Undaunted: Knights in Black Leather

by Ronnie Douglas

  Aside from the sheer oddity of the phrase “Bitty’s girl,” I figured that this wasn’t an unusual way to go about things. Small towns often run on the idea of “who you know.” I suspected that larger towns and cities did too, but in microcosmic ways.

  “Thanks,” I said, accepting the address as we stood.

  Ellen nodded as she came to her feet.

  We walked out to the parking lot in comfortable silence. I glanced at Noah’s Harley, grateful that I was leaving before he saw me. I wasn’t quite ready to deal with his invitation—or Quincy’s looks as he saw me on campus, or the way all I really wanted was to see Zion. What I needed to do was ignore all of it and stay focused. Work was the next step.

  “You’ll call me,” she more or less ordered. She pointed to the hand still holding her note. “My number is on there too. You call. Then we go grab lunch or study or something.”

  “You’re a little scary yourself,” I said.

  “Yeah. You plan. I push.” She grinned. “We should start a revolution.”

  I laughed. I’d never met anyone quite like her. In high school, I picked friends who were studious or driven. We had exam review sessions or went to art films. My Reed friends were the same kind of people, but the cultivatedly quirky sort. Sometimes it felt like everyone was trying to out-blasé the rest or demonstrate more eco-social-political awareness. I’d never fit in. I played at it, but I never felt like I belonged. Ellen made me hope that maybe I could.

  Then I looked at her as she sashayed across the lot, singing out loud and doing a little pirouette to face me again. “Go get a job. Call me or text me when you do . . . and later too.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She waved an arm over her head in what I took for affirmation and then spun away again.

  I shook my head and climbed into my grandmother’s boat of a car. It seemed ridiculously large to me, but I didn’t have any other option. I needed to drive to get to campus, and hopefully to a job, and I didn’t have a car of my own. I was lucky that Grandma Maureen let me borrow hers. Maybe I should take some of my money to buy a car, something used but mine. I hated the idea of spending any money, but I also had to be practical.

  First, though, I needed to get the job.

  I drove to the address Ellen had given me. I hadn’t ever applied for a job for the sole purpose of earning money, but I didn’t have a choice anymore. My days of campus jobs or internships to add to my appeal for eventual grad school apps were behind me. I needed to work to earn money, not prestige. I parked my grandmother’s enormous car in front of a dim little place called Wolves & Whiskey. There were three motorcycles and one pickup truck in the lot. A few neon lights advertised beers, and a sign listed upcoming bands. It was apparently more of a bar than a restaurant. I wasn’t too arrogant to turn down a job selling beer. I didn’t know if I’d be any good at it, but I was more than willing to learn.

  I squared my shoulders and walked gingerly across the lot, dodging an oil-slicked spot and several divots in the asphalt.

  The door let out a loud creak as I jerked it open, and for a moment, I felt like I’d walked into the middle of a cautionary tale or some old-fashioned after-school special. The six men sitting inside were all giving me varying degrees of a once-over. Two older men in leather jackets sat at a scarred wooden table. They neither smiled nor glared; in all, their attention was brief, assessing, and then gone.

  The guy shooting pool was another story altogether. He was shedding his jacket as I walked in, and I stared at the sight. It wasn’t the gun holstered at his side that drew my attention. It was the body. He was sinewy and tensed for motion, and he filled out his jeans like a billboard model. What was it with this town and gorgeous men? I wasn’t sure if it was in the water or what, but as much as I felt like an outsider here, I certainly couldn’t complain about the view.

  Then he turned to look at me, and I gasped.

  Zion.

  He didn’t speak, but the look he gave me was as predatory as that of a tiger at the zoo sizing up a potential meal. I all but felt the weight of his gaze as he slowly took me in from toes to top. I couldn’t look away from him or move.

  The bartender, whose arms were tattoo-covered and whose face bore a long but faded scar, called out, “Come on in, little bit.” He shot a look at Zion. “And you put those eyes back in your head, Killer. You’re going to scare her away.”

  “I don’t scare easy,” I said, my gaze drifting back to Zion.

  His lips quirked like he was trying not to smile, but then he turned back to the pool table without saying a word. After watching for him everywhere without even a glimpse, I’d walked into my first job interview to find him. I stared a moment longer, as if I could get my fill of looking, and then jerked my attention away.

  The four men sitting at the bar itself gave me a mix of friendly greetings and smiles. One burly man whose arms seemed as wide as my legs patted a stool next to him. “Come on, shug. I’ll keep the children at bay.”

  “I think I can handle them.” I wasn’t used to this kind of place, and I sure as hell wasn’t used to the heat in Zion’s gaze, but that wasn’t going to make me back down. I pointedly didn’t look his way again as I stepped farther into the bar and said, “I’m looking for the manager. Um, I’m supposed to tell you that Bitty’s girl sent me.”

  “Karl!” the bartender yelled. “New barmaid for you.” Then he glanced my way and added, “Grab a seat.”

  With a resolve I’d come to rely on more and more since my parents’ massive case of idiocy, I strolled across the dimly lit bar to wait next to the massive man with his glass of beer and bowl of bar snacks. He flashed me a wide smile that put me at ease instantly.

  “I’m Billy,” he said. “That’s Killer.” He pointed at Zion, who didn’t look up from the pool table. He made his shot as if no one were there, as if no one had spoken his name, and I tried to ignore the bereft feeling that came over me when he didn’t look my way. Apparently, my deciding not to stare didn’t equate to my being okay with him not noticing me.

  “Bartender’s called Mike,” Billy continued. He pointed at the other three men sitting a few stools away. “These idiots aren’t worth knowing.”

  I didn’t ask about the two bikers at the table. They were speaking in low voices, and of the people there, they were the only ones who didn’t seem to pay me any mind. One wore a jacket that looked a lot like Zion’s; it had several patches on the back. I could make out a top bar, curved like the top section of a circle, with the words Southern Wolves in it; a howling wolf in the middle of the circle; 1% on one side; MC on the other.

  Billy noticed my furtive glance at them. “They’re good people, shug. The only ones allowed to carry in here are Killer and his boss. The rest check their weapons or leave ’em at home. And the only colors allowed in here are the Wolves’, so no worries about trouble.”

  The idea of a weapons check was both unsettling and comforting at once. The other detail was a little more clarifying. Colors. That was the term for club affiliation. I’d heard it before around my grandmother’s neighborhood, and as I stood in the bar, I realized that the emblems on the jackets were exactly that: MC stood for motorcycle club; I wasn’t sure what the 1% meant, but I made a mental note to look it up.

  Then an old man, presumably Karl, came out of a door in the side of the room. He had the sort of massive beard that called Santa Claus to mind, but he was wiry and fit. A black bandanna covered his head, and a long gray braid snaked down past the middle of his back. He was dressed like the rest of them: jeans, heavy black boots, and a shirt. Instead of a leather jacket, he had a vest over his long-sleeved shirt. His sleeves were rolled up, exposing faded tattoos on both forearms. Amid the art was another wolf image.

  “Have you ever stepped foot inside a bar before?” he asked me, his tone pretty clearly stating that he knew the answer already.

  “No. I’m only twenty.”

  “Law says you only need to be eighteen to bartend in Tenness
ee.” Karl peered at me and asked, “Know anything about bikes?”

  “No.”

  “Bikers?”

  At this point, I realized that everyone in the room—except Zion—was watching us. I wasn’t sure that mentioning that one of the bikers there had given me a ride was a good idea. Zion certainly wasn’t volunteering it. I paused, my temper slipping a little despite my best efforts. “Did your last waitress work on motorcycles or something?”

  The old man grinned. “Nope. She minded the till, carried the drinks, cleared the tables, and scolded the boys.”

  “Right. Well, I can do all that.” I folded my arms over my chest. “Probably better than she did.”

  “Might be.” He nodded. “Hard to tell, though. I need a bartender, not just a waitress.”

  I wasn’t going to backtrack. I saw the men at the table studying me. One of them winked and nodded once. It didn’t feel flirtatious.

  “I can learn,” I insisted.

  “Maybe.” He met my gaze with a look that was somewhere between assessing and confrontational. “You’ll need to collect any firearms or knives bigger than a pocketknife. The boys know it, and if anyone refuses, the bouncer will toss them out.”

  “Oh.”

  “It’s like a coat check,” Karl explained.

  “So no one in the bar is to be armed?”

  “Killer, the bouncers, and anyone Killer says is fine.” He continued watching me as he spoke. “He or I’ll tell you any other exceptions if they come up. Can you handle that?”

  I thought about it. I’d never handled anything more dangerous than a kitchen knife, so the idea of a weapons check was unsettling. On the other hand, the fact that the people drinking in the bar would be unarmed was comforting. “I’ve never touched a gun, but if you show me how to do it, I’m sure I can manage.”

  “Sounds reasonable,” he said with a single nod at me. “Are you sure you want to work here? I’m sure there are other places—”

  “Hire me conditionally,” I interrupted. “If I don’t work out in thirty days, you can hire someone else.”

  Karl stared at me for what felt like minutes, and then he grinned and held out his hand. “You got a pair on you, don’t you? You’ll need them around here. Job’s yours.”

  After I shook his hand, I felt like doing a victory dance. It wasn’t the sort of job that would do much for my resume, but it would put more cash in my pocket. I had a few friends who’d talked about bartending. It paid well, according to them.

  “You won’t regret it, sir,” I promised.

  “Uncle Karl,” he corrected, and then he motioned for me to follow him toward the room he’d come out of. “Let’s get you sorted out.”

  Foolishly, I allowed my attention to drift briefly to Zion. The same biker who had winked at me quirked a brow at that and gave Zion a questioning look. I dropped my gaze and followed Uncle Karl. I wasn’t here to flirt. I was here to collect tips to put in my “get back to Oregon” fund. That was all.

  Chapter 5

  AFTER HAVING SPENT a good many hours writing off his encounter with Red as typical, just an average night that meant nothing, Zion felt like he’d taken a punch to the gut when she walked into the bar. He’d been prepared to see her a lot of places, but not at the bar. College girls didn’t walk into the kinds of places where the Wolves spent their downtime, not unless they were looking for a short vacation in a world where they’d never stay. He didn’t call it slumming, but he was well aware that many of them did. The bar saw its share of pretty college girls who wanted a few tastes of the forbidden before they settled into their well-manicured lives.

  Red didn’t seem like them. She’d seemed like she was real, or maybe that was the booze, or maybe it was because he knew her grandmother—and she didn’t look down on bikers. He didn’t know. What he did know was that it didn’t matter now. Red was about to be forbidden to him. There were rules about bartenders: it was fine to take them out once or twice, but if a barmaid was involved with one of the Wolves, she wasn’t allowed to work at the bar. It had caused too much conflict in the club over the years, so Uncle Karl had a blanket policy these days. Anyone who was property of a Wolf, or even rode with him exclusively for a short while, wasn’t able to work at the bar.

  Zion’s gaze drifted to the door to Uncle Karl’s office. He knew that Red was in there right now filling out the papers to work here. He wasn’t sure whether he felt cursed or happy to see her at Wolves & Whiskey. With the way she’d been plaguing his mind, seeing her once or twice wouldn’t be enough. He’d never attempted friendship with a girl, and he wasn’t interested in starting to do so with her.

  The pool cue didn’t waver as he lined up the next shot. His attention didn’t falter. He was on the clock, here in case Echo needed anything. Even if Zion weren’t working, she wasn’t meant for him. Those offers, those little sighs, the way she’d curled into his arms—that was the drink. It wasn’t real. He’d told himself as much several times when he’d come damn near to riding out to her house. Ignoring that spark of interest had been a lot easier when she wasn’t here in his bar.

  “What do you think, Killer?” Billy called.

  Zion shook his head and kept his mouth shut. What he thought wasn’t something he’d be saying. The Wolves and the hangers-on were all well used to him taking the barmaids out once or twice. It wasn’t quite a catch-and-release system, but it was pretty close. He didn’t do commitments, and the bar’s rules were clear enough that the “third time” excuse was handy. He didn’t need to make up a reason to retreat, and the girls saved face. It was a win-win . . . and it was nowhere near what he’d considered when he thought about Red.

  Steadily, as if he weren’t bothered at all that she was here, Zion put his cue back in the wall rack and walked over to the bar. He tapped it, and Mike poured him a double shot of Jack without a word. There was more than one reason he was a good bartender.

  “You’ll explain who she shouldn’t trust,” Zion said after throwing the drink back.

  “You’re usually top of that list.”

  Zion lifted a brow. “I’d never hurt a woman.”

  “Different list,” Mike said easily. “There’s the ones she can’t trust to keep her safe, and then there’s those who sleep with all the girls.”

  “She’s not the type of girl to do that,” Zion said with more of a snarl than he’d intended.

  “And you know this from seeing her walk in?”

  There was no point in answering that. Mike would see soon enough that Red was special. They all would. A flare of jealousy filled Zion at that realization. They’d see, and someone would take a run at her. Several someones, inevitably.

  “She’s under my protection,” he told Mike quietly. “Anyone hassles her, you tell me.”

  The bartender’s eyes widened.

  “I don’t have any claim. She’s free to flirt all she wants, but if anyone hurts her or disrespects her, they’ll answer to me. Make it known.”

  “I’ll pass the word,” Mike said. He didn’t press Zion for any answers, but his curiosity was written clearly on his face.

  Zion ignored those unspoken questions. The Southern Wolves’ president was his boss, his only boss, and the only person who could demand answers of him. Zion didn’t answer to anyone else, and he never wanted to. He was good at what he did, and he had a lot of freedom in his life. Most people gave him plenty of space. Zion was the person Echo let off the leash when someone else needed to answer questions; he was the one who sent messages and warnings. If being under Zion’s protection wasn’t enough to keep Red safe in the Wolves’ den, nothing was.

  The one member of his family undaunted by Zion’s temper or position was the man now walking into the bar, his cousin Noah. They were as close as brothers and had been raised as if they were.

  “Killer,” Noah said, heading toward Uncle Karl’s office, a backpack slung over his shoulder.

  “Thought you had classes.”

  “Just one today. I’m
done,” Noah said. “I saw that girl from the fair on campus. She’s something.”

  Noah grinned in a way that made Zion grit his teeth. He said nothing, though. This was neither the time nor the place.

  Oblivious, Noah said, “I’m going to check in with Uncle K—”

  “He’s busy,” Zion snapped.

  He didn’t want Noah in there with Red. It was stupid. He’d just finished telling Mike that he had no claim, but telling himself wasn’t working out quite as well. He gestured to the pool table he’d vacated a few minutes ago and told Noah, “Rack ’em.”

  Behind him he heard Mike barely cover a laugh with a sudden cough.

  Let him laugh, Zion thought. He wasn’t subtle to begin with, but after what he’d as much as admitted to Mike already, he didn’t feel the need to be too vague. The words he hadn’t said were pretty fucking clear. He wanted Red. He was willing to defend her honor.

  “Let me drop this in Uncle Karl’s office first,” Noah said, gesturing toward his bag.

  “What? Your books aren’t safe enough out here?”

  His cousin flipped him off and kept walking.

  Zion walked back to the table without a word.

  Noah barely lowered his voice as he asked Mike, “What crawled up his ass?”

  After a glance at Zion, Mike shrugged. Zion pretended he couldn’t hear or see either of them. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and shook one out. Unlike a lot of places, the bar wasn’t a smoking-free zone.

  “Something happen?” Noah prompted Mike.

  Mike shrugged again.

  Noah shook his head, and then he walked over to Uncle Karl’s door and opened it.

  Zion didn’t follow. Not here. Not yet. Noah knew that Zion had seen her first, had talked to her, was still thinking about her. They hadn’t had some womanly heart-to-heart or anything, but they’d talked enough that Zion’s interest in Aubrey wasn’t a secret . . . but neither was the bar policy on taking up with any of the girls who worked at Wolves & Whiskey. Noah knew Zion was interested, knew he was hoping to see her again, and yet there he was talking about her like she was available. Maybe he hadn’t understood that Zion wasn’t sure if this one was the catch-and-release sort. That hesitation was why Zion hadn’t marched up to Aubrey’s door. He needed to think. Wanting to see a girl for a reason other than just sex wasn’t his normal impulse, but there was something about her that made him want to talk to her too. She’d been drunk as hell the last time he’d seen her, but she’d still held her ground. She’d been closemouthed despite the rotgut liquor she’d had, and she’d looked at him like she saw a gentleman, not a criminal. All told, she was intriguing. Zion was weighing what to do about her.