by Carmen Faye
The moment her head popped free, Peyton was ready. She threw herself off of the woman and scrambled to her feet. Honey was hurting and was slower to get up. Peyton took two steps forward and helped her up, lifting her by her hair before bending her at the waist and then locking an arm around her neck.
“That’s it!” Ironside said, sliding out of the booth, but the Saracens bitch got in two good punches before he and Whiteside arrived to pull them apart. Honey was still on her feet, but she was bleeding from the lips and nose, and was wobbly as shit.
“Enough!” Whiteshirt snarled as he pushed Peyton away.
Peyton wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, straightened her blouse, then shook her hand, trying to ease the pain from hitting the woman in the face. If her hand hurt, that Knights bitch’s face had to be killing her. “Next time you want me to bring you something, you better be ready to take it! Stupid bitch!”
“I’m going to kill you!” Honey sneered, wiping at her face but only smearing the blood.
“Honey, shut the hell up,” Ironside growled, picking her up and putting her in a chair. “Paul! Put some ice in a towel and bring it over here, along with a wet one.”
When the bartender arrived with the towels, he wiped the blood off Honey’s face with the wet towel then handed her the makeshift ice pack. “Hold this,” he said, rolling the ice-filled towel onto her face.
When the man administering to the woman turned to face her, she swallowed hard. From the look on his face, she was about to get her ass kicked.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Who are you?” Ironside demanded.
“Peyton. Peyton Haase.”
“Why are you here?”
“That stupid bitch wanted me to bring her something.” She pulled out some loose strands of hair and grimaced at the clumps before raking her fingers though her hair again. “Like I told her, I’m meeting a friend here. That’s it.”
Ironside had to work to not smile. “You always this smart mouthed?”
“No. Sometimes I’m worse. What are you going to do, kick my ass now? I didn’t start this! I tried to leave! I just wanted to have a beer!”
He stared at her a moment, liking her spunk. Most women would be terrified. He could tell she was nervous, maybe even afraid, but she hid it well. “Are you with the Saracens?”
“No!”
“She’s lying!” Honey called from behind him. “I saw her with them!”
He turned to look at Honey, then faced Peyton again, waiting for her to respond. “Okay, look, I’m not with them, okay? She may have seen me and my friend at a party, but I’m not a Saracens chick. Ask her how long ago it was when she saw me.”
Ironside turned back to Honey. “I don’t know. A couple months, I guess.”
“It was three weeks!” Peyton objected. “We were just looking for a good time. The Saracens were there and they invited us back to their clubhouse. That’s it!”
“Us?”
“Me and Melissa Booker. She’s the one I’m supposed to meet here.”
“Then what?”
“Then we’re getting the hell out of Cleveland!”
“Why?”
“None of your damn business!”
Ironside stepped in close. “I’m making it my damn business,” he said slowly, his voice low and threatening.
Peyton took a step back. “Because we’re broke and out of options! We’ve been staying in the Saracens clubhouse for the last three weeks, but they’re all assholes. We’re tired of being slapped around.”
“I told you she was a spy!” Honey called standing up. “You should teach her a lesson and then throw her ass back across the ninety!”
“Having your bull do what you can’t?” Peyton sneered as she looked past Ironside.
“You got lucky!”
“Yeah? Want to try your luck again?”
“Would you two just shut the fuck up!” Ironside snapped.
“Ironside, Babe! You can’t—”
“I said shut up!”
“Ironside? That’s your name?” Peyton asked. “First, last or a description?”
He grinned. “Bjorn Lothbrook,” he said, watching her intently.
“What?”
“You don’t know who I am?”
“You’re a Teutonic Knight.”
“But you don’t know who I am?”
“No. Should I?”
“Pull her another beer,” Ironside said to the keep before he took her arm and steered her to their table.
“Ironside, Babe!” Honey objected, but he ignored her.
“Sit,” he ordered, waiting until she slid in, then slid in beside her as Whiteshirt sat on the other side.
“It’s time to be straight with me,” Ironside began as Paul sat her beer in front of her. “Why are you here?”
“I told you!”
“Why here? Why not another bar?”
She pulled her beer to her and took a swallow. “The truth?”
Ironside nodded. “Unless you want me to finish what Honey started.”
“Okay, the truth. Melissa and I were living with a couple of guys. They were dealing and they got busted. The cops seized everything. We had no car, no money, and no place to live. So we hooked up with the Saracens. We thought we’d enjoy it for a while then move on. But they’re nothing but assholes. For the past week I’ve been putting a little money back. A few bucks here, a couple dollars there, forgetting to give back change from beer runs, that sort of thing. Melissa, too. I have enough to buy a couple of train tickets out of here. This bar is close to the station, and the Saracens would have to be crazy to come in here looking for us. So, yeah, we were at their clubhouse, but we’re not Saracens, not exactly. We don’t have jackets, know the secret handshake or do any of the stuff you guys do.” She paused and looked at him a moment. “That’s the truth.”
It had the ring of truth about it, and Ironside looked to Whiteshirt. “What do you think?”
Whiteshirt stroked his beard a moment, then shrugged. “She could be telling the truth. There’s no way to know.”
“Why would I lie?” she asked. “Is there some top secret decoder ring hidden here or something? If I pull on the light sconce, will a wall slide open to reveal your secret lair?” She reached up and pulled on the light fixture. “Maybe it’s one of the other ones.”
Even Whiteshirt chuckled this time. “You’re a real smart ass.”
She shrugged as she took another sip of beer. “What do you want me to say? I come in here for a beer and zeppelins over there tries to kick my ass. What’s up with the Knights and the Saracens anyway? I know they hate you, and I guess you must hate them, but I don’t know why.”
“You’re really not in the Saracens, are you?” Ironside asked.
“No!”
Ironside nodded. “My great-grandfather founded the Teutonic Knights in 1951. They started out grafting the shipping lines. A pay a protection fee or something may happen to your cargo kind of thing. A few years later, five I think, he caught his VP at the time balls deep in his wife. Gert, that’s my great-grandfather, shot him and his wife both and left them for dead. His wife died, but Hank didn’t. When he recovered, he started the Saracens. We’ve been trying to gut each other since. I’m trying to change that.”
“You are? Who’re you?”
“I’m the President of the Knights. This is Whiteshirt. He’s my VP.”
“Whiteshirt?”
“Hafdan Gustaffson, actually, but he goes by Whiteshirt. It’s a long story,” Ironside said when Peyton looked at him quizzically.
“So, Raymond Burr, what are you going to do with me?” Ironside looked at her oddly. “Raymond Burr? Perry Mason? Ironside? The television show? Never mind,” she said waving her hand.
“What do you think, Whiteshirt? You think she’s telling the truth?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Her answers seem a little too pat, like she had them memorized and ready for the questions.”
“Or here’s a tho
ught! Maybe I’m telling the truth,” Peyton responded.
“What did you hear when you came in?” Whiteshirt asked.
“What?”
“Ironside and I were talking business when you came in. I think it’s very convenient you arrived when you did. What do you know about the missing guns?”
“What guns?”
“You don’t know about the missing guns? Whiteshirt asked.
“No! Why would I know anything about that? The guys don’t talk to me. The only time they say anything to me at all is when they’re going to stick their cock in me.”
Whiteshirt looked to Ironside who shrugged. “We don’t talk in front of our club girls either,” Ironside said.
“Did you see a guy walk out just before you came in?” Whiteshirt continued.
“No, why?”
“You didn’t see anyone leave?” he pressed.
“I don’t know! Maybe! I wasn’t paying attention, okay? I was more concerned getting off the street and out of sight before I was spotted.”
“By who?”
“Who do you think?”
Whiteshirt shook his head. There were too many coincidences, and it made him nervous. “I think we should just chuck her ass back on the other side of ninety.”
“No! Don’t do that! Please! I’m sure I can tell you something. I heard things, but I don’t know if they’re important.”
“Like what?”
“Well, like the Saracens’ President is Andrew Moore.”
“We already knew that.”
“Okay, but I didn’t know if you knew it.”
“So tell us what you know. We’ll decide if it’s important.”
Peyton chewed on her bottom lip. “If I tell you what I know, you’ll give me and Melissa safe passage out of town? Even if it’s not important?”
“She’s lying!” Honey called from her chair, getting up and walking to the table. “She can spill a bunch of shit that doesn’t help us at all, or worse, tell us a bunch of lies.”
Whiteshirt nodded. “She’s right.”
Peyton bit her tongue. “I’m not lying. I just want to leave. You can put us on the train yourselves.”
“Train!” Honey sniffed. “Nobody rides the train. It’s just an excuse.”
Ironside looked to Peyton. “What about it? Why not a plane, or the bus?”
“I can’t afford plane tickets.”
“The bus?”
“If the Saracens find out, they can stop a bus. I’d like to see them try to stop a train.”
Ironside thought it over. She was either the best liar he’d seen in a while, or she had carefully thought this through. There was no reason for her to come here. This was one of their bars, sure, but the only reason he and Whiteshirt were here was to meet Luke, and they hadn’t even known about the meeting themselves two hours ago. There was one way to check her story, though.
“When’s Melissa supposed to be here?”
“When she can get here.” When he continued to stare at her she continued. “I’m supposed to wait. She was getting fucked when I left. So some time after that. It’s not like she can say, ‘You need to hurry this up, I have a train to catch,’ you know?”
“Okay,” Ironside said, making a decision. “If this Melissa shows up, and you tell us something useful about the Saracens, we’ll make it worth your time. We’ll buy your tickets and make sure you get on the train safely.”
Honey knew better than to question Ironside in front of anyone, but she didn’t believe Peyton’s story for a second. “Yeah, and if she doesn’t show up, we’ll know it’s all a bunch of lies.”
Peyton glared at the woman. “You need to put some ice on that.”
“Fuck you, bitch!”
***
They waited an hour, Peyton rambling on about what she could remember from the Saracens. “I think we’re done here,” Ironside said. She hadn’t told them shit they could use.
Peyton swallowed hard. “Wait! I told you I didn’t know if anything was important.”
“It sure as hell wasn’t,” Whiteshirt muttered.
“She’ll show, I swear!” Peyton cried softly, trying to salvage something.
“Call her,” Honey challenged.
Peyton reached to the floor and pulled her duffle up and dug out her phone. “Melissa. Peyton. I have a situation here. Let me know where you are and when you’re going to get here as soon as you can.” She hung up and stared at the phone a moment. “Maybe she’s having to pull a train,” she said softly, then dropped the phone back into the duffle.
Ironside heard the regret in her voice, but they couldn’t spend all day in the bar. “We need to go.”
“What about her?” Whiteshirt asked.
“We’ll take her with us.”
“No!” Peyton and Honey said at the same time.
“If she’s a spy, you don’t want her in the clubhouse. She could plant a bug or God knows what!” Honey said rapidly.
“I can’t leave until Melissa gets here!” Peyton said, talking over Honey.
“I have to agree with Honey,” Whiteshirt said. “Too much risk to take her back to the clubhouse.”
Ironside frowned. Whiteshirt was invaluable to the Knights, but he worried over everything, and after a while it got tiresome. “Risk how? We take her phone, we keep someone on her, what’s she going to do?”
“I don’t know, but why take the chance?”
“What do you suggest we do with her?”
“Kick her ass and drop her on the other side!” Honey cried, waving her arms in exasperation. “That’s what we’ve always done!”
“I told her we’d let her go if her story panned out. She may not have done anything to deserve getting her ass kicked,” Ironside said.
“That’s just it! It hasn’t panned out,” Honey said, staring daggers as Peyton.
“It will! I swear! Melissa will show up, and I never said I knew anything important! Please!”
“I’ll follow your lead, but I’m recommending we don’t take her to the clubhouse. Even if she isn’t a Saracen, she isn’t one of us,” Whiteshirt pointed out.
“Okay, now you’re talking sense,” Ironside agreed. “But we can’t leave her here, in case you’re right.”
“Please,” Peyton begged. “Just let me wait on Melissa. She’ll show up. I know she will.”
Ironside thought for a minute. “What’s she look like?”
“Who? Melissa?” Peyton pulled her duffle up again and retrieved her phone. She tapped a moment then scrolled through photos until she found a good one of Melissa. She turned the phone to show Ironside.
He nodded. “We’re leaving. Show Paul. He’ll call me if she comes in.”
“But—” Peyton began.
“Would you rather I just kick your ass and drop you on the other side, just to be sure?”
“No,” she said softly, looking down.
They began to slide out of the booth. “You’re not bringing her to the clubhouse are you?” Honey asked. The last thing she wanted was Peyton in the clubhouse after she kicked her ass. Her face was swollen already, and the girls were going to notice, but it would be better if they only heard her side of the story.
“No. You ride back with Whiteshirt.”
“Where are you going?”
“I guess I’m taking her to my house.”
“What?” Honey squawked. That was even worse!
“Are you sure you want to do that?” Whiteshirt asked. “Not many people know where you live.”
Ironside smiled as Honey nodded her head furiously, but she didn’t fool him for a moment. She wasn’t as concerned for his safety as much as she didn’t want him taking another woman home with him, especially the one who had mopped the floor with her.
“What do you suggest I do with her?” Neither of them had a quick answer for that. “What’s in that bag of yours?” he asked, turning to Peyton.
“A few clothes. Why?”
“Let me see,” he said, t
aking the bag from her. He unzipped it and began to pile her clothes on the table, pausing to look at a racy pair or underwear. “Nice,” he said, holding them up for display before adding them to the pile, then pulling out a bright scarf. He sat it aside and piled everything back in the bag and zipped it closed. “Blindfold,” he said as he folded it over into a thin band.
