by Naomi West
“. . . but?”
He closed the folder and handed it back to her. “Well, we're all fulled up here. I ain't got another shift to spare.”
She hung her head and groaned. That was it. Next stop: Juicy Lucy’s. She didn't want to do it. But, if she couldn't make money with her clothes on, she'd just have to make it with them off. She checked the time behind the bar. She still had a couple more hours before the strip-club opened.
“Sorry again,” the bartender said, trying to make his voice sound as consoling as a two-hundred-fifty pound biker could. “You wanna drink or something?”
She didn't normally drink, but she'd be damned if a little liquid courage didn't sound perfect just then. She pulled out one of the rickety bar stools and climbed onto it. “God yes. Jager and a beer, please. Any beer.”
“Coming right up,” he said as he drew a beer for her and poured two shots of Jager. He set one down in front of her, alongside her beer, and put the other in front of himself.
She reached into her purse to grab her wallet, and what little money she had in it.
“Nah,” he said with a wave, “it's on the house.”
She gave him a lop-sided smile. “Thanks, I guess.”
“Life's shit, kid,” giving her a little cheers with his shot glass, “then, it gets worse.” He downed it in one go, flipped it in his hand, and slammed it down on the bar. “So, where you looking after this?”
“Juicy Lucy’s,” she said, something that produced a wince from the gnarled bartender. “I'm behind on rent, my electricity's about to get shut off . . . it's either this or . . .” She left the sentence unfinished, letting it hang in the stale, fetid air with pregnant implication.
# # #
Tanner
“Goddamn that old piece-of-shit,” Tanner Rainier roared as he slapped the stack of legal documents on his mom's kitchen table. His father had done it again. Even beyond the grave, he'd backed Tanner into a corner and completely fucked him every which way from Sunday.
“Now, Tanner,” placated Tova Rainier, Tanner's mom, “don't say that about the dead. And particularly not Pops.”
“Don't say it about Pops?” he asked, still pissed. “He knew you'd need that inheritance when he died. He knew it, Mom!” He picked up the stapled stack of papers and gave them a shake. “Did you read through this shit? All that money the old man had, everything he inherited from Gramps, everything you could use. He's got it locked up till I do what he wants.”
And he'd be damned if he was going to do what that old, dead asshole had wanted. His Pops may have been the head of the Blood Warriors, Tanner's motorcycle club, and may have been his father. But what he was asking Tanner for, in order to get the money out of his trust . . . that was just too damned much.
She shrugged. “Well, I think he did it for what he thought was a good reason. He wanted to have a legacy, since your brother ran off.”
Tanner winced at the mention of his brother, Brendon. Once the shining golden boy of the family, he'd disappeared with some whore named Willow. He'd left the family. Left the MC, left his real family.
“Sorry,” his mom said. “I know you don't like me mentioning him, but he's still my son.”
He ignored her mention of Brendon. Fuck him. “Know what I think? I think the old man wanted one last twist of the fucking knife.” He threw the papers back on the table, tugged a hand down his goateed face. “I mean, look at this shithole he left you with, Mom. It needs more than it's already fucking got. Even with the guys from the MC helping, this place is going to cost a fortune in supplies. New hot water heater, new plumbing, new roof, new foundation. If it had been just me getting screwed on the inheritance, he knew I wouldn't do it. He had to screw his own wife over, too.”
Tova coughed wetly, a disgusting and upsetting phlegmy cough. She held up a hand when Tanner went to touch her shoulder reassuringly. “I'm fine, I'm fine. Doctor says there's nothing we can really do about it.”
Tanner made a face and shook his head, as he picked up the papers again. “See what I mean?” Tanner said. “If it were just me, Mom, I wouldn't give a shit. I've got the Crow, at least. You? You don't have anything.”
“Well, why don't you just do it, then?”
Old man Rainier had, unknown to them, put all his money and ownership in various businesses around town, in a legal trust. His part of the Old Crow, his part of a couple convenience stores around town. Even the royalties coming in off the mineral rights on a piece of land just outside the city limits. He'd left it all to Tanner which, on its surface, was a good thing.
Right?
Wrong. If Tanner, or his mom for that matter, wanted to get to the fortune, there had to be one stipulated condition fulfilled: Tanner had to have a baby.
Hell, he didn't even have, or want, a girlfriend. A kid? That was out of the damned question.
He shook his head. “You know how I feel about settling down, Mom.”
“Well, honey, I just want you to be happy,” she said as she reached across the table and touched his hand. “And, if doing what you want will make you happy, then I'm fine. Don't worry about me.”
He placed the paperwork on the table, this time more gently than before. “I'll figure something out, Mom.” He took her hand in his and squeezed, marveling at how frail the bones of her hands felt. Just like a bird. “I promise,” he whispered.
Tova smiled and patted his hand. “I know, honey. You've always been a good son.”
“Tell that to Pops.” He held up the paper, grimacing.
She snorted a laugh. “I would, but séances cost money. Those shysters don't work for free.”
He checked the time. “Listen, I gotta get going and meet one of the brothers, okay?”
“That's fine, hon,” Tova said as he pushed himself back from the kitchen table and got to his feet. She rose to meet him for a hug. “Talk to you tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” he said as he pulled her into an embrace. “Okay, tomorrow. Listen, I'll get this figured out. Everything will be okay, alright?”
“I know it will, son,” Tova said, weakly squeezing his shoulder. She lightly patted him on the back. “I know.”
Tanner let himself out through the kitchen door and circled around to the driveway. He hopped on his bike, kicked it into life, and took off for his bar, the Old Crow.
Thoughts swirled in his head, and concerns about his mom clenched at his stomach. If she'd been doing better, or if his pops had left money aside for her, he'd have just ignored his inheritance. His ownership portion in the bar was more than enough to keep him happy and provided for.
Of course, that's why all the money had been tied up in the trust.
So, what were his options? Get another job?
No, that would just take time from the Blood Warriors, which was why he didn't have a girl in the first place.
Find some girl he could knock up?
He mentally shook his head. Only girl he'd be able to find willing to have his baby would be some piece-of-trash club girl. Did he want that kind of groupie slut to raise his baby? She'd be leaving that poor kid home every Friday night, just so she could come down to the Old Crow and grope Tanner's brothers.
Adopt?
That right there was a laugh. What adoption agency in their right mind would give him a baby? Besides, the Will said it had to be his. Old Man Rainier had wanted a living blood heir.
Fifteen minutes later, he was slowing down his bike on the stretch of highway that ran in front of the bar, and turning into the parking lot. A little rundown hatchback sat out in front, and Tyke's bike was pulled up near the front door. Tanner cruised up to the entrance and parked. He climbed off and headed inside, his mood still gloomy.
He pulled the front door open and stomped inside, the stale air almost comforting as it hit him in the face. He waved to Jethro, their bartender, as he headed past on his way to the back booth that was almost perpetually reserved for members of the Blood Warriors.
As he stalked past, his eyes g
lanced to the right and caught sight of a very out-of-place looking young woman seated at the next booth over. Her head hung, her brunette hair spilling down and forward, as she traced a path with her finger through the water-ring left by her beer. She was dressed nice, like she'd been at an office job. Or church, even.
Tanner didn't pay it any more attention than he had to, though. Thoughts of his mom and her needs crowded back in as he collapsed into the booth across from the big, muscle-bound, shaven-headed Tyke.
“What it do, man?” Tyke rumbled in his deep bass.
“Fucking hell, Tyke,” Tanner cussed before launching into a tirade about his pops' death, about the Will, and about the requirements on the trust.
Tyke held up his hand as the Will was mentioned. “Sorry, dude, we gotta have shots and some more brew for this legal shit. You're making me have flash backs to when my old man passed. And, knowing your pappy, this is going to be a way worse shitshow than mine.”
“Jethro, buddy,” Tanner called as he hopped up to grab the drinks, “two beers, two bourbons.”
Jethro had the shots poured before he even got to the bar, and was already opening the beer bottles by the time Tanner put his hands around the shots.
“Anything new today?” Tanner asked, picking up the bourbons in one hand and grabbing the beer bottles by the neck with the other.
Jethro shook his head. After a second's thought, though, he decided there was something. “Girl in that booth next to y'all. Looking for a job cocktailing.”
“That woman? She looks like she got lost on the way here from Sunday school. Way too nice for this beer joint.”
The bartender cracked a toothy smile. “Thought the same thing. Had to turn her away, though. More waitresses than we need, anyhow.”
“Shame. She's pretty enough. Probably class the place up, too,” Tanner said as he grabbed the drinks and headed back to rejoin Tyke at the booth. He snuck a glance at the young woman as he returned with their beers and shots, intrigued at why she'd need a job in a place like this. He set the shots down in the center of the table, and Tyke snatched up his without a moment's hesitation.
“Alright, sir,” Tyke said as he picked up the glass and gestured to Tanner with it. “May you be through the Pearly Gates before the Devil knows you're dead.”
“Back atcha,” Tanner said and they toasted each other before slamming back their shots and clapping the glasses face down on the table.
“Now, Tanner my friend,” Tyke said with a flourish, “you may resume.”
Tanner launched back into his story, about how badly his dad had screwed them over, and about the requirements put on him to have a baby before he could get into the trust. His eyes raged, his voice was raised, and he slammed his fist on the table more than a few times.
Tyke took it all in, but by the end he could hardly control his laughter.
“What the fuck's so funny? Huh?”
“You, man, that's what,” Tyke said, still chuckling as he took a drink of his beer. “You all bent outta shape about having to knock some bitch up? Like it's a fucking miracle of goddamn nature or some shit? Shit, man, I've done it twice that I know of, and both times by fucking accident.”
“What're you saying, man?”
“What I'm saying is,” Tyke replied as he leaned forward on his elbows, “you just gotta find yourself one of them . . . what're they called? Sure-gates.”
“Sure-gate? A surrogate, you mean?”
“Yeah, man. Find some chick who actually wants a kid, offer to pay for it, send it to Harvard, do whatever, then, pow,” he slammed his fist into his hand, “you bang one out, man. Presto. You got yourself a fucking kid, and you got yourself the trust. Just fucking man-up and quit being such a touchy-feely pussy about this shit.”
Tyke was right. He just needed to man-up on this. He could run a bar, he could nail a board, and he could beat the ever-living shit out of a man if he had to. Why didn't he just do this? Tanner hung his head. “You're right. I just gotta find some woman who'd be willing to do it.”
Tyke's cell rang. He reached down and dug in his pocket, pulled it out to check the ID. “Shit,” he muttered as he climbed out of the booth. “That's Thorne, man. I better get moving.”
Tanner went to stand, and the two hugged and clapped each other viciously on the back.
“Find you a girl,” Tyke said, “and just knock her up. Easy-peasy, man.”
“Right,” Tanner agreed as Tyke headed back out to his bike. “Easy-fucking-peasy.”
Chapter Two
Star
Surrogate. That was a job that sounded easy enough to Star. Lay back, get pregnant, have baby, get paid to take care of the baby. Not really a surrogate, though. More like a paid mother. To her slightly-tipsy mind, it actually didn't sound half bad.
The Blood Warriors biker in the booth next to hers got up for another beer as she wondered her thoughts aloud. His boots stomped across the floor right in front of her booth.
“Geez,” she said aloud, forgetting how empty the bar was, “I wonder how much you'd have to pay a woman to have your baby?”
The boots scraped on the floor as they came to a dead stop.
She had a sinking feeling, and it wasn't the alcohol. She didn't know how she knew it, maybe it was some deep instinct, but she felt like she was being watched. Star glanced up from her beer.
Yep, she was being watched. The Blood Warriors biker, the handsome, sexy one who had come in a second ago, was staring at her. He worked his jaw, clenching and unclenching his teeth like an animal, his pale blue eyes bored into hers for just a moment. As their gazes lingered, he broke off their connection to turn and go back to the bar.
What was that about? Was it because he thought she might have overheard them talking? Oh no, part of her brain screamed at her, he needed to shut her up. He didn't want it to get out that he had to get a woman pregnant to get his inheritance. She never should have come to the Old Crow, never should have come here instead of Juicy Lucy’s.
She was going to get raped here, or killed, or both. She grabbed her beer and went to finish it down, her mind working overtime. Not that she'd mind, at this point. What else did she have to live for, anyways? At least it would be a handsome man ending her life.
“Jethro,” the biker called, “two more beers, buddy.”
He was such a drunk low-life. He was ordering two beers for himself! She paused and took a deep breath, then finished the rest of hers, to steady her nerves to leave.
The resounding thump of each boot heel preceded him as he came back over to the booths.
She fumbled for her purse.
He set the beers on the table and pushed one in front of her. “Going somewhere?” he asked, his voice as unyielding as his muscle-bounds arms probably were.
She glanced up at him. “N-n-no.”
“Good. Have one on the house.”
“I don't need you to buy me a drink.”
“I'm not. I'm part-owner of this place. I'm giving it to you.”
Part-owner? Him? She glanced from the beer to his face, to those cold, sexy eyes, and back again. “I think I should really - ”
“Look,” he said as he slid into the booth, across from her. “Jethro told me you were looking for a job cocktailing. Right?”
She nodded, her spirits rising a little. Maybe, since he was part owner, he could hire her. This could be a good thing.
“Well, you don't exactly look like the cocktail waitress type.”
Well, that wasn't a promising start to the interview. Her spirits sunk again. She didn't feel like the type, either, and shook her head.
“You're . . . the respectable type.” He said it like he'd never seen it in person before.
“I guess I am,” she agreed. And, she was, even if she happened to be sitting here in this dive of a biker bar, getting drunk on cheap liquid courage before she went to apply at a strip club.
She'd wanted to go to college, but that hadn't happened because of her parents. Instead, she'
d been flailing, trying to find a way out of this town, a way to get as far as possible from the memories of both here and the next town over.
He took a big gulp of his beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his scarred, callused hand. He set the beer down and bored his eyes into hers again, forcing all of her attention on him. He folded his hands on the table. His veined, rippling muscles danced beneath the tattoos that sleeved both forearms.
“I have a proposition,” he said.
Maybe it was a job? Nervous, she felt her heart quickening. She could certainly imagine herself working under his management. “What kind of proposition?” she asked in a wavering voice, and took another drink.
