Her Rock Hard Mountain Man: Rough & Rugged, Book Two

by Grey, Parker

  “Good. I was wondering when you were gonna call. I’ll text you her number in a second.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “I guess it was that obvious?”

  Ruby just laughs.

  “I lost a bet,” she tells me, still laughing. “I didn’t think you’d let me leave brunch without her number, especially when she didn’t show. But instead it took you two whole days.”

  “Sorry to let you down,” I say, smiling. “I trust you’re having a good honeymoon?”

  “It’s perfect,” she says. “The sunsets here are incredible. So are the mai tais.”

  “I’ll let you get back to it,” I say. “Thanks, Ruby.”

  “I’d tell you to treat her right, but I know you will,” she says. “Take care, Elias.”

  We hang up. Thirty seconds later, my phone buzzes with a text: Mia’s number. As I save it to my own phone, I realize something: I don’t even know her last name.

  * * *

  Since Jax is out of town, spending his days downing drinks with umbrellas in them and his nights with his new bride, it’s up to me to tend bar at the Black Forest Roadhouse. I bought the place when I got out of the military, and then a few years later, hired Jax to tend bar for me.

  Don’t worry, I pay him pretty well, because the Black Forest is the kind of place you need an ex-Marine at the bar, being the hangout of the biggest motorcycle club in three states: the Iron Diablos.

  They came with the place, so you could say I inherited them. But even though they have one hell of a reputation, they’re not bad customers, at least for Jax and me. We can handle them.

  I don’t think I’d hire a woman to tend bar here, though. I don’t think I’d hire a man who didn’t know hand-to-hand combat, or who couldn’t handle himself well in a three-on-one fight.

  Most nights the Diablos are fine. They come in, they drink, they play darts, hang around, and chat about whatever motorcycle business they’ve got. They tend to glare at other patrons, and I’ve had to kick more than a few of them out for being unpleasant to my non-MC customers, but overall, they’re no worse than any other group.

  Well, they weren’t. But unless it’s my imagination, they’ve been getting worse lately. Picking more fights with paying customers, harassing women who come into the bar. I immediately boot anyone who tries that shit, of course, but despite that it’s been happening more and more lately.

  If things keep going this way, I’m going to have to ban them from the premises, and from what I know about the Diablos, they’re very unlikely to take that well.

  The first man in tonight is Lucky, the MC president. He’s the first in most nights, actually, and he rarely leaves without drinking at least five beers. He’s followed by two of his MC buddies — one’s the vice president and one’s the sergeant-at-arms, which I know because their leather vests tell me so — and he walks up to the bar where I’m standing, boots thunking heavily on the wooden floor.

  He nods at me once.

  “Beer,” he says, but I’m already reaching into the cooler. I come out with three, place them on napkins on the bar. The men all nod their thanks, then retreat to a pool table in the back.

  Other members trickle in. MC membership is strictly men-only, but there are always plenty of women who hang around, too. Some are wives, some are girlfriends, and some are just local chicks who seem to be looking for a good time.

  After a while, the place is pretty full. I’m busy pouring beer and whiskey for the men, with the occasional cocktail or red wine for one of the women. I’m having a nice chat with one of the wives — I think her name is Simone — when one of the bikers comes up behind her, glowering.

  I nod at him.

  “Another drink?” I ask.

  Simone turns and looks at him, and as she does, her face changes instantly. Moments before, as we were talking, she was smiling and laughing, but suddenly her smile drops.

  “I’m not here for a drink,” he says, his voice low and threatening as he glares at Simone.

  All my muscles tense, readying for a fight, because I know one ready to happen when I see it.

  “I’m here for my woman.”

  Simone presses her lips together. I’d guess she’s in her forties, and time hasn’t been particularly kind to her — she’s still attractive enough, but her age shows in her face.

  “Randy, I was just getting a drink,” she says, turning her head and smiling at him.

  “Looks like you’ve got one,” he says. “What’s taking so long?”

  He crosses his arms over his chest. I’m still tensed, ready for him to attack me for the crime of being pleasant to his old lady, and ready to show him what a mistake that would be.

  “I was talking to Elias,” she says, her voice still soft and calm. “I asked where Jax was. He’s on his honeymoon.”

  “Now you’re asking after other men?” Randy says, stepping forward, getting closer to her.

  Behind the bar, I rest my hand on a bottle. I don’t pretend to understand the MC life, but I do understand that if he harms this woman, I’ll lay down hell on him.

  Real men don’t hit women, and like hell I’ll watch it happen in my bar.

  “I was being polite,” Simone says, and takes her glass from the bar, staring Randy right in the face. “You could try it sometime.”

  A muscle twitches in Randy’s jaw, and my fingers close around the bottle.

  But then he seems to decide something, and glances back at the pool table where the MC leadership are still playing.

  “Let’s go,” he says. “And try not to forget whose property you are.”

  His hand closes around her arm, and he pulls her away. But Simone turns her head and looks at me, defiance in her eyes.

  “Give Jax my best,” she says, and then lets her old man tug her back to the pool table.

  My hand on the bottle relaxes.

  Fucking bikers, I think.

  Chapter Five

  Mia

  My phone buzzes insistently in my pocket just as I put the heavy pot full of water on the stove. I turn the burner on high, then pull it out.

  The call’s from a number that’s not in my phone, but I know who it is. He’s been calling all week, leaving me voicemails every time. Not a single day has gone by that I haven’t heard from Elias.

  “Who is it?” my dad growls from the kitchen table, where he’s nursing a beer and staring at the wall. Ever since I went to Ruby’s wedding and spent the night away from home — horror of horrors — he’s been like this. Angry and overprotective. He’s only let me out of his sight to go to school, and even then, when I stay late to study, he quizzes me about it suspiciously when I come home.

  I can’t wait to be out of here. If I could afford to go to school without living at home, I’d do it in a second, but between books and tuition, there’s no way I could afford my own place.

  “It’s no one,” I tell my dad, stuffing my phone back into my pocket. “Just one of those spam calls.”

  “You’ve been getting a lot of those lately,” he says.

  I glance over my shoulder. Now he’s looking at me, glaring suspiciously, and my heart beats a little bit faster.

  Does he know? How on earth would he?

  I didn’t even do anything. I kissed a guy, that’s it — even if I really wanted to do more, I didn’t.

  “You haven’t?” I ask, keeping my voice light. “Isaac was saying he’s been getting three or four a day too. It’s a huge pain in the neck.”

  He doesn’t respond, just drains his beer and then tosses the can into the trash without getting up. There’s something ugly and aggressive in the way he does it, and it makes my stomach squeeze with uncertainty.

  My father’s been weird lately. I used to be able to go out without being scrutinized and quizzed the moment I came home, but not anymore. I don’t think I’m doing anything differently — besides going to Ruby’s wedding, which I told him about beforehand — so I have to wonder if something has happened with him.

&n
bsp; “I haven’t been getting any spam calls,” he says, his voice little more than a growl.

  “Maybe you’re on the do-not-call list,” I say. I’m still trying to keep it light, but I can feel his suspicion like the point of a dagger against my neck.

  In my pocket, my phone buzzes again, and my heart flips. Elias must have left another voicemail, and suddenly there are butterflies fluttering through my stomach, my pulse racing. I clear my throat.

  “I’m going to the bathroom while the water boils,” I tell my father. “Be right back.”

  I walk out of the kitchen before he can say anything, because surely I’m still allowed to go to the bathroom, for heaven’s sake.

  I lock the door behind myself and sit, fully clothed, on the closed toilet seat. I consider running the water so no one can overhear me, like they do in movies, but that might be a step too far.

  Then I listen to the voicemail.

  “Mia,” Elias says, sounding a little resigned. “I’m starting to think that Ruby gave me the wrong phone number, either by accident or on purpose. I have no idea if you’re getting these or not, but if you are, call me back. I’d love to see you again.”

  My heart’s in my throat, tears pricking at my eyes. There’s a long pause in the message, like Elias on the other end was trying to figure out what to say.

  “Let me know,” he finally says. “Goodbye, Mia. I’ll try again tomorrow.”

  I shut the phone off and sit there with my head in my hands, wondering for the millionth time what I can do. I mean, I could call him back one night when my dad’s passed out from drinking too much, sure. I could text him right now.

  But I can’t see a future for us, not for another while at least, and I’m sure Elias doesn’t want to wait that long. I should call him back or text him and tell him that I’m sorry, but I’m just not interested, that he can move on with his life and forget about me. That way he won’t feel like he has to keep calling me every day.

  I can’t bring myself to do it, though. I can’t bring myself to tell him that I’m not interested because I am. I’m incredibly interested, and if it weren’t for my current life circumstances, I’d be all over him like butter on bread.

  I stand, rubbing tears from my eyes, and flush the toilet that I didn’t use, then run the water in the sink for a moment. I don’t need my father getting suspicious. Then I walk back into the kitchen like nothing happened.

  “Mia,” my father says when I step in and notice that the water’s boiling. “Get me another beer.”

  “Me too!” calls Isaac, my brother, from the next room. He’s been playing video games for hours now.

  I don’t say anything, just grab two beers from the fridge and deliver them, one by one. Neither man says thanks. Isaac doesn’t even look up.

  I go back to the stove and dump the spaghetti into the boiling water, then stand there, stirring it. I’m thinking of Elias’s voicemail.

  And I’m thinking of exactly how many days it will be until I can leave my father’s house.

  Chapter Six

  Elias

  “Is there any more Jim Beam over on your side?” Jax calls down the bar.

  I glance behind myself as I pour coke from the tap into a glass.

  “Yeah, I’ve still got half a bottle over here. Gimme a sec,” I call back as I pop a straw into the glass, give it a quick swirl, and set it on the bar in front of the semi-dressed young woman who ordered it. She smiles at me with bright pink lips, her bottle-blonde hair cascading past her considerable breasts, pushed up by some sort of leather garment that I couldn’t even hope to name.

  It’s sort of a vest, but it’s also skin tight and seems to have some kind of internal structure?

  Let’s be honest: I don’t know shit about fashion.

  The girl turns, her hair swishing over her shoulders, and walks away in her motorcycle boots and hot pants. I frown at her butt as it leaves, hoping that the Diablos haven’t gotten involved in prostitution or something.

  I especially hope that they haven’t gotten involved in prostitution in my bar.

  I grab the half-empty bottle of Jim Beam, find the empty one behind Jax, and swap them out.

  “Thanks, man,” he says, already pouring three other drinks. I swear this bar goes through cheap whiskey like it’s water.

  “Need anything else from the back?” I ask, glancing over the shelf myself.

  He looks over his shoulder.

  “Captain, Smirnoff, and Cuervo?” he says.

  “Be right back,” I say, and disappear into the storeroom.

  Tonight is a madhouse. It’s the most crowded I’ve ever seen the Black Forest Roadhouse, and I’ve owned this place for several years. The bar and the dance floor — which rarely gets used — are wall-to-wall with people wearing black leather. Some have MC cuts, some don’t, and a sizable portion are wearing patches that say ‘Recruit’ on them in big letters.

  I don’t know what it all means. I’ve never been in a biker gang. Hell, I’ve only ridden a motorcycle once or twice, and they’re fun, but I know too many people who’ve died on the things to have any desire to try it again. It’s not that I’m afraid of death — I’ve nearly died for my country more than once — but I’d hate to die so pointlessly.

  But clearly, there’s some sort of event going down, one that the Diablos leadership didn’t bother to tell us that they’d be having at the bar. Besides the MC members and recruits, there are tons of women here, and not the usual members’ old ladies — they’re younger, flirtier, and wearing way less clothing. Like Hotpants McBlondie, for example.

  I couldn’t care less. All night I’ve had tits and ass displayed in front of me, and all I can wish is that Mia would call me back. I’ve left her at least a dozen voicemails, and I’ve probably called her twice as many times, but nothing. She’s never picked up, and she’s never called me back.

  I know I should give up. If she hasn’t called me back yet she’s obviously not going to, but I can’t help but wish that she would.

  I can’t help but call her number, just so I can hear her voice again on her outgoing message. It’s pathetic, and I know it, but I just don’t care.

  I come back out into the bar, where I’m helping an overwhelmed Jax, and restock the shelves. He thanks me, still pouring four drinks at once, and I jump back into the steady, soothing rhythm of bartending even as I wonder what the hell is going on with the Diablos.

  * * *

  The night goes on like that for a couple of hours: a nonstop madhouse, the Diablos and their guests getting progressively drunker as the night wears on. I start pouring drinks with a lighter hand, keeping a constant watch over the bar. I know how these guys are, and I have a bad feeling that we’re only one disagreement away from someone getting clubbed with a pool cue.

  I’m trying to remember how to make a Harvey Wallbanger for some redhead with enormous fake eyelashes, when I hear a sudden commotion right in the middle of the crowd of bikers.

  Shit.

  I glance up, only to see a whole bunch of leather-clad men forming a half-circle, giving someone space. No, make that two people, though I can’t see through the crowd very well to see what’s happening, though I’ve got a pretty good idea based on the raised voices.

  “I told you never to come here!” the man is shouting. “Never! Is that so hard for you to understand? Never, is that too big of a concept for your brain?”

  I spill the orange juice and put the bottle down, cursing and shaking off my hand. Jax is also watching the commotion, as is the redhead whose drink I’m currently messing up.

  In the center of the circle, someone else says something I can’t hear. Whoever it is, I don’t think they’re shouting. I put the Harvey Wallbanger on the bar, spilling more as I do, then wipe my hands on a bar towel.

  “Hey,” the redhead says, frowning. “You spilled—”

  “Be right back,” I tell her, already striding out from behind the bar.

  I shove my way through the crowd, sh
ouldering aside men with names like “Tank” and “Dice.” A couple of them look like they might want to start something, then see it’s the owner of the place, and wisely decide to back down.

  As I get closer, the voices get louder.

  “I don’t care what’s happening at home!” the man’s voice shouts. I realize it’s Lucky, the club president.

  Who the hell is fighting with Lucky? I wonder. He’s got most of these guys under his thumb.

  “You need to get out now before I have you taken out,” he goes on. “This place is for sluts and whores, not—”

  “Just give me the key!” a woman’s voice shouts, right as I shoulder through the last row of men standing there and watching the shouting match.

  It’s Mia’s voice.

  I should know, because I’ve spent the last week listening to her voicemail message over and over again, wishing it was really her. Just as I make it through the crowd, she whirls around, her long dark hair swirling around her.

  My heart stops. She freezes, and for a second, we stare at each other.

  Then her eyes go wide, her lips thin, and she turns back to Lucky, who’s now glaring at me.

  “Give me the key and I’ll leave,” she says, holding one hand out, her voice steady. If it weren’t for that one second of recognition, I’d swear she’d never seen me before, from the look on her face.

  My heart clogs, skips a beat. My chest gets tight and my stomach tries to punch itself, but I force myself to stay steady, calm.

  “The garage is off-limits,” Lucky growls, towering over Mia. “You know that. Why the hell did you even come here?”

  He moves to take a step forward, but before he can, I push between him and Mia.

  “What’s the problem here?” I say softly. I’ve got a couple inches on Lucky, but you don’t become the president of a notorious motorcycle club by being afraid of people bigger than you, so he just glares.