Edison (The Henchmen MC Book 10)

by Jessica Gadziala

  "Lenny?" Cy asked, brows drawn together. "I once saw Malc push her through a routine that would make a Marine beg for mercy with no tears."

  I figured as much.

  I had been wondering if maybe the tears had less to do with the actual physical pain, and more to do with a release. Like how cutters need to self-harm just to be able to get emotions out, how the pain of the slice was the only thing that made the numbness stop, and brought about a cathartic emotional release.

  Maybe Lenny was dealing with some shit.

  Or, more accurately, going through some shit without actually dealing with it.

  Maybe the pain today had managed to break down the dam that was holding it all in.

  I wondered what that might mean for the next couple of lessons.

  Would she show?

  Would her inability to disconnect the physical pain and her own emotional pain keep her from coming?

  She wasn't the kind of woman, I was sure, who would be okay with allowing anyone else to witness her losing her battle with her own emotions. She was too tightly controlled for that.

  Would this be a rare time when the need for self-preservation would win over her pride?

  I guess I would know tomorrow.

  "Dunno what to tell you," I offered, wanting to drop it, to let it go for now. It was no use discussing it since I didn't know what was going on, if anything was going to come of it, if it was going to matter in the grand scheme of things.

  "Alright, if we're done with the heart-to-heart," Reign started, bringing our focus back to where he was standing beside the bar with a yellow lined notepad and pen, "We need shit for the party tomorrow."

  Summer's birthday.

  It was almost a year to the anniversary of her father's death, and she was still not really back to herself. The woman had been through so much in her life what with being kidnapped and tortured. Twice. Her father getting gunned down right in front of her was apparently the breaking point. She had been in bed for weeks, then a zombie walking for months. She was back to functioning now, was trying to keep it upbeat for her kids, but it was clear there was still a heaviness weighing on her.

  Which was why Reign had seen her upcoming birthday as a chance to try to drive some life back into her, thinking maybe she needed time to just be a person instead of a wife and mother. He had arranged to have all the kids shipped up to Hailstorm to be watched by the women there, then secretly planned a big to-do at the compound for the next night.

  "Sugar, Virgin, I think I can trust you to deal with the food. Roderick, Cy, Roan, and Reeve can handle getting this place to smell less like balls and old socks and more like a place we can have a party tomorrow. That leaves the booze. Edison?" he asked, jerking his chin toward the bar. "We need extra of everything."

  He wasn't kidding. If the entire club, their women, the girls club, their men, and a few local friends were invited, we were going to need enough liquor to supply an entire army on leave.

  "Here," he said, tossing the keys. "Only got about another hour and a half," he reminded me, making me search for my wallet before heading out.

  An hour later, the trunk of the SUV was loaded down with enough whiskey, tequila, rum, vodka, and gin to keep the whole east coast supplied for a three-day bender.

  But I wasn't on my way back to the compound because, apparently, it was too short of notice for the liquor store we usually used to get us the three kegs we wanted. They had been decent enough to send me across town to some hole called Meryl's with the warning that it looked like a shithole that catered to the worst scum around, and that it was both those things, but that the place was clean, and it was fine to order kegs from them. And since it was a weird liquor store/bar hybrid, people often didn't think to order from them, so they could likely pull it off.

  So that was where I was heading.

  And, well, it was a shithole.

  There was no way around that.

  The name was scrawled in golden paint on a simple green board in desperate need of repainting above the door. The front had old plate glass windows that had been hand-painted to, I figured, keep the sun from beating in. It was an old school saloon scene fresh out of the west, and therefore completely out of place in Jersey.

  I got out, pulling open the glass door, being assaulted instantly with the strong scent of just about every kind of liquor known to man from the bar I knew was situated in the back.

  You could hear it too, the unmistakable sounds of a watering hole. It was always the same from Romania to Russia to the good ole USA. There was the clinking of glasses, the raised guffaws of men too drunk to remember to keep it down, the music of bygone eras because you could hear that new soulless crap at a club.

  The store part of the building had, for fuck-knew-what reason, hideous blue and gold faded carpeting, dirtier and more rundown in the center that led back toward the bar from overuse. It, and the corner of the bar I could see from my angle, was dark, half the lights overhead either not working or simply kept off for who-knew-what reason. It had the strange business choice to have all the liquor bottles lining the walls in the somewhat small space hard to see, let alone read, unless you were right on top of them.

  Right to my left inside the door was a six-foot-tall piece of plywood with various sales fliers pinned up to it, the oldest of which dated back six months. Whoever ran the place really wasn't interested in a working, functional business model that could make him more money.

  "I'm just saying," a man's voice said from somewhere in front of that sheet of plywood where, I imagined, the front counter was situated. "Women who smile look so much prettier. Give me a smile, baby."

  I rolled my eyes for the poor woman dealing with some asshole drunk whose words slurred so much that they tripped over each other.

  "I don't smile on command; I'm not a fucking dog."

  No fucking way.

  Of all the, well, gin joints, right?

  I walk into hers.

  That seemed like some damn kismet shit right there.

  I'd been in Navesink Bank for almost two years. I had been in and out of all the other local liquor stores. Then just two days after laying eyes on this woman for the first time, I had to come to this one for some kegs?

  Talk about a major fucking coincidence.

  "No?" the guy pressed on as I took a step forward to look past the bulletin wall to see a man who was fifty-five if he was a day with oily skin, balding hair, and a body so thin it looked like all he was was bones stretched over skin. "'Cause you're acting like a real bitch, Len."

  "It's not an act," she responded, voice bored, completely unaffected.

  "You know what I think?"

  "Can't be too deep," she drawled, looking down at some magazine in her hand. From the angle, I couldn't make out the title, but damn if I wasn't sure I saw a gun advertised.

  Seriously, what was this woman up to?

  She looked good too; that didn't escape my notice.

  Her outside of the gym style suited her. Tight black skinny jeans, a deep wine-colored tee that scooped a little low in front under a black fake leather motorcycle jacket, and a pair of deep red Doc Martens on her feet. No jewelry; she didn't strike me as the kind of woman to wear much - if any. Her makeup was minimal, maybe just some mascara and liner. Her eyes seemed a bit bolder than they had earlier.

  Badass.

  That was how she was. It only suited that her fashion sense matched.

  "You need some dick in your life," the jackass concluded.

  "And you need more brain in your head and less liquor in your liver. And, well, let's face it, probably some more dick in your pants too."

  My lips curved up, finding myself liking that she didn't give a shit about watching her mouth. Not even at work.

  "Oh, yeah? How about I show..." the man started, reaching down toward his fly, making me straighten, thinking I was going to need to step in before things went any further.

  But then there was a soft click, the sound of which anyone f
amiliar with one would know it for what it was.

  A switchblade flicking open.

  "Try it, and I will cut it the fuck off, Gary," she told him, voice still somehow bored-sounding, though there was now an edge to it. The man paused, but his hands were still holding his fly. "You know I'm not fucking with you," she added, gaze unblinking.

  "Yeah yeah yeah," the man grumbled, zipping back up. "Would rather not be like Mitch," he added. "But you are a cunt, Len. In case someone hasn't told you yet today."

  He walked away with that as Lenny closed her blade. "You're only the third today. I must be slacking."

  "What did you do to Mitch?" I asked, watching as her body jolted, her head swiveling around, clearly having been too distracted by her interaction with Gary - and her Guns and Ammo magazine - to notice I had come in.

  "Are you stalking me?" she asked, brows drawn low like that wouldn't make any sense.

  "I need kegs," I informed her, moving around the front of the counter, seeing the display case she was standing against full of cigars. The wall behind her had other cases dispensing packs of cigarettes.

  There was the slight urge to buy a pack, as there often was when faced with them. Even six years after giving the fucking things up, the urge was still there.

  "Bottle Masters needed more notice. Sent me in this direction. What'd you do to Mitch?" I asked again, smirking. "And what did he do to deserve it?"

  "He grabbed my tit," she explained easily. "And I broke his hand."

  "Fair enough," I agreed.

  "Are you wearing a cut?" she asked almost as I was speaking, her voice with a slight edge to it that I couldn't place. Was it simply surprise? Or did I hear a bit of eagerness as well? Or was that just my imagination?

  "Yeah," I agreed, watching her eyes work. She might have had guards strong enough to keep the Roman army out, but for some reason, I could see a lot in her eyes.

  "A Henchmen?" she demanded to know.

  And it was definitely there.

  The eagerness.

  Interesting.

  I turned, showing her the Henchmen logo on my back before facing her again.

  "Got a thing for bikers, love?" I asked, wanting to understand. And maybe hoping the answer to that question would be a no. I didn't, as a rule, get involved with cutsluts who saw one too many episodes of Sons of Anarchy and thought getting to be some biker old lady would be a great life goal because that fucking blond dude made his relationship with that chick seem romantic.

  Yeah, I had no room in my life for that.

  And Lenny was too good to be one of those girls.

  "It's just interesting is all," she said, shrugging. "Outlaw biker. Strange career choice."

  "Outlaw?" I asked, blank-faced. "Me, love, I have a squeaky clean record."

  Her lips curved up at that. Not a smile. As far as I could tell, she didn't smile, but showing some amusement nonetheless.

  "That just means you haven't been caught."

  "Got me there," I agreed, shrugging.

  "So," she said when the moment stretched a little too long. "You said something about kegs."

  "Three," I agreed.

  One of her arched brows rose at that as she reached for an order form. "Big party."

  "President's woman's birthday," I explained.

  "What time are you picking them up?"

  "Six," I guessed, figuring that would leave more than enough time.

  "Yeah, that won't be a problem. Bottle Masters are a bunch of uppity asses. They don't need more than a couple hours notice to throw some fucking kegs together. You guys can always come here when you need them."

  "Wait wait wait," another male voice cut in, making me turn my head over my shoulder to see a man with a generous beer belly, ridiculous comb-over, and full mustache say as he walked up. "Did I just hear you invite someone to come back here again instead of telling them that if they didn't like how you spoke to them, they could fuck off and never come again? Has hell frozen over?"

  "This is Meryl," Lenny explained. "He owns the place. Meryl, this is Edison. He is a Henchmen."

  Meryl perked up even more at that. I swear you could see cartoon dollar signs form in his eyes. Anyone who knew us knew we were a bunch known for single-handedly keeping the local liquor industry running.

  "Edison, nice to meet you. Glad to know Len's sparkling personality didn't scare you off. I'm always telling her she needs to be less friendly," he teased, giving her a smirk.

  "Yeah yeah yeah," Lenny said, rolling her eyes. "Worry less about my customer service skills and more about keeping fucking Gary away from me, would you?"

  "He's harmless, Len," Meryl insisted.

  "He was seconds away from whipping his cock out," I cut in. "I wouldn't call him harmless."

  "Oh," Meryl said, clearly deflated. Whether it was because of what Gary did, or because someone like me was calling him on his bullshit was impossible to tell.

  I couldn't help it. You really couldn't have much respect for a man who didn't make sure his female employees had a safe work environment. Especially when drunk assholes were involved.

  "It's fine, Meryl. I can handle myself."

  "No shit. I had to give Leon free drinks for a month after you broke his nose."

  "I'm never going to apologize for that one," she said with a shrug. "He forcibly kissed that girl who was too wasted to walk out of the bar."

  "You're making it sound like we only cater to perverts in front of our new friend, Len."

  "Oh, no!" Lenny rushed to say, seeming to appease him for a second, even though I could hear a certain inflection in her tone that he obviously missed. "Not just perverts, no. There are also the racists, homophobes, gang members..." Meryl let out a long-suffering sigh, clearly used to Lenny's mouth and, if I wasn't mistaken, somewhat charmed by her even if it meant his business was shown in a bad light. "Allow me to buy you a drink and show you that things aren't as ugly as she is painting them," Meryl offered.

  I turned over my shoulder to get a look at the bar, seeing a line of men, one with his ass crack showing between the hem of his shirt and the waistband of his jeans.

  Turning back, I jerked my head toward Lenny. "The view is better up here."

  "Oh, Lenny is closing up up here," he informed me, even though it was still ten minutes away from when they needed to stop selling booze, and I suspected the front of the store stayed open until two when the bar closed anyway since they needed someone to keep an eye on the cigarettes and booze.

  "Is that right?" I asked, looking at Lenny, watching her profile as she sent her boss a very clear 'what the fuck' look.

  "Yeah, we're having a little get-together just for the regulars - and new friends - tonight. The store is closing early. Isn't that right, Len? You could go for a drink - or ten - couldn't you?"

  He was clearly leading her, and Lenny was not the kind of woman who was going to play along just to please someone else.

  "Actually, Meryl, this is totally news to me. But if you want to schmooze him because he is a Henchmen, and you want all his buddies to start drinking here instead of Chaz's, you go right ahead."

  Blunt as fuck.

  You had to respect that.

  "No, Len," Meryl said, reaching up to pull at his collar, his face a little red. "This nice gentleman would like for you to join us."

  "And I would like to keep earning a paycheck," she shot back.

  His face was even redder at that. "We'll work something out."

  To that, her brow raised, leaving me to wonder if she would say that she would rather earn it the honest way, or take him up on the offer for a drink. Or ten.

  She looked at me. "I will literally fight you for the Jose," she informed me, making my lips curl upward.

  "We can keep it amicable tonight. I drink vodka."

  "Gross," she informed me, lip curled, as she moved out from behind the counter. "First time I got drunk it was on screwdrivers. I threw up for half a day. I could never look at vodka or orange juice the sa
me way again," she informed me, walking toward the back, leaving me to follow, and leaving her boss to deal with locking up.

  It was a little piece of information about her, but I could feel myself tucking it away as if it was of the utmost importance.

  The back of the bar was, well, unimpressive. It was clear we were in a shitty area and that no one expected Meryl to pretend any different.

  The bar itself had seen better days, back before the shine wore down to nothing and there weren't chunks missing and words carved into the surface. The stools were all mismatched, some sitting un-level. To the left, there was open space meant, I thought, to be a makeshift dance floor beside what seemed to be some kind of modern jukebox.

  "That was all me," Lenny informed me as she tapped the bar, getting the attention of the bartender who was sixty-five if he was a day, hollow-cheeked, bushy-browed, but quick to grab the bottle of tequila and pass it to her. "The stereo system," she explained at my questioning look. "I saw you eye-fucking it. Meryl used to have this sad old-school giant boombox just sitting on the end of the bar with a pile of cassette tapes. And, let's face it, you are simply insulting AC/DC to listen to them on that thing. He had some extra cash laying around. I convinced him to invest in the music instead of the new stools. So we wobble," she went on, moving to sit on one of the uneven stools, "but we do it to crystal-clear music."

  "Christ, Len," Gary from before said, brows low. "Think that was the most words you ever put together before."

  "What can I say, Gar," she started, taking a second to tip back the bottle of tequila. "Edison here strikes me as the kind of man to appreciate good music whereas you think Toby Keith is God's gift to the world."

  Gary gave me a once-over, coming back angrier than before. "Thinking with your pussy, I'd say."

  Lenny opened her mouth to spit another of her perfectly pointed and somehow simultaneously unaffected insults, but I beat her to it.

  "I'd recommend you start saying a fuck of a lot less from this point on," I told him. My tone was conversational, but my conversational tone was a lot like another man's growl.