by Vivian Gray
I have never come like that. But even if she is different, that makes me want her even more. My loins pine for her. I want to bed her again, as quickly and as soon as possible. I know that is highly unlikely; she is a good girl, and I am a part of a biker gang. But goddamn, when I said she had her tendrils in me, I meant it. I was smitten; I was flummoxed. I want to fuck her again, and again, and again.
However, the truth is, the first thing I have to do is get back to my boss. The shit about Marcelo can’t wait, and Jerome will be excited to hear that I have infiltrated the Tattooed Angels’ scheme. Whatever they were planning, this auction had been just a part of it. While the girls would make the chunk of the change – and, quite frankly, they deserved to – the Tattooed Angles were making a good bit of money on the exchange, thanks in no small part to Marcelo.
Now, I have no idea if Marcelo’s boss knows what the score is. He probably doesn’t give a shit, so long as he is raking in the dough. But somebody has to do something about this. After all, they are stealing girls from our jurisdiction – and they are doing it without our permission. We have to take these bastards down.
So, my first move, then, is to see Jerome. I wait until nightfall, when the next meeting is supposed to start, and make my way to the Warehouse, where I know Jerome will be. It takes forever, but finally, his goons let me see him. By this point, I’ve already had a couple of beers and am steeled with confidence that I know what I’m doing.
But the truth is, I have no idea what I’m doing. I’ve never played reconnaissance before, so I don’t really know what the score is here. But when Goon 1 lets me in to see Jerome, I’m set for what I have to say.
“Slash,” he says when I walk into his office, “good to see you. Terrance over here says you been doing a bit of freelancing on us. Now, I’m gonna be honest with you, Slash: I fucking hate freelancers. They tend to mess up the product. But Terrance over here, he says you have something interesting to tell me. So, I’m gonna be as open as a teenager losing her virginity and listen to what you have to say. For every bit I don’t like, I’m gonna have Terrance beat your ass. Does that sound good?”
I nod. “Listen, boss. I got news on… on Marcelo.”
“Marcelo?!” Jerome intones, clearly agitated. He doesn’t like hearing about Marcelo at all, much less from an underling like me. “What the fuck do you know about Marcelo, rookie?”
“Okay, first of all,” I say, bristling at his tone, “I’m not a rookie, boss. I’ve been around for a while now. And I hear things, you know? You keep sending me out on reconnaissance missions. I’m bound to hear some shit, right?”
“Okay, fair enough,” Jerome says through his thick beard. “So, what have you heard, son?”
“Marcelo’s been pimping virgins, boss. Been making a killing off of ‘em, too.”
“Aw, shit, Slash,” he says emphatically, dismissing me with a wave of his hand, “everybody knows that. What the fuck new news do you have for me?”
“Well, I’ve got an in.”
That stops Jerome cold.
“The fuck you mean, you’ve got an in?” he asks.
“Girl I slept with last night,” I tell him, “she knows his ex.”
“Is that so? Well now, that’s a horse of a different fuckin’ color, ain’t it? Tell me, Slash, what the fuck did this girl say about Marcelo?”
“Said he’s sweet.”
“The fuck?!”
“He was obviously grooming her,” I say quietly. “He wanted to fuck her himself if he hadn’t gotten a good bidder.”
“A bidder? What – he’s auctioning off their pussies or something?”
“Something like that. I got her.”
“How much?” Jerome asks inquisitively.
“What I do with my own money is my business, boss.”
“So it is,” Jerome responds, in an almost awed hush. He’s clearly never been challenged like that before, but goddammit, this is honor among thieves, and I’m not about to tell him how much of my own money I paid to deflower this bitch.
The thought immediately makes me abashed. Erin is not a bitch. She’s not like any girl I’ve laid before. She’s something else. Something special. I’m a little bit crushing on her, if we’re being completely honest.
“Okay,” Jerome says, “so what did you learn?”
“I learned that Marcelo is grooming bitches, for one,” I tell him honestly. “I also learned that Marcelo has been fucking some girl – a friend of the girl I bid on last night.”
“Go on,” Jerome invites.
“Well, he likes his girls pure,” I explain. “He likes ‘em with a sweet complexion and a hymen, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
“It’s not what I’m wondering, goddammit. I want to know what the son of a bitch’s weaknesses are. I want to know how we can get to him. I want to know how the fuck he got to be the second in command of our chief rivals, goddammit!”
I nod. “I think I can find out, boss. The girl that… that I brought home last night… she has an in. Her friend got her into the virgin auction last night. She’s his ex.”
“His ex?” Jerome utters curiously.
“Yeah, boss,” I say excitedly. “I can find out what the deal is from her, if that works for you.”
Jerome rubs his beard. “Yeah, I like that,” he says casually. “I like that a lot. Do it, Slash. Find out what this broad knows. And find it out quickly, before I change my mind. I don’t like to be kept waiting, capiche?”
“Capiche, Boss.”
“Okay,” he answers. “Now then, if there’s nothing else, for the love of God, get the fuck out of my sight.” Just as I turn to leave, I hear him say, “Oh, and Slash?” I turn back to him with an inquisitive look on my face. “You did good on this one. But if I ever hear you’re freelancing behind my back again, I’ll kick your ass myself. Got me?”
“Yes, sir,” I say with obedience.
As I leave Jerome’s office, I feel like I’m walking on air. This is a big step up for me. Jerome has entrusted me, me, with a fact-finding mission. If I do this up right – if I manage to pull it off – I may see elevated status in the club. Either way, now he has to pay attention to me. I’m more than just muscle. I can do shit.
It also gives me an excuse to go track down Erin. I didn’t get her phone number before she left, and all I know about her is that she works at a bar with her friend, Marcelo’s ex. It’s not a lot to go on, but it’s enough. I think I can make something happen with that much information. I’m going to have to – Jerome is counting on me, and if I don’t report back to him with at least something on Marcelo, I’m as good as dead.
I turn back out of the Warehouse and jump on my bike. I’m going to have to start searching as soon as possible if I’m going to get on Marcelo’s trail. Besides, if it gives me a chance to see Erin again, that gives me all the incentive in the world.
The first thing I do is start casing around town. The chances that I’d just randomly run into Erin are pretty negligible, but there’s only so many places she could be. She said she works at a bar, so I start by going into the bars I know that don’t have MC affiliations. She clearly wasn’t a biker chick, so she’d most likely be in a non-MC bar if she were working.
I start with a sports bar on Main Street. It’s gross inside. Not, like, disgusting, but it’s the kind of bar where fratty douchebags hang out and drink cheap beer while watching football games and incessantly checking their phones to see how their fantasy teams are doing. It’s the second worst kind of bar, second only to rich people bars. Since we don’t have any of those in town, this is as bad as it gets.
I go up to the bar, getting some side-eye stares from a group of frat boys sitting at a table eating chicken wings. The bartender looks terrified of me. Good. I like it when people like this fear me.
“Hey,” I say gruffly.
“H-hi,” the bartender answers.
“Do you by any chance know if a girl named Erin works here?”
“
Erin?”
“Yeah,” I say soberly, “Erin McManus.”
“Never heard of her,” he tells me, shaking his head.
“Okay,” I say, turning and walking away.
Well, that was a dud, and I had to sully my good name going into this shithole. Irritated, I turn and head out the door. There’s a bar across the street I can try.
Twenty minutes later, I’m back on my bike. The answer was the same in that bar and the two that came after it. I cruise around town, heading for some other bars I know about. I stop at a place called Cupid’s, an ugly little dive. Again, I go up to the bar and ask about Erin, and again, the bartender doesn’t know a thing about her. But then, a drunk middle-aged guy in a denim jacket pulls on my arm. I’m about to slug the guy when I realize he has something to say.
“I think I know the girl you’re looking for, man,” he says, slurring his speech.
“I doubt it,” I hiss out, pulling my arm away.
“Erin, right? Redhead? Yeah, I know who you’re talkin’ about. That’s her, ain’t it?”
“All right, what do you know, fella?”
“I’ve seen her tending bar over at the Dark Moon on Fifth Street.”
“How do you know that?” I demand.
“Ah, I go in there sometimes. When I’m just in the mood to drink. They don’t got food there. But they make a good martini. And the bartenders are hot as hell. Nice titties on that redhead, I’ll tell you that.”
This comment, completely unnecessary, gets my blood boiling, though I can’t put my finger on why, exactly. Lord knows I’ve said some similar shit throughout my life. But I don’t have time to think, because my instincts kick in: within half a second, I’ve slammed the guy’s face into the bar.
“You might want to rethink how you talk there, bub,” I growl out at him.
“All right, all right,” he says, cowering. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”
I let him up, allowing him to breathe again. The rest of the patrons in the bar are all staring at me.
“Jesus,” he says, straightening out his jean jacket, “what is she? Your sister or something?”
“Just keep your mouth shut, guy,” I tell him. “Unless you want some trouble.”
He shakes his head vigorously. “No, sir, I don’t want any trouble. I’m good.”
I nod, glare at the people staring at me, and walk back out the door. Now that I’ve got a lead, I don’t want to waste any time.
I jump on my bike and head over to Fifth Street. It’s getting late, and the bars will be closing soon. I want to make sure I get to Erin before she leaves for the night.
Chapter Nine
Erin
I had thought that the night with Slash would give me enough money to relax a little bit, to take a load off and maybe spend some time with my mom. But after totaling up the bills and hospice care and everything, it turned out that there was only just enough to keep us from drowning. The rest was going to have to come from hard work, same as ever.
So here I am, back at the Dark Moon, working my second double shift in two days. I’m exhausted, and I know I look it. My hair is disheveled, my clothes are wrinkled, and I have major bags under my eyes. “You look haggard” is the way Monica described me yesterday – and today’s even worse.
I worked eleven ‘til eight and then closed down the bar yesterday. I’m currently in the middle of shift number two today, and I’m only barely keeping up. The tips are mostly worth it – they’re cash, and they’re helping with the debt I’m in – but there’s no big payday rescue coming the way Slash’s did. Even if there were, I’m damaged goods now; I can’t sell my virginity again.
These long days are wearing on me, too. I can’t make it through one shift without having a drink, or two spilled on me, and it’s not like I have time to go and change between shifts. So now my clothes are basically permanently stained, and I leave every night smelling worse than an alcoholic who’s lost his deodorant stick.
But it’s all for my mom. Just like everything I did with Slash, all of this is to help with stuff with my mother. And in that case, I’m happy to do it. But it’s getting more and more difficult to get through the days without breaking down in tears. I spend my nights lying in bed awake and unable to sleep, even when I’m exhausted from a hard day’s work. It’s getting ridiculous.
Monica kind of gets it. She asked me about how things went at the auction, and all I said was, “Fine,” and changed the subject. But when it comes to the hard work for my mom, Monica’s been immensely supportive. And every so often, she does something sweet, like running out to grab me a fast food dinner that I can stuff my face with on my half-hour break between shifts.
Tonight, it’s a burger and fries, which isn’t much, but it’s good to eat, even if I have to wolf it down quickly in the back room of the Dark Moon. Mom gets it, too. These days, she’s weak and getting weaker, but she’s starting to notice that I’m not around. She knows the bills are high, but she seems to be trusting me to take care of it. Which is fine – that’s what I would want of her.
As the night drags on, the tips get bigger, but the clientele gets drunker, so it’s kind of a wash. By the time my shift is nearing completion, I’m bleary-eyed and almost ready to hit the pillow. Then another guy comes in about twenty minutes before close, and I’m about ready to give up. He sits down at the bar and hails me. My feet throb as I walk over to him to ask what he needs. I don’t even really glance at him; I’m just waiting for the night to be over so I can go home and sleep for a few hours.
“Hi,” he says. His voice has a bit of a familiar tone to it, but I don’t wholly recognize why.
“Can I help you?” I ask, trying my best (though it’s probably in vain) to keep any trace of my annoyance out of my voice.
“I – uh – hi,” he says again, and I begin wondering if he’s stupid or something.
“Listen, mister, it’s been a long night – a long week, actually – so if you’re going to order something, please, for the love of God, order it so I can get it for you.”
“Erin,” the voice says again.
I look over to the man who’s sitting on the barstool, and I nearly fall over.
It’s Slash.
“What – what are you doing here?” I ask him.
He shrugs. “I wanted a drink. I was looking around for a place to go into, and this place came up. Thought it looked good, so I came in. I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“This is where I work, Slash,” I sigh. Then, much to my surprise, I smile. I can’t help it; he really is cute. “Were you by any chance looking for me?” I’m too tired to beat around the bush at this point, so I just ask the question directly, no muss, no fuss.
Slash holds his hands up defensively. “No, no,” he insists, “honest to God. I just wanted a drink.”
“And you just happened to come into my bar.”
“Seems that way.”
“Okay.” I’m not sure what to say to him after that. Hey, Slash, that was some really good fucking that we did the other night. Want to do it again? Or: Oh, Slash, that ten grand you gave me for sleeping with you, well, would you happen to have another ten grand to help me get my mom and me out of debt and get her the care she deserves?
Finally, I say to him, “Can I get you a drink? A beer, maybe?”
“A beer would be great, thanks.”
I pull out a bottle from the fridge underneath the bar, take the bottle cap off of it, and hand it to him.
“Cheers,” he says, giving me a big, toothy smile. “So,” he adds after swallowing his first swig, “how… uh, how have you been?”
“Okay,” I reply, blushing a little. This seems so, so awkward, and I’m not entirely certain how to talk to him – or any guy, really. Besides, what I just said was a lie – things are most definitely not ‘okay.’ They suck. They’re terrible. Everything is awful right now. I’m still a good ten grand in debt, my mom is dying, and I’m here having a conversation with a guy who just paid me
to take my virginity a couple of nights ago. What about this makes me think that things are okay?
I can’t help myself: I start to cry. This breakdown has been close to the surface all day, and I should’ve seen it coming, but trying to hold it back only makes things feel that much worse. I don’t know how to stop; the tears just keep coming and coming.
Slash stands up and puts his arms around me over the bar, which only makes my sobbing worse. I cry for a good minute, letting the tears flow. It actually feels kind of good, in a perverse sort of way – like I’m letting go of all these emotions I’ve had pent up inside.
