by A. C. Bextor
The two of them together are the epitome of what a girl like me wants but never had.
The picture of them together exacerbates the fact further, being as I’m on my third or fourth whatever fruity drink the girls keep reordering for me.
The count started to get fuzzy, and the drinks started to disappear faster, around the time the second empty glass was swept away by a heavyset, unapproachable, African-American waitress.
Her name is Barbra. When I told her I thought her name was pretty, she explained her mother was a Barbra Streisand fan, going on to say the obsession became unhealthy around her second year of high school.
This information surprised me, and she understood because it was then she smiled. Then she went on to explain she had a tough time living up to her mother’s expectation with such a namesake. And she also mentioned she can’t carry a white girl’s tune to save her life.
I can’t either, so I nodded my understanding back.
Taking too long to consider the question I nearly forgot Sunny asked, she pushes, “Well? What do you think of this place?”
“I love it,” I dutifully return, grabbing the straw of my drink and bringing it to my mouth.
And I do love it. The lights. The music. The pool tables. The dartboards. The bar. The men. The women. The heavy metal rock band’s music plays a little loud, but whatever. When in Rome.
I’m tipsy enough to realize that more than anything; I’m already falling in love with all of those who brought me here.
Overall, the entire experience of a girls’ night out has been more than I ever imagined it would be.
I was relieved to hear that some of the boys finally battered Elevent to agree to let us all out of the club for a few hours, promising I’d be kept safe with three badass escorts. I was ecstatic in knowing we were going to get away from Elevent, and the effect he’s starting to have on me, but also because Cricket said we were going to a biker bar.
A real and true biker bar. Holy shit.
Bringing the light pink-colored drink to my lips, I take a gulp from the flimsy straw and nod to the others. “I really do love it. What’s not to? Everyone here is so nice. Especially Hank.”
Cricket shakes her head but giggles. “You need to watch out for Hank, Mia. He’s loved a lotta women, if you get what I’m sayin’.”
Oh, I get what she’s saying. Any woman would. With Hanks dark hair, tanned skin, and mysterious aura, any woman would get what she’s saying. However, a woman full of pink drinks, and the voice of Elevent playing in her head, would still take advantage. I won’t consider Hank, but I’ll enjoy looking at him.
“I’m watching out,” I reply, turning in my seat and finding him at the bar. His focus is on our table, and his eyes are on me.
Earlier, before Sty was so much as able to take his seat, Hank was at our table, sitting down and making himself comfortable.
Sty introduced me, slapping Hank’s hand as the two shared a passing glance. I have no idea where Hank came from or how the two know each other. That’s not my business, but they seemed well enough acquainted.
Hank asked my name, and when I told him, he laughed as if the name Mia was so funny. But what do I know? Maybe it is to men like these.
He then asked if I was from around here, and when I told him I wasn’t, he laughed again. When I finally relaxed enough to smile, he labeled me not as Angel, but as Miss Kitty. I didn’t argue because I didn’t care. And really, who would? He was incredibly good-looking.
“You aren’t scared to be here anymore?” Cricket asks, staring at me from across the table. “You looked a little green when we walked in.”
“She’s not nervous,” Wren asserts, holding her glass of water to her mouth. “Between my guards and hers, there’s no reason to be nervous.”
I probably shouldn’t have asked Wren to come out tonight. I figured dear old Uncle Vlad had her on a leash as tight as mine. But when she answered my text with a ‘Hell yeah!’ I was more excited and less nervous to get out of the club.
Not only because Wren’s presence was adding more to the ‘girl posse protection’—Cricket’s words not mine, but because really, the more friends, the merrier.
“Nope, I’m not scared anymore,” I reply with absolute certainty, setting my drink down and sitting back in my chair. The glass hits the table with a loud clink, and a bit of the drink sloshes before spilling over the side.
I am, however, a little disappointed. I thought for certain Elevent would come strolling through the doors much earlier and since he hasn’t, I’m starting to feel slighted.
Speaking of.
“So, the girls have been talking and we hear you’ve been officially christened as ‘Angel,’” Cricket bubbles at my side.
“Elevent calls you Angel?” Wren chokes, holding her hand to her mouth and bending over her napkin.
Running her fingers through Sty’s hair and smiling happily, Sunny explains, “Yep, I’m not the only one who’s heard it. He did call her Angel. And more than once. Never seen Elevent like that before.”
Growing up, I didn’t have many girlfriends. Other than my sister, who was usually with her friends. Since my grandparents were our guardians, they didn’t care or understand the need to have a female posse. They were more interested in our grades, our chores, and our weekly church attendance. I never faulted them for this.
Now, after meeting all these women from so many backgrounds, I’m sorry I missed out for so long.
“He knows my name,” I remind those at the table, and doing this snottily. “I don’t understand why he doesn’t use it.”
“Honey,” Sunny firmly calls on a wink, while Cricket dons a slightly drunken smirk. I’m only somewhat confused, until I’m fully confused when Sunny then claims, “He’s never going to call you Mia Zanders again. At least not for as long as you stay.”
“What? Why not?”
Cricket moves over, taking the open seat next to mine. “A nickname is a big deal. Any name given is a sign of respect. Especially if it’s Elevent who deals it.”
Interesting enough, but I don’t believe Elevent respects me in the way she’s speaking. The way he spoke of his road name when I asked, I’m really sure he doesn’t mean mine as a sign of respect.
But then again, I’ve been wrong before.
Thinking further, I press, “So your name isn’t Cricket?”
“Nope. My real name is Terese Roberts. But when Gypsy took me to Saint’s, he called me Cricket. No clue why, he just did. And I never asked, ‘cause I hated my name and the way my dad used to say it.”
Benching why she’d hate her father’s voice, I prod, “Gypsy called you Cricket?”
“Yes. You know Pop is Gypsy’s dad. He and Gypsy’s mom took me in and raised me there.”
“You grew up in the club?”
Nodding, she proudly establishes, “I’ve had the same room since I was ten. I’ve loved all these guys like my own blood. They’re my brothers.”
Sunny sighs, looking out into the sea of men and their women, as she mindlessly picks away at the label of her beer. “You haven’t loved them all like your own blood.”
No doubt Sunny is talking about Leglas. But when Cricket doesn’t reply, my eyes follow where hers go. Gypsy and a woman I’ve never seen are sitting on a stool at the far end of the room, near the back door. She’s straddling his lap, her chest pushed into his, and her arms are draped over his shoulders.
Turning back to find Cricket frowning, I try, “You and Gypsy—”
“No,” Cricket cuts me off, abruptly tearing her gaze from the scene. “I’ve given up.”
“But you’re happy with Leglas?” I counter.
Sunny stays quiet. Cricket’s eyes close and, if I’m not wrong, a small cringe crosses her lips as her brows furrow.
Pushing her to say something, I add, “That’s his name, right?”
“Yeah. But Leglas and I are complicated.”
“Complicated?”
Sunny grabs Cricket’s
hand but answers my question in Cricket’s place. “Looking as you do, you’ve probably never been rejected by a man in your entire life,” she assumes of me, wrongly of course. I’ve been rejected plenty. Name a girl who hasn’t, and I’ll bet my life she’s lying. “We’ll just say the heartache of not having the person you want runs hard and deep.”
I don’t know Gypsy, other than he seems a good enough guy. He’s one of the quieter members, mainly keeping to himself. But still, he’s nice. And between the two, I’d want Cricket with Gypsy not Leglas, who is rough, intimidating, and a little scary. Cricket is anything but.
“What about you?” Wren asks. “I heard Myra telling Veni that you broke things off with Toby.”
“Did she ever!” Cricket shrieks. “And let me just say, Toby didn’t take to the breakup very well.”
Glancing from Cricket to me, Wren probes, “What’s this?”
“It’s over with Toby,” I tell Wren. “Really over.”
“Tell her what happened!” Cricket cheers. Rather than give me a second to gather my tipsy thoughts, Cricket informs, “Toby came to the club.”
“Shut up,” Wren utters, her focus on Cricket’s every word.
Great. Drama at my expense.
Cricket leans in, close to Wren and adds, “Toby called Advay a…are you ready?”
Wren nods, ready and willing to be in the know.
“He called Advay a Mexican!”
Wren’s wide eyes come to mine. I shrug, no better or worse off with her knowing.
“Oh shit, Mia,” Wren croaks. “That can’t have ended well.”
“It didn’t,” I add, eyes narrowed. “Leglas dropped him to the floor.”
“And I missed it!” Wren regrets. “Damn it. I would’ve liked to have watched that scene play out.”
“Not much of a scene,” I explain. “It was over quickly, but I’m not sure Toby got the message.”
“Men do stupid things for pussy,” Vante claims.
Turning to him, I cry out, “That’s gross!”
Cricket’s eyes flip to Sunny’s. She smiles at me, and Sty pulls her in closer. He whispers something in Sunny’s ear and her fingers dig into his arm holding her around the waist.
“That’s like saying women do stupid shit for cock,” I state to the girls’ giggles, and Sty uttering, “Fuck me.”
But really, how crass can a man be to say that in front of all these women? Gross!
“Mia’s throwing down the word cock,” Vante marks. “She’s fuckin’ shit-faced,” he accuses next. As Sunny and Sty laugh, Vante questions, “You’re not much of a drinker, are you?”
“Nope,” I reply, taking the straw to my mouth. As I wrap my lips around it, only my eyes flip to Vante. “But these drinks are delicious.”
“Shit-faced,” Vante whispers his presumption correctly. He reaches over and grabs the back of my neck. He makes quick work of resting our foreheads together. His light brown eyes are amused, the crinkles around them proving he finds this funny. Quietly and sweetly he says between us, “Sweetheart, I think you’ve had enough.”
When I lean up, I turn to Sty. He’s watching carefully, but with no expression. Sunny snickers and Cricket rolls her eyes.
“Do you have a woman?” I ask Vante, forgetting about our audience.
Smiling wide, his dimples take the show. “No. Don’t have time for one.”
Reaching over, I place my finger at the dimple of his chin. Vante’s gotten prettier as the drinks have kept coming.
Just in time, Barbra shows up with another glass of tastiness. It’s then I go from really liking Barbra to wanting her kids to graduate from a reputable college.
As she places the drinks on our table, she explains, “I don’t think the guy who bought this knew you were already taken.”
“What?” I snap, pulling away from Vante and dropping his hand to looking around the room. “What? What guy? I’m not taken,” I cry.
Drunk, maybe—okay, probably. Taken…no.
“Honey,” Sunny calls, leaning forward in Sty’s lap to get my attention.
Cricket takes over my search, lifting herself in her seat and looking around the bar.
Wren keeps her eyes to the table but utters, “Oh here we go.”
Before I know what Wren’s on about, Vante reaches out, grabs beneath my arms, and lifts me from my chair. Using quick moves, all a blur, I’m nestled in his lap. His arm stretches across my waist as his other crosses over my knees.
Suddenly I’m hot all over.
Vante works out. A lot. Beneath his vest and tee shirt are thick lines of sinewy muscle. I know because my hands are covering his abs, faintly pushing to break free.
“Stay,” Vante murmurs between us.
“Fuck,” I hear Sty utter, glaring to the bar at whoever bought the drink. “Vultures are startin’ to swarm.”
“Took longer than I thought,” I hear Vante say next. “Time to get the girls out of here.”
“Here comes Hank with more drinks,” Cricket tells the table. “We’re staying!”
“Fuck,” Vante clips.
“I’ll stay!” Wren promises.
Vante looks down to me, being held securely in his lap, and swears, “One more and we’re out.”
I look to Sunny who smiles. Wren who laughs. Cricket who cackles.
Yes. One more and maybe we’re out.
Yay!
“And oh, I forgot to tell you! There were so many bikes!” Angel shares yet another ridiculous fact about girls’ night out. “Way more than you guys have here. Like, there were hundreds.”
Her enthusiasm is a noticeable change, considering she’s been miserable for weeks. Miserable around me, that is. After a few drinks, she seems calm, not set on getting under my skin.
Lucky break.
I wasn’t there when Sty, Gypsy, and Vante packed up the girls and took off for their three-hour timed curfew adventure. I already knew where they were going, for how long, and what to expect would happen while they were out. I wanted no part of any of it.
Mia tempts my patience here every chance she gets. She’s also testing my resolve to leave her alone. I wanted nothing to do with being out with her in public, watching other men watching her.
Fuck that.
So Ziah and I waited in the rec room until they got back. I hate video games, but he loves them, so I deal.
“Big, big bikes. Most had two wheels, like your red one,” she explains, as if disappointed. The fact she knows the color of my bike comes as a surprise. She holds her hand in front of her face, rationing out three fingers. “But some had three wheels.”
“That so?” I interrupt to reply, in order to get her to take a breath. She hasn’t stopped yapping since she hit the club’s front door.
“The guys at the bar weren’t wearing cuts, though.” She points to mine, and her finger traces lightly over my patch. “I kind of like these. They make you guys look like family.”
“Like maybe a brotherhood?” I jab.
“Yes! Exactly!” she triumphs.
Mia and the other girls entered the club in a haze of girly squeals and giggles. And they were soaked wet.
Cricket, as all of us knows her to be, is a lightweight. Two drinks in and Sty explained he tried to cut her off. With this, apparently, Mia called foul. And won. Cricket is more drunk than I’ve ever seen her in her life.
Thankfully, Sunny, thinking clearly, foresaw what was happening and didn’t partake in whatever they were drinking. Thus she was able corral the girls into the truck for home with little assistance.
Mental note: Sunny’s good with crazy drunken women. She can help again if and when needed.
When the girls caught my angry expression, Mia and Cricket burst out in a fit of renewed giggles. And so the stories of their adventure began. They talked about dancing, bikes, drinks, rides, and whatever else came to their alcohol-fueled minds. They raved on about the unexpected rain. Dancing and singing to its rhythm the whole ride back.
Legl
as, who’d been silently waiting for their arrival, swiftly followed suit, grabbing Cricket as I grabbed Angel, heaving her up in his arms, fireman style. Wasn’t long that both of us were ready to tie them down, but opted for taking them to bed like the children they were acting like.
“Cricket told me those bikes were all Davidsons. Harleys is what she said, anyway. Hank and Runner told me I could sit on one of theirs if I wanted. And I soooo wanted. On the way out, I chose the biggest black one I could find. The seat was huge!” She motions her hands above us, to emphasize how huge this bike was, nearly knocking my jaw in the process. “Hank said he couldn’t give me a ride because it was raining but offered a rain check that he said I can cash anytime I want.”
I’m sure he did. Fucker.
To stop her from saying more, I turn my glare to her excited expression and abruptly clip, “Hank and Runner new friends of yours?”
“More Hank than Runner,” she notes sincerely. “Runner has a woman. He called her a pain in the ass, which I didn’t like. But Hank? Hank said he has no one. And Hank is hot.”
“Shut up, Angel,” I clip, sure as fuck not interested in how hot a walking dead man is.
“How does Cricket say it? Not hot, but…” Leaning her face to mine, she adds, “Haaawwwt.”
Enough.
“No more talk of new friends while I have you in my arms,” I demand.
Her smile falls and a pained look stains her expression. I’m ruining her night of fun.
“Angel,” I prompt, jerking her in my hold. She meets my gaze and further frowns.
Yes. I’ve shit on her good time.
Her face adds more shame when she assumes, “You’re angry with me again.”
“I’m not angry with you,” I half-convince.
And I’m not angry at her, per se.
I’m pissed at those who allowed her to get this drunk to begin with. Sitting in a fucking biker bar of all places. It’s possible she’s a lightweight like Cricket, although her breath is streaming with what smells like banana rum. Not a casual choice for a girl who probably hasn’t been drunk a day in her plain life. And if she got this way to escape it, she excelled.
