When she entered it was like a freeze-frame moment. Everything went quiet as they surveyed the newcomer.
“This is Brigid, y’all. Prez says to make her feel welcome.”
“Prez indeed!” A woman in her late sixties was making her way past the other women, wiping her hands on her white apron, and speaking as she walked. “That boy doesn’t need to tell us to be polite.”
She smiled at Brigid and stuck out her hand. “I’m June. You’re welcome to join us. Do you know your way around a kitchen?”
Brigid opened her mouth to speak, but Arnold jumped in. “June’s old man founded the club. She’s Prez’s mama.”
Brigid could tell from Arnold’s tone that he regarded her affectionately.
“Glad to meet you,” Brigid said, shaking the hand that was offered. “I’m no French chef, but I’ve got the basics. Do you need help?”
“Oh, lands. We can always use another pair of hands.” To Arnold, she said, “Go on about your business now. She’ll be fine here.”
Arnold gave Brigid a parting smile. “If you change your mind about bein’ my date, look me up later.”
June tisked and shook her head. “Way I hear it, that boy’ll give you a hard day’s night, but won’t remember your name in the mornin’.”
Brigid laughed at the information and at the twinkle in June’s eyes. “So you’re the grand dame?”
June elbowed her in a conspiratorial way. “Unlike the men around here, we don’t need titles. We just do what women always do. We take care of life while they play their little games.”
Several of the other women snickered at that.
June introduced her to seven women, including the club members to whom they were tied and their relationship to them, wives, old ladies, or girlfriends. Brigid catalogued the information that there had been no corresponding mention of women when she was introduced to the men.
It didn’t take long to figure out why Arnold had asked if she’d brought something more “form fitting”. All the women were wearing clothes that were tight, revealing, or both. That, combined with heavy makeup and big hair did make Brigid look like she was the sheep who had wandered into the goat pen.
“Now if you can drain those pots of boiled potatoes and dump them in here,” June pointed to a tub, “we’ll start throwin’ in the mixin’s for potato salad.”
“Sure.” Brigid’s tee had elbow-length sleeves, which she pushed up higher before grabbing some oven mitts to lift the first pot. As she carried it to the deep sink, she was thinking she was glad she found time to circuit train now and then because the pot was damn heavy. One of the other women slipped past her and put a huge colander in the sink so that Brigid could tip the pot and release the steamy water. She smiled at the woman and wished she could remember her name, but it was too many people too quickly to keep them all straight.
She repeated that process twice more before all the potatoes were dumped into, first the colander, then the tub.
“All done!” she announced. “What’s next?”
“Marjorie, show Brigid how we make Sanctuary Salad.” To Brigid, June said, “ Marjorie’s got the touch when it comes to potatoes. After tonight, you’re going to dream about potato salad. Mark my words.”
Brigid laughed. Marjorie appeared to be in her late thirties or early forties. Brigid pictured her with a soccer mom makeover and decided she’d be an attention-getter in any setting.
Marjorie began carving up potatoes with a meat fork and butcher knife. As she worked, she glanced at Brigid with a look of amusement. “You a biker virgin, honey?”
Brigid had no idea how to answer that. “I… uh…”
Marjorie laughed again. “I’m not askin’ if you’ve fucked bikers. I’m askin’ if you’ve been around ‘em much.”
Brigid noticed that everything had gone quiet. Apparently everybody in the kitchen was waiting for her reply. “Well, no. Not really.”
“Thought so,” said Marjorie. “So you see how I’m doin’ this?” Brigid nodded. “Okay. You give it a try. When the whole mess has been chopped up so that no piece is bigger than this,” she indicated a shape like a half inch square, “come get me and we’ll get down to work.”
“Okay.”
Brigid took the knife and fork and mimicked Marjorie’s motions. When she was done, Marjorie added salt, paprika, a ton of Miracle Whip, a little yellow mustard, and some chopped pimentos, “for color” she’d said. She dipped a spoon into the gigantic mixture and aimed it at Brigid’s mouth.
“Okay. Try this.”
Brigid opened her mouth and let Marjorie feed her. Again, the kitchen had gone quiet as they waited for her reaction.
“Oh my God!” She started talking before she even swallowed the bite. “I will dream about this!”
Everybody laughed. Marjorie winked and said, “Have as much as you want. Cook gets first dibs. It wouldn’t hurt for you to fill those curves out a little. Bikers like to use their hands and want somethin’ substantial to grab onto.”
The women agreed, some with laughter, some with, “Amen,” or “Got that right”.
“Oh, leave her alone,” June piped in. “There’s a reason why God made things in different sizes. We’re not all supposed to be alike.”
Brigid appreciated that sentiment and liked June all the more for voicing it. Again, she silently admonished herself for allowing feelings to creep into her research project.
After an hour or so in the kitchen, the women began to relax their guard around Brigid. The novelty of her presence was wearing off and the hum of chatter and laughter resumed. Brigid thought it was the closest thing to being a fly on the wall. Perfect for her.
Car Lot stepped into the kitchen. “Pig’s done,” he announced as he grabbed a deviled egg half and slid the whole thing into his mouth. “Hmmm.” He grabbed a pregnant woman with sandy-colored hair in a ponytail and pulled her close to him. “You make these, hon? Tastes like you.”
She giggled. “Yeah. Guess you know my taste pretty well.”
The whole room boomed with bawdy laughter. Car Lot smiled as he kissed his wife, but his ears turned pink with embarrassment. Brigid cataloged that as interesting because she wouldn’t have guessed a burly biker could be that easily embarrassed.
Brigid helped move the prepared food outside where the women watching the kids had been preparing a buffet table with paper plates, napkins, condiments, and utensils. When Brant Fornight made his appearance, the first thing he did was to acknowledge his mother and give her a kiss on the cheek. She smiled and patted his shoulder.
Brigid got some food and went to find a place to sit down where she could watch without drawing unnecessary attention to herself. She was there for about two minutes before June set a plate and a beer down across from her.
“How ‘bout I join you for supper tonight?”
Brigid smiled. “Sure. Love to have the company.” June nodded, sat, and picked up a roasted pork sandwich. Brigid nodded toward the children. “The kids are having such a good time they don’t want to stop to eat.”
“Yeah, it’s always been like that. There are a few people here who grew up in the club. I won’t point them out because I’m sure you’re already overwhelmed with names and such, but you’ll find out when you talk to them. I guess you’re goin’ to talk to everybody alone eventually.”
“That’s my hope.” Brigid tried for an innocent smile that conveyed the idea she wasn’t there to hurt anybody.
June was openly studying her. “They told you my old man got this thing started?” Brigid nodded while she chewed a carrot stick. “I’ve been a widow for about twenty years. Havin’ these people, well, it’s meant the world. Course I had my hands full raisin’ a young hellion. My son was a single father. Well, I mean he is a single father, but the boy’s been a grown man for a while now.”
Brigid looked around. “Is he a member of the club?”
“He is, but he’s not here tonight.”
“Oh.”
�
��He’s a good-lookin’ boy. And likeable. Lord knows the girls like him.”
“Do most people raised around the club stay part of the community when they grow up?”
June shook her head. “I wouldn’t say most. But I would say that all of them know there’s somebody they can go to for help if they come up against the kind of problem they can’t fix.”
“Like what?”
“Maybe that’s a talk for another time. Tonight’s about gettin’ to see the club at its best. To me, these picnics are the heart of the thing. Bein’ surrounded by people who would get up in the middle of the night if we called for help, well, it reminds us that we belong to somethin’ worthwhile. And we’re not alone.”
Brant set a longneck and a plate down next to June. “Mama,” he said. “Looks like you’re gettin’ along with Pain.”
“Pain?” June asked.
Brant chuckled. “That’s what Eric calls this one,” he nodded toward Brigid. “Now everybody’s sayin’ it. Looks like it’s gonna stick.”
“You mean me?” Brigid scowled. “They’re calling me ‘pain’?”
“In our world, when you get a name, you put a smile on and live with it. Unless you’re prepared to beat the livin’ crap out of any and everyone who mouths a handle you refuse.”
Brigid cocked her head. “Is that what happened with you, um, Brant? They tried to give you a nickname and you, uh, beat the livin’ crap out of anybody who said it?”
He locked onto Brigid’s inquiring eyes, took a swig of Lone Star, then said, “Damn straight.”
“Do not let him intimidate you with that scary biker shit,” June said.
Brant face softened into an affectionate smile as he turned to his mom. “You think I’m not scary?”
June just laughed and patted his face. “Now your dad, he was scary.”
Brant looked thoughtful as his chin went up once and then down. “He could be. That’s a fact.”
Not ready to change the subject, Brigid said, “So you’re saying that my two choices are to be okay with being called ‘Pain’ or be prepared to engage large hairy bikers in mortal combat.”
Brant looked amused. “Shaved ones, too.”
“What’s goin’ on over here?” One of the women who had been watching the children slid onto the seat next to Brigid.
“This is my girl,” June said. “She and Brant are what they call Irish twins. Know what that is?”
“Um, no, I can’t say I do.”
“They’re only a year apart. Joanna’s older.”
“That’s right.” Joanna directed her attention toward Brant. “The Prez is my little brother.” She pointed toward where the children were playing. “Those two little girls in the pink sundresses are my grandkids.”
Brigid looked surprised. “You don’t look old enough.”
Joanna laughed. “People say that all the time. I started young and so did my kid. You met him, I think. Crowley? They call him Crow.” She rolled her eyes at that. “Bikers got no respect for the names their mamas give ‘em.”
“Yeah? Well, respect’s gotta be earned,” Brant said smugly.
Joanna threw a deviled egg at his head, which he successfully ducked.
“Christ, Sissy. How would it look for the president of the Sons of Sanctuary Motorcycle Club to get hit in the face with a deviled egg?”
She laughed. “I don’t know, but I’m takin’ bets most of the club would like to see it.”
“Funny.” Brant looked at Brigid. “I can hear what you’re thinkin’.”
Brigid desperately hoped not. “You can?”
He nodded. “You’re wonderin’ if my sister has a man around here.”
Brigid had to admit that it had crossed her mind, but that was not the kind of question to ask a stranger. Sometimes the answer was sensitive, personal, and altogether not good.
“It did cross my mind.”
“She’s a widow. My brother-in-law was in the reserves. Went to Desert Storm. Didn’t come back.”
“I’m sorry.”
Joanna nodded, but her eyes turned red even though it had been so long ago. “He was one of a kind. Nobody like him.”
When the sun set, the children disappeared, and the music was cranked up louder. Their taste clearly ran to hard driving Classic Rock. Bob Seger. AC/DC. Fog Hat. The night air was far from cold, but they built a fire for light and, as Brigid would later write, probably an age-old call for tribe to gather around the communal fire for rituals and the comfort of togetherness.
A whole new crowd of people showed up. Guys who came to party, not wearing cuts. Girls who responded to the lure of guys reputed to be anarchists.
Brigid stayed off to the side. It was easy to observe without being noticed after dark. Arnold was making out with one of the attendees and didn’t seem to care who watched. By ten o’clock most of the women she’d met in the kitchen, including June and Joanna, had disappeared along with some of the members, including Brant.
She lingered until she concluded that she’d seen what there was to see. There was lightning in the distance. The kind that would put out that fire in a hurry if the storm pushed toward them. In any case, she was too tired to stay and find out. She made her way past the crowd in the main room of the clubhouse to her temporary home, the “guest suite”.
After a shower, she put on her thin flannel night shirt, the pale blue one with mother-of-pearl buttons, and sat down on the side of the bed to make notes. It was too late to pull out the laptop and set it up, but there were a few thoughts she wanted to be sure she didn’t forget.
Lying awake, her head was swimming with first impressions. Some things were exactly what she’d expected to find. Others weren’t. The bass was thumping loud enough to vibrate the mattress under her. Between that and the fact that every once in a while a loud chorus of voices could be heard coming from the other end of the building, sleep was an unattainable goal.
Eventually, sometime after midnight, the party noise quieted and she drifted off.
Brash was on a late-night plane, made later by being diverted to San Antonio because of weather. After sitting on the runway for an hour waiting for it to blow over, Brash demanded to be let off the plane. There was a verbal skirmish between him and the crew that concluded with the threat of calling air marshals to take him into custody. Then quite suddenly, they backed down and let him off the plane.
He rented a car and drove to Austin. It was just getting light by the time he got home. He was tired enough to be bleary-eyed and almost surprised he made it without going to sleep at the wheel. He punched the code into the gate, parked and walked past a still-smoldering fire pit. So exhausted he could barely stand, he’d reached the promised land, the last room on the right at the end of the hall.
He fumbled to find the right key, but got the door open. He managed to pull off his boots, his shirt, and his belt before deciding that he just wasn’t motivated to go further. He reached for the covers and saw that there was a woman in his bed. In his barely-conscious state, he supposed it was a club groupie hoping to get a second chance with him. He was too tired to throw her out, whoever she was. So he crawled in. As he drew in a deep satisfied breath, he inhaled the female scent next to him. He didn’t remember having been with somebody who smelled that good. Ever. So he turned toward her and was asleep in less than a minute.
Brigid’s eyelids fluttered open when morning light filtered into the room. She was having the best dream. Sexy. Warm. Good. So good she didn’t really want to wake up. She squirmed a little, nestling back into the hard body that was spooning hers, then she realized the large hand caressing her breast was no dream.
She came fully awake in an instant and shrieked loud enough to wake the dead.
Brash jumped up, looking around for the direction of the alarm. When he turned back to see a woman standing above him on the bed, he had only a second to take in wide amber eyes and copper-colored hair, before she hauled off and slapped him hard enough to cut his lip on one of his te
eth.
She jumped off the bed, ran for the door, threw it open, and began banging on Brant’s door with both fists while shouting, “OPEN THIS DOOR, FORNIGHT!”
Brash swiped at the trickle of blood starting down his chin.
“Goddammit! What’s the matter with you?!” he roared, sounding every bit as murderous as he looked.
Brigid really looked at him for the first time and wondered if she knew him. He looked awfully familiar. “What’s the matter with me?! I don’t think it’s unreasonable to expect to be able to sleep through the night without being mauled by a hairy biker!”
She turned to resume her assault on the president’s door, but it flew open before she made contact. Brant stood there in pajama bottoms displaying a surprisingly fit-looking bare chest, messy hair and hellfire in his eyes. He looked between Brigid and Brash, who had come up behind her.
“Problem?”
“I’m not sharing a room,” said Brigid.
“I know that.” People were beginning to come out of their rooms and congregate in the hallway. He looked at Brash. “You forget where you live again?”
Brash wiped at the blood on his lip with the back of his hand and shrugged.
As Brant was closing his own door, he said, “Welcome back. Don’t touch the girl,” in an emotionless tone that fit the stereotype of motorcycle club president like a glove.
Brash looked her up and down, then disappeared into the room across the hall and slammed the door.
Brigid stomped back into her room, grabbed the motorcycle boots that had been left haphazardly by the bed and threw each across the hallway, against the closed door so that they hit with an impressive thud. She went back for his shirt and belt and threw them at the door as well. Breathing heavy, so mad her chest was heaving, her eyes locked onto his overnight bag.
She picked it up and heaved it at the door with a mighty, “Oof,” and all her strength, just as he jerked the door open. The force of the leather bag hurtling through the air caught Brash by surprise and knocked him back on his ass.
Two Princes: The Biker and The Billionaire Page 13
