“Whoa,” was all she said.
Win smirked. “Robin, I presume?”
Her eyes widened at what was apparently the correct mention of her name. Just then Chalice set a cold IBC long neck down on the bar in front of him.
“Here’s your root beer, sugar,” she said.
Robin’s eyes went to the root beer. “So you’re a Tim Burton movie escapee who’s also psychic and drinks root beer.”
His smirk grew bigger. “Nah. Your mom told me your name. She also told me not to drink on top of pain pills. So far as my face goes, I didn’t look like a monster before your friend slammed a door in my face.”
Win looked over at R.C. when he said ‘your friend slammed a door in my face’. She responded by narrowing her eyes like he had a lot of nerve to accuse her.
“Wow,” Robin said. Without looking over her shoulder, she said, “What’d he do, hon? You really nailed him. We’re talkin’ deviated septum.”
He returned his attention to Robin. “I’ll tell you what I did. I was standin’ in the Boss’s office when the tornado blew through.”
“If you’re expecting an apology, you can forget it. You shouldn’t ‘ve been givin’ my dad cigars,” R.C. said.
“I was the one with eyes waterin’ because I can’t stand smoke. Before I got there, the smoke was so thick I couldn’t find my own dick,” he protested.
“Tell the poor baby you’re sorry, R.C., so we can get back to serious drinkin’.”
“Sorry.” R.C.’s apology could not possibly have sounded less sincere. “Now, if you don’t mind, we’re busy.”
“I think that’s the best you’re gonna get, nightmare,” Robin said halfway sympathetically.
“Huh,” Win said as he took a pull on his root beer. “Have you heard this one? A nightmare and a terror walk into a bar…”
“We’re done talkin’. Get it?” R.C. interrupted. “Now if you’ll excuse us, my friend and I are busy gettin’ drunk to celebrate her hard won and well-deserved freedom.”
“You just out of jail?” he asked Robin, who turned and gaped.
“No. I’m not just out of jail. I’ve just broken up with the cocksucker who used to be my good-for-nothing boyfriend.”
“Congratulations,” Win said to Robin before his eyes found their way back to R.C.
“Do not look at me,” she said.
“Don’t look at you?” he chuckled.
“That’s right. Don’t look at me.”
“No harm in lookin, Arcy.”
He spoke her initials like they were a two syllable name. The sound of it gave her a visible shiver, which he caught before she tried to cover it. When she realized he’d seen her reaction, she narrowed her eyes again.
Win told himself he didn’t have time for diversions. Certainly not the kind that had been described as hot-tempered handfuls. While he was thinking about turning and walking the other way, a cheer went up.
He turned to see an enormous five-tiered cake being wheeled into the middle of the room. With lit sparklers from top to bottom, it was a sight to see. People started stomping on the wood floor, which created an enormous din and, just when the sparklers went out, a stripper burst through the top of the cake.
Everybody cheered.
Win turned toward R.C. just in time to catch her roll her eyes and hear her say, “How original,” to Robin.
The stripper, wearing a g string with letters spelling Happy Birthday strung between pasties, tried to sing the familiar song in breathy Marilyn Monroe style as bikers pushed Boss forward. The girl couldn’t sing, but really, that wasn’t why she’d been hired. When she was finished, Boss picked her up out of the remains of the cake and pulled a pastie off one of her nipples with his teeth to squeals from the stripper and cheers from a crowd growing rowdier by the minute.
R.C. shook her head, but didn’t look as scandalized as most girls would be if they witnessed their fathers performing public acts of a sexual nature. “Let’s get out of here before they forget who we are and decide we’re part of the entertainment,” R.C. said to Robin.
Robin snorted. “Nobody’s stupid enough to look at you that way. But there’s a club downtown that has opened since the last time you were here. You want to check it out?”
Nodding, R.C. said, “We need a driver.”
“Let’s make it simple and call Uber.”
He watched them move toward the exit and felt a little tendril of pleasure when R.C. turned back and caught his eye just before she went through the door.
“Hey, little brother,” Cue said, almost knocking Win over when he banged him on the shoulder in a macho interpretation of good-natured fun. Normally Win would think nothing of it, but the physical shock that would normally be absorbed by his body without a second thought traveled straight to the damage to his face. Nerve endings screamed.
Cue was half plastered, but not so drunk he didn’t notice the wince followed by a grimace. “Oh, sorry, man. I didn’t think.”
“That’s okay,” Win said. “You know, if you’ll just point me to where I’m bunkin’ in, I think I’ll call it a day.”
“Bunkin’? We need to show you around.”
“How about tomorrow? I think people are more interested in celebratin’ than gettin’ to know me. Right?”
“Yeah. I see that. You got some stuff?”
“Stuff?”
Cue laughed. “Silk pajamas or whatever?”
“Saddlebags. I’ll just crash tonight. Get my stuff in the mornin’.”
“Up to you. You’re down this way. We call it the West Wing.” Cue moved his chin to indicate the general direction of Win’s new home, for a month or less.
He followed Cue through a big door into a wide hallway. The noise level was cut by half as soon as they closed the door behind them. At the end of the hall they turned left into another hallway that looked more like a hotel than anything. Cue stopped at number twenty-seven.
“This is you,” he said, opening the door and switching on the light. He pointed to a key hanging by the door. “This is the only key. You lose it, you pay the locksmith to replace it.” Win nodded. “Bed’s clean. Mini-fridge is stocked. We got people who’ll clean and do your laundry, but you’ll have to leave your door open on Tuesday mornings for that. WIFI password is Mhouse. Got cable. All the channels. You get hungry for real food, go back the way we came. Kitchen’s on the other side of the club house.
“You gonna remember any o’ this?”
“I think so.”
“Boss’ll talk to you tomorrow about club biz, how you fit in, ya know?”
Win nodded again. “Think so,” he repeated.
“All righty then. You’re on your own. I’ve got some partyin’ to finish.”
“Better get to it.”
“I will.” With that Cue left the room.
Win closed the door. He was alone, and it was remarkably quiet considering the Bacchanalia going on under the same roof. He stared at the door for a few seconds then took the key off its hook and locked it.
The room was spacious by biker standards. It was also luxurious by biker standards. It seemed the Marauders didn’t do things halfway. In addition to the nice furnishings and mini-fridge, he had his own big screen TV. When he got back to Austin, he was going to have some stories to tell about some clubs really knowing how to live. He took a little grim pleasure in anticipating how that was going to get Brant’s goat.
The biggest drawback, so far as he could see, was the paradox of living in a concrete building without windows. On the one hand, the walls were impenetrable. On the other, it was a scary way to live from the standpoint of fire hazard. If there was a fire near the exit doors on the loading docks, the entire building would be a death trap with no way out.
He made a mental note to talk to Boss about that, if the opportunity ever arose.
Meanwhile, he pulled off his boots, stretched out to test the compatibility between his body and the mattress and found it agreeable. Within minutes he w
as asleep, but the last image on his mind was the sight of R.C. turning back to get another look at him.
CHAPTER Six
When Win opened his eyes he was staring directly at the digital time display on the clock beside the bed. Nine thirty. And his bladder was begging for relief.
He shuffled toward the bathroom in sock feet and turned on the light.
Nice. Like everything else in this place.
He sighed. Even if he was working the market, it was Sunday. He had a job to do and it wasn’t trading. It was spying.
He threw water in his face, pulled on his boots, took the key, locked the room and headed out to get his stuff from the saddlebags on his bike.
The main room still showed signs of party debris. The still active monitors showed a perimeter that was quiet and deserted.
Two prospects who looked too fresh for the life were cleaning up. Both looked up when he came in. They said nothing, as prospects should, but waited to see what Win would say or do.
“I’m Win Garrett. Need to get things from my bike.”
“Yes, sir,” said the one closest to him. “I’m Bo. This is Catcher. Would you like one of us to go for you?”
Win shook his head slightly. “No. Just show me which one of these doors to use and let me back in after I grab my shit.”
“This one right here,” Bo said, walking toward the farthest door to the left.
Win followed. “What time will people start rousin’?”
“Hard to say, but some will be up pretty soon. We’re tryin’ to make it look like there was no party last night by the time earlies come in, but they had a really good time last night.”
Win chuckled. “Yeah? I left early. How’s my face look today?” The kid froze like a deer in headlights, not having any idea how to respond. Win laughed. “I’m just kiddin’.”
“We heard about the accident.”
“Accident,” he repeated without inflection. “I guess that’s what you’d call it.”
As he was opening the door Bo said, “You sure you don’t need some help?”
“Sure.”
“Leavin’ the door unlocked since you’re comin’ right back.”
“Good,” Win said before stepping out onto the loading dock.
He descended eight feet of steps to where the bikes sat in open air, but under cover and essentially out of sight to anyone not already in the truck yard. The saddlebags were locked and didn’t appear to have been tampered with.
Thinking it was a good thing he hadn’t had the burner phone on his person, since he’d been knocked out most of the day before, he retrieved the few personal things he’d brought with him. If he was hunkering down for a month, he’d need to do some shopping. Once-a-week laundry service wasn’t going to keep up with two changes of clothes.
When he stepped back inside, he said, “Should I lock this?”
“I’ll do it,” Catcher said as he hurried over. “Can I take these things to your room?”
Win had to hand it to the Marauders. They were profitable and disciplined, too.
“Thanks. I got it.”
“You’re welcome. Boss is up. Said to tell you to come see him after you’ve dumped your shit.”
“Okay. Where is he?”
“Kitchen. Breakfast is on.”
With a movement too tiny to qualify as a real nod, Win walked away with two small plastic bags. The errant thought flittered across his mind that he hoped he wouldn’t be going back through that door in a body bag before he got what the Rangers needed and showed the Marauders his tail lights.
Back in his room, Win took a shower and put on the last of the clean clothes. Dark jeans and an indigo blue long-sleeved tee.
Bo and Catcher were still in the main room when he walked back through, but the entire communal area was spotless. Win pointed toward a door on the other side of the bar.
“This way?”
Bo nodded. “Follow the smell of bacon and sausage.”
With every step that took him closer to the kitchen the smell of bacon grew stronger, as did the sound of voices and dishes clanking.
Win expected a commercial kitchen, but he hadn’t expected R.C.’s decorating that he mentally called ‘biker chic’ to extend to other public rooms. The walls behind the stainless steel cabinets and appliances were brick, painted with murals of legendary Harleys, the club’s colors, and various graffiti that, in that setting, looked more like art and less like defacement.
A work station ran down the middle of the kitchen and functioned as an island would in a residence. Beyond that was a long table for twenty with long benches. The walls on either side of the table featured bar-height seating and stools for overflow should extra seating be needed.
The first person to greet him was a tall woman who looked vaguely like Tyra Banks, with dreads and mocha latte skin. She wore a black tee shirt, jeans, and a black apron.
Looking up from turning bacon, she said, “Hmmm. Must be the new boy.” Her eyes drifted down to the shirt he was wearing. “That color goes real good with your bruisin’, sugar.”
Win smirked. “Thanks. Name is Win.”
“Lots better than Lose. I’m Bertalia. Don’t like Bertie. So don’t call me that.”
“I won’t.”
“You like bacon?”
“Everybody likes bacon.”
“True enough. But some people ask for ham or sausage anyway.”
“If I was bein’ completely honest, I like hamburgers for breakfast.”
“Hmmm. Hmmm. Hmmm. I’m not lookin’ for that kinda honesty this early in the mornin’. You’re gonna have to go down the road for short orders. I cook what I cook. You eat it or you don’t. You want hamburgers for breakfast? I’ll direct you to the nearest Denny’s.”
Win laughed. “I’ll take breakfast food in a pinch.”
“Now you’re just gettin’ off on the wrong foot with me, mister. Nobody eats my food in a pinch. What I cook is the nearest to heaven any of you bikers are ever gonna get.”
Win held up his hands. “No offense intended. How about a BLT?”
“You hard of hearin’? Don’t make me say you deserved that beatin’ you got handed by a door.”
“I wouldn’t make you say that, Bertalia.”
She seemed to relax a little. “I’m not makin’ no BLT. But you can make it yourself. All the fixin’s are here. Think of it as a treasure hunt.”
He shrugged. “Okay.” Her eyes widened a little like she hadn’t expected him to take her up on that. “I like my bacon on the crispy side so put my name on three or four pieces.”
Boss was sitting at the end of the table about forty feet away. He yelled. “What are you doin’ down there, Garrett? Come on down here. Bertie’ll bring you breakfast.”
Win yelled back. “She won’t. I’m makin’ myself a BLT. And she doesn’t like to be called Bertie.”
Her head jerked toward Win and a slow smile started as she said, “He calls me that just ‘cause he knows I don’t like it.”
“Well, that ain’t right,” Win said.
“True that. These crispy pieces right here got your name on ‘em.” She shoved six pieces of bacon off to the side and left them cooling on paper towels.
It didn’t take Win long to find bread, lettuce, tomato and Miracle Whip. It took even less time to make his sandwich, cut it in half, and dump a couple of handfuls of potato chips on a plate.
Bertalia looked over with grudging admiration and cocked one eyebrow. “Like a man who can cook.”
“You’re the one doin’ the cookin’. I just threw stuff together. Bacon looks good by the way.”
He poured himself a glass of apple juice, took the plate, and walked with as much confidence and ease as he could muster when approaching seven bikers who’d agreed to install him as a member - sight unseen. Every one of them was performing a first impression assessment, trying to glean every bit of information they could based on what he was projecting.
As he approached Boss pointe
d to a seat beside him that was purposely left unoccupied. Win set his plate down.
“What’s that you’re havin’?” Boss asked.
“BLT.”
“Bertie make that for you?”
“She did the hard part. Made the bacon. And she does not like to be called Bertie.”
Boss smirked. “She got a champion now?”
Win smirked in return as he casually put a potato chip in his mouth. “We’ll see.”
The guy across the table from him said, “I heard you got a beat down from Boss’s door, but damn. We ought to put some kind of plaque on it.”
Boss said, “This is Zipper. He’s V.P.”
Win looked from Boss to Zipper, who was in his late forties, maybe early fifties. He had jet black hair worn in a short ponytail with pale gray accents around his face. He was tan, with deep laugh lines and alert, intelligent dark eyes that weren’t missing a thing. “I met your wife. Angel of mercy. Met a girl named Robin last night at the bar. She yours?”
He saw Zipper tense in a subtle way. “Yeah. She’s mine. And she’s off limits.”
Win laughed. “You got no worries from me. She called me, just a minute, oh yeah, an escapee from a Tim Burton movie.”
Zipper looked at the other men. “What’s that mean?”
One of the others said, “I think she means he looks like a nightmare.”
Zipper’s eyes slid back to Win. He nodded slowly. “Yeah. I see that. My wife calls you Ice Face.”
Win gave Zipper a look that said he wasn’t receptive to being called Ice Face. “Just so we’re clear, Boss’s door’s got no mind of its own. This is all baby girl.”
Boss chuckled as he raised his coffee cup. “She’s somethin’.” The mood downshifted fast when Boss got serious. “But enough about that. Soon as breakfast is over, we’ve got business to discuss in church.” He looked at Win. “Assumin’ you’ve got no plans.”
“I’m all yours,” Win said, knowing he wasn’t actually being given a choice.
While he ate, Boss introduced him to the others. Grange. Cowpie. Snuff. Shovel. Rock.
“How’d you get your road name?” Cowpie asked.
“Not my road name,” Win said around a mouthful of BLT. “It’s my real name.” He stopped and looked each one of the bikers except Boss directly in the eye, one at a time. “And I’m keepin’ it.”
Devil's Marker (Sons of Sanctuary MC, Austin, Texas Book 4) Page 6
