“Mercenary.” Prez’s penetrating stare lands on me next.
“Prez.” I nod in acknowledgement and meet his hard stare across the table. The man never eases up, always serious and concerned with club business.
“Everything straight at The Pit?
“Yep, didn’t know Chevelle was a goddamn sex kitten, though,” I rasp, thinking of her tight body, and a few brothers chuckle around me. Bastards could’ve warned me.
“She’s something all right,” he agrees, his lips turned up just a touch in amusement. “Don’t fuck it up over there. We need you in the middle of it all for recon. I want to know why the Fists are coming into our territory. They think no one’s paying any attention when they couldn’t be more wrong. There are too many bikers in central Texas for no one not to notice unwelcome colors riding in. They’re straight-up shitbags.”
“She has me racing on Saturday. Were you aware of that happening?”
One side of his mouth hikes up a bit more at the new turn of events. It’s sort of a part scowl, part smirk and his gaze turns thoughtful. “Hope you didn’t place any bets.” He said nearly the same thing before I went, and I wrote it off as nothing, now I understand why. Chevelle plays to win.
“No bets, I raced her for her time.”
“Did you even get a chance to speak then?”
Odin snorts beside him. Saint snickers and I blow out a pent-up breath. “I had a minute and fourteen seconds,” I admit and the brothers all chuckle.
“Fuck.” The Prez actually grins and then shakes his head. “You gotta stay on your toes with that one; watch yourself.”
“I plan to.” I nod, and he moves on.
“Okay, you heard Merc. So, if any of you are free Saturday, head out with him and keep an eye on the crowd since he’ll be behind the wheel for a bit.”
“I can go,” Odin offers.
“Me too, brother,” Torch offers.
“Bet,” Viking approves and flicks his eyes to Blaze. “Cousin, I need you to stick close to Princess now that Odin has been patched to Vice President. I know we briefly discussed it and all.”
“I promised you before I’d protect her with my life.”
Prez exhales and rubs his hand over his face. “I remember. I think she’s had enough time to move past any hard feelings she may have carried toward you too. It’s time to be a permanent move, and she knew it would be coming soon after Odin’s new patch.”
“You still want me manning the bar too?”
“No, my ol’ lady takes priority. She’s been through enough and Odin has offered her a sense of safety when I’m not around.”
He turns to Chaos. “I need you to take over handling the bar. I can ask Nightmare’s ol’ lady to bartend a few days a week to give you a break and also when you’re sent out on a run.”
“Chaos’ eyebrow shoots up. “I can open beers just fine, but I don’t know how to mix drinks and shit. I drank my fair share during my football days at parties and what not, but never made any of them.”
“Most of us know how to fix our own; I just need you back there until I can find someone else full time. Especially cause you’re the first line of defense through the main door. An enemy comes in, you take that shotgun behind the bar to their chest and ask questions later. I won’t fuck around after the club was stormed once before.”
“No problem, boss.”
“Good, anyone else have anything to add?”
We remain quiet, and he slams the gavel again. “Do your jobs and get the fuck out of my chapel!”
3. I stopped waiting for the light at the end of
the tunnel, and lit that bitch myself.
- BossBabe
Another Saturday has rolled around and another race in its place. The adrenaline and exhaust while racing around the track is the best type of escape I’ve ever found. I can just tune out and focus on driving and nothing else. It seems like whenever I’m not in my car, then someone is trying to talk to me and bother me with something. I swear it drives all these men mad around here to have a woman running The Pit.
But how can they complain if they can’t even beat me? It’s the way I’ve gotten all of my cars after all. I went into this with a busted up Chevelle. I started from the bottom and with each race, built my car up along with winning the others racing for pink slips and tuning them up as well. Yet it still doesn’t seem to be enough for some of these guys to stop trying to take my place around here. They’re dumb enough to realize that the only way they get my spot is if I fail to pay my loan and they take over payments with the owner.
The Pit was a shit hole the first time I showed up here. It’s not the Taj Mahal by any means, but you no longer race and bust up your whip for twenty bucks. Now, buy-in alone is a cool grand, and the winner of each race walks away with five k. Some weekends we have four different races, breaking them up between Friday and Saturday, it’s grown so popular.
As luck would have it, I come out with five grand nearly every Saturday. It’s hard to complain when you pull in that kind of money. Sure, I dump a ton of it into buying this place, my rent’s fourteen thousand a month and I have to repair my rides, but I still have enough left to live on. I have a small place here back by the offices that I use as a studio apartment, so that saves me from trying to pay for a place to sleep as well.
“Hey Chevy, you got everything set for tonight?” Ace, one of the floor guys, tilts his head with the question. He’s one of the few around here who get away with calling me by that nickname. He’s proved himself to be a good guy, someone I can rely on when it comes to working The Pit and doesn’t give me any grief.
“As much as I can, I suppose.” I shrug, polishing the hood of my fire engine red Nova I’m racing tonight. She’s stacked with a badass engine to leave some amateurs in my rearview mirror. The best way to see them, in my opinion.
“I’ve got a hundred on you taking first tonight.”
“Well then, at least your girlfriend won’t be pissed at you losing money again.”
He snorts and gives me the finger.
“Right back atcha, buddy!” I call as he strides away. He knows it’s true. His woman was livid the last time he bet on a race and went home a few hundred dollars poorer. At least he’s learned to bet on me and not some random rich asshole with a pretty sports car.
“Chevy?” A rasp like a thick warm caress comes from behind me.
I twirl around so quickly I nearly get whiplash. “It’s Chevelle.” I correct, and he grunts. I’m surprised to see biker boy came back. “And if I remember correctly, you’re cupcake.”
The side of his mouth tilts up in a cross between grimace and smirk. The man is broody as hell, and I don’t even know him. Not to mention hot in that bad boy don’t fuck with me sort of way. He’s the exact type that I can’t afford to get involved with either because their kind always hurts the girl in the end.
“I’ve knocked out teeth for less than that,” he admits, and I roll my eyes. A threat from him comes off sounding more like foreplay than something to fear.
“I’m sure. Well, you’re not knocking out shit here if you want a chance to stick around.”
“You’re taking me home tonight then?” he suggests.
“Nice try buddy, but it’s not fucking happening. Ever.”
He takes one step forward, and it’s enough to place us nearly chest to chest. He’s massive but moves like a damn cat. He licks his lips and bends closer. I swear to Christ if he touches me I’ll put him on his ass again.
“Keep telling yourself that,” he rasps and stands up fully. With a wink, he finishes with a growl, “Chevy.”
My name on his lips has my flesh breaking out in goosebumps. The man is alpha to the fullest degree, and it calls to me like a fresh set of staggered tires on a fast car. You want to put them to work, tear them up a little and make them scream for you. I could have that man on his knees, pleading with me to let him come.
With quick s
trides, he heads to the end of the track where my Camaro’s parked. He has Viking to thank for having a tuned car for him at the ready. I wouldn’t have let just anyone borrow one of my babies, but Viking’s good for his word.
Colored lights flicker across the stands as everyone rushes to their seats. I slide into the Nova and crank her over just as the speakers through The Pit blare to life. “Hands Up” by NF pours through them, signaling a race is about to begin, and people cheer.
My girl purrs toward the start line. I always get the first race. That way I can work the rest of the night. Breathe in and out, in and out. I chant silently to myself, watching as the three other vehicles come into line beside me. None of them are Mercenary though. He must’ve selected the second race. Smart move on his part too. He might actually have a fighting chance not going up against me. My Camaro’s quick, but she’s heavy. You have to know just how to push her to get her to respond to you.
One foot on the brake, my other presses down on the gas, smoking out my opponents as my tires squeal. The track is dry, but it’s still good practice to clean your tires and warm up your engine. The rice burner beside me spins his tires, but it’s nothing compared to the roar of my engine. I ease off the gas, and my eyes flick to the side just in time to catch Mercenary standing ominously, arms crossed over his chest, glare pointed in my direction.
A horn blares, and I drop it into first, my feet working the clutch and gas like my life depends on it. It does though; the money helps me survive. Without the wins, I’d be out on my ass again. The cash The Pit brings in only covers enough to pay the people working here and to maintain upkeep.
The front end jumps, the engine pushing out so much power it brings the front end off the ground for a split second. The trunks weighed down enough, so my ass end doesn’t slide all over the place as I take off, but my gaze is still trained on Mercenary all the way up until I pass him by. The man doesn’t blink the entire time either. It’s like he’s trying to get into my head, but for what? He needed to come in for his Prez, but I have nothing to do with whatever they’re involved in.
And for his sake, I hope he’s not trying to get me to fold. I’m one person who won’t let him win on this track. There’ve been plenty of others who’ve come through with a pretty face, thinking they’d bed me and I’d let them win. Not hardly. They didn’t get in my pants and they damn sure didn’t get my money. I learned growing up that being soft gets you nowhere.
“How ‘bout I take you to dinner?” A gravelly voice suggests coming into my office. I’m sitting behind the old oak desk—feet propped up, Converse sneakers resting on the edge.
“Hmm, how about no?” I reply smoothly, acting unruffled although his voice causes my lady parts to tingle with desire.
“I won’t make you pay, little one. I won tonight, after all.” He winks, and I scowl.
“You want a trophy to help stroke that ego too? The cash not enough for you?”
Mercenary grins and the change in his features is striking enough to make me draw in a stunned breath. He’s gorgeous when he’s not busy glaring at everything. “If stroking is on your mind, I have something big to put in your hands. Fill you right up and quench that need.”
“Cute,” I huff, and he plants his ass in the seat in front of me. “What do you really want?”
His ice blue gaze flicks over me. “You couldn’t handle it if I was honest, so we’ll settle for dinner for now.”
“Not happening unless it doesn’t include me, cupcake.”
“You’re not gonna drop that anytime soon, huh?”
“Not planning on it, no. Why, does it bother you?” I ask and smile sweetly. I love fucking with him already, and I’ve barely met the dude.
“Hmph,” he grumbles as Ace stumbles in, wide-eyed.
“What’s wrong?”
“A few guys claiming they need a word with you.”
“So, what’s the problem?”
His eyes flick to Mercenary, and he tilts his head toward him. “His club doesn’t get along with them.”
“The Oath Keepers?”
At that, Mercenary turns to face Ace, finally giving him some attention. “Who is it?”
“The Iron Fists,” Ace replies in nearly a whisper.
“The fuck you got to talk to them about?” The broody biker questions me next with a glare.
I shrug. I really have no idea why they’d be demanding to speak to me. Unless maybe they bet some cash and lost it. A lot of trouble comes from that shit around here, but we need the extra money too badly to stop taking bets.
“You have to go,” I tell him, and he flashes his teeth, the man’s feral.
“Fuck no. They’re bad news. I’m not going anywhere.”
“I don’t need a keeper; I got you on your back, didn’t I?”
“That was different.”
“Um Chevy, these guys aren’t the type who wait for long,” Ace interrupts.
“Goddamn it,” the alpha gripes impatiently.
“Fine, if you insist on staying, cupcake, you’ll have to stand in my bathroom. I don’t want them seeing you in here before I even know what the hell they want. You have to be quiet. I don’t want to die because of whatever beef you have between clubs.”
“I’m spanking your ass for this,” he grumbles as his chair slings back a bit with his quick movement to stand.
“Do us both a favor while you wait in there and hold your breath.”
He shoots me one last glare before disappearing into my bathroom. He leaves the door open. I’m assuming he’s behind it in case these Iron Fists poke their head in to search.
“Okay, Ace, let’s get this over with. Send them in.”
He nods, and I sit back, relaxed. Most of these guys will back down if they think they can’t intimidate you easily. I can kick ass if needed but it’s better if I conserve that fact for when I really require it. I’ll admit the Iron Fists make me uneasy and having an Oath Keeper in my bathroom does bring me a touch of peace of mind. Viking and his club are good allies to have around here.
Anyone in the life dealing with gambling, racing, motorcycles, etc. knows the Iron Fists aren’t good news. They’re a sick and twisted outlaw motorcycle club that loves terrorizing people. I would’ve been just fine if they overlooked The Pit. Their money is some that I actually don’t want. Wouldn’t surprise me if it came with conditions or blood splatter.
Ace comes back into my office, two dudes in tow. One’s burly but short, kind of what I’d think of with a modern-day gnome. He’s just missing a pointy hat to cover his long, unruly, cinnamon-colored hair. The other is thinner, not too hard on the eyes, with sandy locks coming to his chin, but his club colors syphon away any attraction I might conjure up immediately.
“This is Chevelle.” Ace’s hand flies forward, gesturing to me still kicked back behind the desk like I deal with their type daily. I do to an extent, but not quite as notorious—usually just druggies hurting for cash or pissed off racers who lost. From what I’ve heard in rumors floating around, the Iron Fists are an MC that you want to stay off their radar.
Blondie’s stare turns heated taking me in while the other seems bored. “Get me a beer,” Auburn hair gnome orders Ace.
“You’re not staying long enough for a beer,” I interrupt. “Now, why are you taking up my time? I have shit to do.”
That gets his attention but his buddy butts in first. “Fuck, the things I’ll do to that mouth. Didn’t know you were running this place or my Prez would’ve sent us sooner.”
“Again, why are you here?” I repeat, sounding monotone and ignore his previous comment.
“Watch how you talk to us, bitch,” the grouch chastises, and it takes everything inside me to remain calm. I want to kick the idiot in the balls and wash his mouth out with soap.
“You came to me, not the other way around.”
“Right.” The good-looking one nods and steps closer to my right side, almost around the de
sk. It’s an intimidation tactic. In a second, the other guy will go to my left. They’ll think they can box me in. “We came to you,” he agrees, and I drum my fingers on my thigh, keeping my face void of emotion but my body ready to leap whenever needed.
“You could start with your names and then move to why you’re standing in my office.”
“That’s easy.” He shrugs. “Me and my brother came because our boss wants a cut.”
A chuckle breaks free and they both glare, probably growing more pissed by the minute with my flippant attitude. “Why should I give you anything?” It doesn’t escape my notice that they blow off the other question and skip over the names. Greedy bastards, that’s for sure.
“Because we’ll be taking over soon enough and anyone in business not wanting problems will pay up.”
“Is that what you think? That we’ll all just roll over and cough up cash for you? That this area is up for grabs?” Everyone knows who Viking and Ares are, the two motorcycle club presidents in this area and there’s no way in hell they’d let someone just come right in and take over. I’ve heard enough employees spill rumors about the two as well as watching them with my own eyes squash down any issues when they first popped up together in The Pit.
“Stupid mouthy bitch.” The one on the left nearly rounds my desk, and I stand to my feet. He seems to have a problem with his vocabulary. I should fix it for him.
Ace grows ashen. “Guys, you shouldn’t get that close to Chevelle. How about you talk another time?”
“Isn’t that fuckin’ perfect, door boy’s trying to stand up for this mouthy piece.” Walnut locks nods to me and snickers. This isn’t the first time someone’s spoken to me with such disrespect; in fact, it happens quite often. I’ve learned to let the majority of it roll off because when it all boils down to it, men with small penises are not worth going to jail for.
My bathroom door widens, opening enough for a large man to fit through and out strolls Mercenary sans cut, with his chin high and sharp, eyes curious and unnervingly calm. I can’t believe he thought to take it off. I’m not sure whether to be relieved or irritated with his presence. I haven’t quite figured the guy out just yet. At any rate, these two jackoffs here attempting to push me around will be dumb enough to believe I have backup muscle to help me out.
Chevelle 6x9 Page 3
