughter health insurance, which helped with the astronomical costs of the ranch where her daughter lived. She had graduated from school, so she no longer had that cost, and the Palomino fed its workers for free. She wasn’t a clotheshorse like Marybelle. She was making money that she needed to put away for Damia’s care, it was probably for Damia’s entire life. She also wanted to set up a fund for the bar. She found a female attorney on a small, quiet street in Tonopah, doing business right next to a small community bank. She had a shock of red hair that flowed down to her waist. She wore a pale blue, silk sleeveless top, and black slacks, and gold coin earrings and a matching bracelet.

  The attorney, named Reeves Jenson, was delighted to hear that Ivy was providing for Damia.

  “We can do this several ways. We can set up a trust, whereby the executor will be sure Damia is cared for properly for the rest of her life. We can do an annuity, which you buy now, and it pays out when it matures, reversing the money put into it for a greater amount than the money initially put in. I think a trust would be best. It would be protected if you are sued or a creditor comes after you. How much do you want to put in?”

  “Five grand for now. I also want to get out of the sex worker business and open a rock ‘n’ roll bar. I can do that a lot longer than I can do this. I went to business school, and I think I can make a go of it, with some careful planning. I want that money to be completely separate, and in an account where it earns a lot of interest.”

  “Have you thought about a certificate of deposit? And when were you thinking of making the move?”

  “The move can theoretically happen at any time. You never know what life will bring. Locking the money up in a CD only works for me in the short term.”

  “Okay, let’s get Mary Whitehorse from the bank down here. I’ll do the paperwork from my end, and we can get the accounts set up. Would you like to do a bank transfer?”

  Ivy took out the small duffel bag and zipped it open, “The money is clipped or banded in hundreds. There is ten thousand dollars in the bag. And, before you ask, we do pay taxes, and a 401K retirement account, and insurance. This is after that.”

  Reeves Jenson swallowed, “All right. And my fee…”

  “…It’s on the bottom,” said Ivy, “it’s separate.”

  Reeves pulled out the envelope, and counted out the ten one-hundred-dollar bills, and smiled, “Now, let’s get to business, shall we?”

  After her appointment and signing a stack of forms, Ivy ate lunch at a casino cafe. She had a Caesar salad, and a cup of clam chowder, a Coke, and a chocolate silk pie that had her in chocoholic heaven as she sat in her seat.

  Outside, she had on her shades before she left the portico. She headed to her Harley and set out for Vegas. The first realtor said she had nothing in Ivy’s price range —before Ivy said anything about price. Ivy left and went to the next one, and the next.

  She found a tiny realtor office in Harmon. There was a young woman there with black hair, and raisin-black eyes, and skin like pure, dark chocolate. She wore a yellow linen suit. She took one assessing look at Ivy and her Harley and shook her hand.

  “Gina Jackson,” she said, “commercial or residential?”

  “Ivy. Commercial.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “I want to make a rock bar.”

  “Hole in the wall or upscale?”

  “Blue neon, a dance floor, a stage, tables everywhere.”

  “I have the place for you, but it isn’t ready to sell yet,” said Gina, “they have a round building just off the strip. A romantic place serves frou-frou drinks for two in a pit. They’re going under. If you wait three to six months, the price will be at rock bottom, and they’ll sell, or lease to buy.”

  “How much?” asked Ivy.

  Gina wrote two numbers on a strip of paper and handed it to Ivy, “The top is what it would go for now. The bottom is what I think I can get them down to when they realize they’re dreaming.”

  “Nice,” said Ivy, “most realtors wouldn’t want to cut into their own commissions.”

  Gina shrugged, “I like realistic.”

  “Works for me,” said Ivy, “do you want me to come back in two months?”

  “Give me your digits,” said Gina, “I’ll give you a call when their numbers get as reasonable as I think they’ll get.”

  “I can go twenty percent down. Maybe thirty percent. Lease to buy.”

  “I can work with that,” said Gina.

  Ivy wrote her name and number on a pad Gina offered her. Gina gave her a business card.

  “Don’t call anybody else,” said Gina, “I’ll be straight up with you when others won’t.”

  “Already figured that out,” said Ivy.

  Ivy headed to the address of the round bar Gina gave her. It wasn’t open. She peeked in the windows. Just as she remembered, —the pit, the pretentious bar, the stage, the dance floor, the pink-and-black motif. She figured she’d get rid of the pit, a lawsuit waiting to happen if a drunk should happen to stumble and fall in. She remembered they served overpriced finger food, so there was a kitchen. She smiled and got back on her Harley. It would do.

  She stopped for a slurpee to break the heat. The asphalt baked under her feet as she drank. She decided to go to the Nighthawks clubhouse to beat the heat.

  Henry was there, polishing a bike, “Ivy!” he said. “come for your patch?”

  “That and some advice. I am looking at a perfect piece of real estate.”

  “Get flak from the realtors?”

  She snorted, “Finally found an honest one who would work with me. I’ve got money in the bank, but not enough. I’ve gotta fill in a pit in the bar and switch from pink to blue and purple neon. The kitchen is fine, rest of the place needs black, purple, or blue paint, preferably a metallic. Wanna make me a rock bar.”

  “We’ve got a half-dozen members working construction. You’re talking a basic remodel, not a gutting and refit.”

  “I also need a neon sign.”

  “Neon is what Vegas is,” said Henry, “surely we got someone who knows how to get that. What’s your time frame?”

  “Seven months on the outside, four on the inside,” said Ivy, “to start. Would like it up and running in two months after the start date.”

  “You need to add thirty percent to everything, so make it two and a half months. I can talk to some people, get some bids. Where is it?”

  “That round romantic bar just off the strip on Harmon.”

  Henry snorted, “Why don’t you get the plans from the county assessor’s office, and we can firm things up.”

  “Where’s that?” He gave her the directions.

  After a dry, dusty hour finding what she needed and paying for copies, Ivy was ravenous. She stopped off at a waffle house and stuffed herself with a pecan waffle with pecan syrup, butter, and four strips of bacon, extra crispy.

  Henry was still there when she returned to the clubhouse. He was picking up empty bottles and sliding them into the recycling box.

  “Ivy!” he said, “I’ll get Juan. He’s done quite a few remodels.”

  They went into blessed coolness. A man and a woman were playing the world’s slowest game of pool, staring at the balls as if they would roll away on their own. Henry and Ivy popped some Coke
s, and she showed Henry the pit, and where she wanted the neon.

  “Jorge can do the painting. These people are both the fastest and cheapest in the city. He’ll do the outside, too. Mimi may know how to find someone to do the neon. She’s a sculptor. She commissioned a sign for her office from somebody, I think another artist.”

  Juan and Jorge came in together, dusty from a ride. Ivy bought them sodas, and they looked at the plans.

  “Doable,” said Juan, “just bring a little mixer in, pour it, smooth it out. Take a few days to cure. The biggest cost will be in renting the little mixer. Then it will be pretty damn easy to paint. I know a guy who does neon for bars. I’ll check with him on the cost of the installation.”

  “I know a sign guy,” said Jorge, “and an etcher, too.”

  “Etcher, like glass?” Ivy asked.

  “Yeah,” he said, “that bar has floor-to-ceiling windows. Not smart. Better to etch them, get some privacy. What you want in the windows?”

  Ivy thought for a minute, “Rock gods. Aerosmith, Rolling Stones, or something like that. Jimi Hendrix. Bon Jovi.”

  Juan smiled, “Be cool when it’s up and running.”

  Jorge smiled, “Get me some shiny, shimmery blue, and purple, with some black paint for contrast with a transparent silver over it. I’ll make it rock.” Ivy clapped her hands together with excitement.

  “Start date is four to seven months,” said Henry, “how long you think?”

  “A few weeks, at the most,” said Juan. Jorge nodded.

  “Then I need to find me some vendors and put in the world’s’ biggest liquor order. Want the good but simple stuff, no frou-frou drinks. Three or four good beers, whiskey, the range of sodas. Some primo stuff, like Johnny Walker Black.”

  “My sister Dulce is a liquor distributor,” said Juan, “gotta get you a food and liquor license.”

  “Shit,” said Ivy.

  “Don’t sweat it,” said Jorge, “it would be a mess if you were opening a casino. Takes a long time to get Gaming to let you open. This is doable. Just put in for the license the same day we start filling up the hole.”

  She nodded, “I want a place where you, or I, or anyone would be proud to go. Relax, have a beer, listen to some great guitar riffs, dance a little, talk to friends. Not a pickup bar, a good friends bar. Someplace you go to forget the day, the week, and rock out.”