Indulge

by C. D. Breadner

  She loved a man leading her through a room by her back There was something old-fashioned about it that didn’t feel chauvinistic. Just respectful.

  “Let me buy you a drink. It sounds like the day you’ve had entitles you to a couple.”

  Gertie allowed a short laugh at that, legging her way up onto a barstool. He waited until she was settled, then waved the bartender down and held up two fingers. Whatever that meant. Then he took his place next to her.

  “So, Gertie,” he began, angling her way in his chair. “When you go out with your friends, do you always get tanked and high and head to roadhouses?”

  Gertie laughed again, louder so she covered her mouth. “Um,” she began, looking at her hands so she wasn’t looking at him. “No, not really. The uh, guy you scared off, his brother is one of the bartenders. So my friend thought it would be a safe place to … slum it.”

  “Slum it?” he repeated, the amusement obvious in his voice. “That was really fucking stupid.”

  Gertie’s head snapped around so she could gape at him, but then the bartender was setting two shot glasses down on the polished wood bar top and cutting into their conversation. “Here ‘ya are, Buck.”

  Before Gertie could reach for her purse the tender moved off down the line of folks leaning on the brass rail and she looked after him, even more confused.

  “You and your friends coming all the way out here to dance and get drunk? Shitfaced? Tripping on fucking acid? That’s stupid.” He pushed a shot glass closer to her, leaning in with his hand on the back of her stool. “And you’re old enough to know better.”

  Gertie’s head jerked back at that. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Drink your tequila. I got it for you.”

  “You didn’t even pay. He just walked away.”

  Buck chuckled like she’d done something adorable. “Babe, drink your tequila.”

  “Don’t call me babe,” she snapped, ignoring the shot glass. “You can’t tell me I’m old then call me babe.”

  He leaned even closer and she moved the opposite way to create space but it was a weak effort. He looked serious now. “I didn’t call you old,” he pointed out. “I said you’re old enough to be smarter than that. Now drink your fucking tequila.”

  Gertie slumped against her elbow, leaning towards him now. “Stop using the world old, asshole.”

  He gave a smirk at that, and even that was sexy. Dammit. “You’re not old, babe. Your ass put all those tarts to shame, your tits were on my mind all night, and I’m dying to yank on all this hair. You’re not old, no. But you should be more careful.”

  With that he sat up straighter, picked up his shot glass and downed the ounce inside. Gertie watched it, stunned at how he’d just spoken to her, trying to ignore the twinge of delight it gave her in her very core while tearing her eyes off the sight of his throat as he swallowed.

  Gertie focused on the tequila. She licked the inside of her wrist since she couldn’t see any salt, tossed back her shot and then bit down on the lime that had come with the shot on a paper napkin. She winced at the taste, tossed down the rind and gave a slight gasp. “Jesus, that’s harsh.”

  “Not really the clientele that demands Patron,” he muttered, and she gave a giggle at that. He gestured down the bar with two more fingers and Gertie drummed her fingers on the bar, actually nervous. “So, you never got along with your mom?”

  Gertie bit her lip while she considered answering. Why the hell did this guy give a shit? Then again, why did she give a shit what he thought of her? “Not really,” she admitted. “I don’t think I was planned. Although, neither was my oldest brother and she loves him. Maybe it’s female jealousy. I don’t know. I always got along with Dad. Maybe that’s what Mom hated. She resented him and I was his best friend in the meantime.” She shrugged. “This is boring. No point in talking about this.”

  Two more tequila shots were placed with lime, and Gertie looked up to see Buck studying her, his expression a complete puzzle. So she grabbed her shot and downed it then devoured the lime while he threw his back straight. “So, the LSD you and your friends were on,” he said, wiping his bottom lip. “Where’d you get it?”

  Gertie was getting a headache from how many times this guy changed the subject. “I don’t know. One of my friends got it from someone in college.”

  His eyes were sharp as they moved over her face, chewing the inside of his lip. “I’d like you to find out for me.”

  Gertie sighed, pushing away from the bar to lean back on her stool. “Look, those girls aren’t talking to me anymore. I can’t just -”

  “Do me this favor. Find out where they’re getting it. I just want a name or location for the dealer.”

  “I’m sure it was someone in the city. We took it before we got to Markham -” she argued, not even sure this would matter in his world.

  “Don’t care,” he cut her off, ending her wonder at that. “Find out. Let me know.”

  “How will I let you know?”

  “By the time I drop you off tonight your phone will be in my contact list, and mine in yours.”

  Gertie scoffed. “Not likely.” The tequila was kicking in; she was combative.

  Buck got to his feet and eased closer, his front pressing against her arm and the side of her leg. It didn’t even occur to her to lean away. “It will, Gertie. I have ways of getting what I want.”

  Chapter Ten

  Buck killed the engine and waited for Gertie to climb off his bike. She was wasted, but she was a happy drunk so it was amusing. It was nine-thirty, meaning he had just enough time to get her safely into her building before meeting up with Knuckles for dealer patrol in Markham.

  She was at the building’s awning by the time he got off his bike, and he watched the doorman try to get to the door before her, failing only because he saw Buck and looked him up and down indifferently as Gertie said with a hand wave, “Don’t worry. He’s with me.” Shit, she had a doorman?

  She’d likely be fine getting to her condo if the place had a doorman. But she nearly stumbled as the door opened more smoothly than she’s apparently been expecting. She giggled at that, lost a shoe, and Buck just gave the doorman a shrug and bent down to retrieve it. The guy in the monkey suit was chuckling, offering an amused “Good luck with that.”

  The door shut behind him and he took Gertie’s arm to lead her to the elevator bank. She was humming a little tune, smile on her face. Yep, happy drunk. He’d half expected her to fall off the back of his bike on the way here but she held on tight. Maybe a little too tight; her hand kept dropping down to the inside of his thigh, way high up, as though she was trying to figure out which side he kept the goods on. Each time he’d patiently move her hand back up to his stomach, shaking his head. She was pretty damn lucky he had somewhere to be, actually.

  The elevator doors opened as soon as she pressed the button with overdone concentration. He led her inside, hand on her back, and pushed the button to close the doors. “What floor you on, you lush?”

  She giggled, leaning against the wall and holding onto the railing. The neck of her dress was gaping a bit, and he caught a flash of lacy black bra before averting his eyes. “I’m on the sixteenth floor,” she informed him.

  He pushed the button then dropped her shoe in front of its coinciding bare foot. He straightened to find her eyeing him up warily. “Put your shoe on,” he instructed her, hands back on his hips.

  She scoffed but shoved her toes into the thing, stumbled, and stepped funny so she stumbled into the wall and knocked the shoe right over.

  “Jesus,” Buck muttered, leaning over, grabbing her leg behind the knee and forcing the shoe onto her foot for her. When he straightened up she wrapped her hand around his bicep, surprising him a bit.

  She stared at him, intently, for about ten seconds. Just as he was about to say “What?” she leaned in and kissed him.

  Buck let that contact hold for about two seconds before easing her off of him by the arms. “Gertie,” he said o
n a chuckle. “Honey, come on.”

  She blinked a couple times. “What? What’s wrong?”

  He tilted his head. “You’re drunk. You’re not thinking straight.”

  She jerked back, like he’d tried to bite her. “What?”

  “Give me your phone,” he told her.

  “No.” Downright petulant.

  “Gertie, give me your phone. Please?”

  “Fuck. You.” She punctuated each word by jabbing her finger in his chest.

  Buck grabbed her hand, pulling it down to her side and holding it there, then backing her up against the wall. Her eyes got wide and her lips parted to breathe. The girl was the definition of a hot mess by this point, but even as a sloppy drunk he could appreciate the flecks of green in her hazel eyes, the cute up tilt of her nose. Her lips were nice, very feminine, the bottom one puffier than the top. And she smelled good. Fuck, she smelled really good.

  “Gertie,” he breathed, tilting his head to run his nose up the side of her neck.

  She shook from it and he grinned. “What?” she whispered, her free hand holding onto his shoulder.

  “What’s your phone number, honey?”

  Without hesitation she breathed out the seven digits, and he stepped back abruptly, pulling out his phone and entering them in before he forgot them. When he looked up he busted out laughing. She looked completely shocked and plenty pissed off. “You asshole!” she snapped, swinging her purse at him ineffectually and stomping her foot.

  “Told you your number would be in my phone. Now where’s your phone?”

  She was pissed but she still shoved her hand into her bag and pulled out some touch-screen smartphone crap. He managed to get to the contacts page when the elevator door dinged open, and without waiting for her he stepped out into the corridor. She had no choice but to follow.

  He entered his name as Buck then put his burner number in her phone. “When you find out where that acid came from, call me,” he reminded her as she suddenly stopped at a door and started digging around in her purse again.

  “Yeah yeah,” she snapped back, pulling out a collection of keys. It was comical to watch her sort through them to find the one to her door. She was having a hell of a time focusing. He waited, smirk in place, as she fitted the key into her deadbolt and pushed the door open. She turned back, shoulder to the doorjamb, giving him what she might have thought was a sultry smile. In actuality it was crooked, quirky and kind of adorable. “Do you want to come in?”

  Buck handed her phone back, shaking his head. “No thanks, honey. I got business to take care of. And you’re probably not in a great mindset to be making these decisions.” Buck knew he wasn’t a boy scout, never pretended to be one, and if he was anywhere in the same hemisphere of drunk as she was he’d be all in. But he needed to find out where drugs were coming from in town. He also wanted to know just what was available, all in the interest of looking out for more of the same shit in Markham. And having a one night stand with a possible source of information wasn’t a great way to get intel.

  Gertie took her phone back, mouth open, bewildered. “Oh,” was all she said.

  “Take two Aspirin, drink a shit ton of water and go to sleep,” he advised. Then, as an afterthought, he softly added, “And I’m sorry about your mom.”

  Without checking to see what her reaction was to that he turned and walked back to the elevator, hit the button and immediately stepped onto the car they’d just used. He checked the time; yep, just enough to get back to the clubhouse if he pushed it once he was out of city limits. They had to behave in town; the cops here were friends with the guys who weren’t friends of the Rebels.

  Gertie was on his mind as he obeyed all posted speed limits and traffic signs, however. He got the impression she might be a bit fucked up, but that had always been his type. The kind that would break your headlights, egg your house, spray paint ASSHOLE on your garage door. On Gertie, it was hidden under the slightly higher-class exterior she showed people. He wondered if she actually did give a shit what people thought. She came from money so she knew how to wear it in her clothes and all, but one shot of tequila in and she completely forgot she was in a roadhouse dive, cackling and joking with him like that was her real home. She was weird, didn’t fit a category really.

  Okay, so maybe she was getting to him a bit.

  Knuckles was waiting in the clubhouse compound as Buck pulled onto the blacktop. The Rebels’ clubhouse was a low, squat building that used to be a strip mall. One of the first and only ones ever built in Markham. The club knocked the walls out, except for the one down the center of the building that bisected the rectangular eyesore. On the street-facing side was the strip club; a good way for their outfit to legitimately make money. The back side of the building was the clubhouse; blocked off in privacy-slatted chain link with razor wire at the top. They owned one-third of the entire block, and an old motel helped cordon off the rest of the block from their territory.

  Buck was one of the many club members who inhabited a room in the motel. It was their dormitory of sorts, the side that overlooked the compound that is. There was no way to get from the back to the front and vice versa. The front was a legitimate motel; small since it only had a dozen rooms. But for an incredibly cheap rate a person could rent a clean room if you were willing to put up with the sound of motorcycles all hours. And apparently it wasn’t that much of an issue: it was usually at least half full. Another money-maker, with a staff that could always be counted on to lend a hand with club business. The maid service, for example, would often mule weapons for the club to line their pockets with a bit of green. There was even a small diner attached to the legitimate part of the motel, an actual fully-legitimate restaurant owned by locals who did a decent amount of business with the good folks of Markham.

  Buck parked next to Knuckles, nodding and putting both feet to the asphalt. Knuckles was smoking while astride his bike so Buck killed the engine.

  “Where’d you go?” Knuckles asked, his voice deep and rumbling. Knuckles was one of those guys whose appearance would lead you to a completely inaccurate first impression. The guy had one of those epic, Viking-like beards that touched his chest when he spoke. The underside of his head was shaved, the top grown out long for a modern take on the pompadour. The guy oozed metrosexual, and he took his hair seriously. He even combed that beard and would sometimes wax the edges of his moustache. But then you’d notice the ink on his knuckles, the sleeves of black and gray artwork that covered his arms, the designs that were sliding up his neck from his chest, especially the serpent that extended from one hollow of his collarbone up his neck to coil in a cobra head behind his left ear.

  And rings, on all fingers, perfect for breaking open noses and splitting eyebrows.

  He had a way of silently staring that made anyone uneasy eventually. And the reason was on his left breast: a black and red patch that read ROUSER. This marked him as a Red Rebels assassin; he had killed by order of the club and that was his purpose, as much as Buck was Sergeant at Arms.

  Buck shrugged at the question. “Went to see Skip.”

  Knuckles nodded while exhaling, dropping the butt to the ground and crunching it down with his boot heel. “Must have been having a talkative day.”

  Buck laughed. “Nah, ran into a broad I saw a few nights ago. She was at The Dog the other night.”

  Knuckles raised his eyebrow and pulled his helmet on. “You punched out Dog’s brother for her?”

  Buck grinned. “She did that, actually. Broke his nose in self-defense.”

  Knuckles gave a grin. “Really. Might want to meet that one.”

  Buck laughed, but as both men started their motors he felt a flare of something like possessiveness. Women seemed drawn to Knuckles, and for whatever reason Buck didn’t want Gertie around him. Any of the brothers, come to think of it.

  He pushed that away and followed Knuckles off the lot, ready to take out some dealers if it came to it.

  Chapter Eleven

&nbs
p; Gertie woke up to a weird rattling, and she groaned, trying to swat at her nightstand and hopefully stop the dreadful intrusion into her sleep. When she realized it was her phone and the ringer was off she grabbed it immediately.

  It might be Buck.

  “Hello?” she said, trying to sound chipper even though it activated a dull, throbbing headache.

  “Gertie Bird!” Dammit, her father always sounded far too happy in the mornings. “Are you up? Come have breakfast with me!”

  She scowled at her clock. It was eleven am; she’d slept like the dead. “Ugh. Where are you?”

  “Right around the corner, at Schmidt’s. I got us a table on the patio.”

  She loved Schmidt’s, especially for breakfast. She always got the Eggs Benedict with smoked salmon, and their patio was one of her favorite outdoor places in the entire city.

  “Order for me,” she said. “I’ll make myself presentable and be right down.”

  “You got it.” He ended the call without confirming what she wanted, which made her grin.

  The water and Aspirin had worked a treat. Her head hurt a bit but she took a couple more painkillers and washed them down with cold water, then carried the large, full tumbler with her to the bathroom. With furious strokes she worked a brush through her hair then tied it in a lose ponytail over one shoulder. She dressed in jeans and an olive green Henley with boots that were worn over the jeans to her knee. She scrubbed her face and went without make-up; she just didn’t have time.

  Schmidt’s was only four minutes’ walk and the fresh air helped clear the fuzziness of sleep and her hangover. On the way she played her hazy recollections of the night before over and over, starting with the man she’d been staring at for four hours while they shared half a bottle of tequila.

  In her drunken stupor meeting him the first time she’d blamed her physical attraction on the booze. But she’d nearly been stone-cold sober in the cemetery, and it turns out he actually was attractive. His hair was shaggy, not exactly long, but it had a nice wave to it that made it look messy. His scruff of beard wasn’t intentional; she knew the next time she saw him he could very well be clean shaven. He just shaved when he felt like it. His eyes though; now those were something otherworldly. So purely green, striking and startling. Before she’d been fixated on his lips, now his eyes were in her mind. They were beautiful.