by Voss, Deja
“Thank God it’s quiet; I’d probably clear the room with my stench alone.” I haven’t had a proper shower since Virginia, and all the dry shampoo, body spray, and swimming in public bathroom sinks in the world weren’t enough to cover up the fact that I was a hot mess. “I’ve been on the road for a while. Excuse my grossness.”
“Look at where you are, love,” she says. “Grossness is kind of our thing.”
She fills up a glass of water and sets it in front of me. She lines up two shot glasses and reaches down beneath the bar and pulls out a mason jar full of clear liquid. I was raised on moonshine, and rumor had it people up north really didn’t know what the hell they were doing, but who was I to turn down a free shot?
“This will make you sleep like a baby,” she says. “In the office, of course. My boss is out for the day. You won’t be any hassle.”
“Are you sure?” I ask. She taps her shot glass to mine and we down the surprisingly smooth liquor. “Damn, that’s really good. Reminds me of back home.”
“Which is? Never mind. Don’t tell me.”
She is eyeing me up and down, like she’s trying to read my mind, and I just chug down the water she set in front of me, realizing how empty my stomach is. The last thing I ate was a bag of pretzels, and I can’t remember if that was yesterday or this morning.
“You look like you could use some pizza.”
“Why are you being so kind to me?” I ask. Seriously, I’m perplexed. If the tables were turned, if we were back on my home turf, our motto is ass, cash, or grass. And we’re supposed to be all about the southern hospitality.
“I just really want some pizza, and I’ll feel rude eating the whole thing myself in front of you. That, and I get it. I’ve been there.”
Obviously, I’m skeptical. I’m fairly certain this adorable blonde wasn’t wearing her fiancé’s brain matter on her face less than a month ago, but then again, she works for an MC. Anything is possible.
“Thanks, Olive,” I say. “I’m Stacy, by the way.”
“How long you going to be in town for, Stacy?” she asks.
I just shrug; I have no clue. Hours, days, it all depends. On what? I have no idea.
I hear that familiar rumble in the parking lot, the roar of a gang of motorcycles pulling in. I look over my shoulder to the window nervously, my mind blank with fear that they actually found me.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, snapping me out of my panic. “You don’t like bikers? Do you know where you are?”
“Actually, I love ’em. Are you guys hiring by any chance?”
Chapter 2
Goob:
“Are you absolutely positive you’re cool with this?” my older brother, Gavin, asks as we step out of the dimly lit clubhouse into the blazing sun. I slide my sunglasses down over my face and head for my bike.
I’m not even kind of positive that I’m cool with this.
“I fucking hate this, and you know it. We all do,” he says, rushing to catch up with me.
I know he’s being sincere. Gavin doesn’t beat around the bush when it comes to matters of the club and the things we have to do to keep it functioning like a well-oiled machine of Misfits and mayhem. He’s done his best to protect me from the worst since I’ve come back from rehab, but we all know that’s about as useful as giving a guy a box of condoms and a hooker after you chop his dick off.
I can’t unsee the shit storm I grew up in. Nobody can undo the sickness that was my childhood. I can, however, be as unfeeling as humanly possible. About everything. About the fact that we’re on our way to pick up five kilos of heroin in exchange for an unpaid debt. My drug of choice. My only true love.
Relapsing is not an option. Not if I want to continue to be a part of this brotherhood. Not if I want to protect my patch and the lifestyle that comes along with it.
“Seriously,” he says, lighting up a cigarette, his feeble attempt at stalling this mission. “You don’t have to come with. Literally anyone else can. It’s no big deal.”
“Gavin, I have to do this. There’s no way around it. If I can’t do the most basic tasks around this place, then I don’t deserve to be here. Get off it, get on your bike, and let’s go collect.”
I can hear my sponsor’s voice in my ear, telling me what a horrible idea this was. No addict should willingly put themselves in a position to have enough heroin at their fingertips to overdose a hundred times over. Fuck that guy.
That guy’s got a white picket fence and a wife who wants to see him succeed. That guy is happy training for marathons and playing the keyboard in his church band. That guy just wants to be normal.
“Fuck you, Steve,” I mutter.
“What?”
“Nothin’.” I wasn’t made for normal. I wasn’t supposed to be a Steve. I was a Mountain Misfit. It was in my blood. I was legacy, and it was the only thing I knew.
I straddle my Harley Breakout, and start up the engine, Gavin scowling at me the whole time.
“Quit being a pussy,” I shout, wrapping my bandana over my long blond hair. “I’m grown. You don’t have to protect me anymore.”
“I’m making up for lost time,” he says, sliding into his helmet.
I give the man credit, he really did try. He was just a kid, too, though. He was trying to find his way in the world, and I was just trying to appease the people I thought I loved, the people who were supposed to love me.
Now I don’t love anyone. I don’t love anything. I don’t feel anything. It’s easier that way. Eyes on the prize, we pull out of the gravel parking lot and head down the side of the mountain.
Chapter 3
Stacy:
It’s my first day working on my own behind the bar at the Bucktail, and the reality that bartending is not like riding a bicycle is hitting me like a ton of bricks.
It’s been years since I’ve mixed drinks and entertained the masses. Trying to do that while hiding my accent, answering a million questions about where I came from and what I’m doing here, and trying to maintain some sort of quiet control over the crowd is rough. I like the money, though. I kind of like these guys, too. I’ll suck it up and cope until I have enough cash saved up to make my next move. I still haven’t planned that far ahead yet, but the cost of living here is low enough that it won’t be hard to get my life together fairly quickly.
The Mountain Misfits are so different than the club I grew up in. It’s funny, because from the limited information I’ve been privy to, I can pretty much deduce they do the same things as the Debasers MC—drugs, guns, “protection services” to local businesses, your garden-variety criminal racket—but the way they go about doing their business is so different.
The Debasers are a bunch of men who wear their crime on their sleeves. We couldn’t go anywhere without making a scene and scaring the general public.
These guys, though… they’re like big freaking teddy bears with an on switch that takes them from cute and cuddly to crazy motherfuckers.
I don’t know which is scarier. Fortunately, I have the keys to the beers, so I get to see the cute and cuddly more than anything. And sometimes the crude and ugly.
The music is loud, the smoke is heavy, my feet are killing me, and I am ready for a stiff drink.
Gavin, my boss, walks through the front door, and I automatically assume I did something wrong or he found out my identity. Being paranoid is probably something I’m never going to get over until I get some closure on my previous life.
He’s a pretty good-looking guy: tall, dark, tatted, with the bags around his eyes to show he takes his job as vice president pretty seriously. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t sleep too well at night. I can relate.
Gavin’s really not my type anyway.
I’m swearing off bikers for the rest of my life. Hell, I think I’m swearing off men as a whole. I’m still coming to terms with losing Harold, and my emotions are all over the place on that subject. As much as I loved him, he betrayed me. He ruined my life and he didn’t even have the b
alls to give me an out, give me a backup plan. He may have lost his life, but he brought that on himself. I am paying every day for the aftermath of that situation.
Men threatening my life, men who will be more than happy to kill me with their bare hands for Harold’s sins. If these guys at the Bucktail knew my real story, they’d probably feel the same way.
I’m just passing through. Soon Stacy Smith will die, too. And nobody will shed a tear.
“What are you having, boss?” I ask as he sits down at the bar. I’ve never seen the man sitting next to him before, but something about the far-off look in his eyes makes it seem like he’s going through some shit. His cut reads “Goob,” secretary, and it only takes me a second to put two and two together.
“Damn, you two look nothing alike,” I say. “I would’ve never guessed you were brothers. What can I get you? Water? Soda?” I’ve heard of Gavin’s brother before. I don’t know much about him except that he’s a recovering addict who left the club for a few years, did the rehab thing, traveled the country, and is just recently back permanently.
“Just a beer,” he nods. His eyes are so blue and clear, his hair so blond, and the tattoos on his arms are stretched and faded like he put on a lot of weight really fast. A lot of muscle weight. The man is ripped, that’s for sure.
“Same,” Gavin says, barely looking up at me.
“Are you sure?” I ask, before slapping my hand over my mouth, realizing that I’m really not in a position to question these guys. I’m still so new, though, I don’t know what’s a test and what’s real life.
I don’t know how rehab works. Where I come from, we didn’t do that. When my cousin, Tommy, was trying to get off the meth we just locked him in the basement and fed him Gatorade. It was an ugly scene, and we probably did that about ten different times until he overdosed and died.
“Is there heroin in it?” Gavin asks me.
I shake my head, my eyes wide and fingers crossed that I didn’t just piss them off. I can’t lose this job on my first official day off of training. I haven’t even made enough tips to cover the cost of the shitty hotel I’ve been crashing in, and after today, I’m really not in the mood for getting back on the road already.
“How about cocaine, Adderall, meth, molly, oxycontin, crack, or Robitussin?” Goob asks.
“Not that I know of.”
“I think it’s safe,” he says, shooting me a wink as I open the bottle of beer and slide it across the bar. “Thanks for your concern, though. I see my reputation proceeds me.”
“Sorry, I’m not judging you.” He doesn’t look anything like a former junkie to me, to be honest. He looks more like a guy could talk his way into any woman’s pants. Between his long, tousled hair and the square cut of his jaw, just barely concealed by that signature Misfits beard, there is no denying this Goob character is pretty damn hot.
“You have every right to,” he shrugs. “Everything you’ve heard about me, multiply it by ten.”
“Well, Austin said earlier that you have a two-inch dick. If that’s the case, I don’t know how you find pants that fit.” I laugh nervously hoping that he knows I’m joking.
“Where do you find these girls, Gavin?” he asks.
“I found this one sleeping in my office a few weeks ago.” He’s grinning from ear to ear. Maybe Goob’s a little too somber for my sense of humor, but at least my boss approves. “Stacy’s cool, you don’t worry. Not only does she have dick jokes, she also knows a thing or two about bikes.”
“My dad was a mechanic,” I say. It’s not exactly a lie. My dad still is a mechanic, probably. I did grow up around motorcycles, though, and I can tear down an engine and reassemble it like the best of them.
“Oh yeah? Do you ride?”
“I did,” I say, my smile thin. God, I miss my bike. If my sweet little Victory Hammer wasn’t so flashy, I would’ve hopped on it in a heartbeat when I made my great escape. Poor girl is probably just rusting away in the clubhouse parking lot by now. The day I get to go back and liberate her, I’ll make sure the first thing I do is restore her to her old glory. “I had to sell my bike, though.”
“Oh,” he shrugs. I’m beginning to think he just doesn’t give a fuck. It’s probably for the better. He might be a good-looking guy, but my situation is complicated enough as it is.
“Well, let me know if you guys need anything else,” I say, wandering off to take care of my other customers.
“Hey, Stacy,” Goob shouts, grabbing me by the wrist softly from across the bar. “Are you going to stay and have a shift drink with us tonight?”
What the hell, I have nothing else going on. I don’t have any friends, and the motel I’m staying in doesn’t even have basic cable. It’s a horrible idea, hanging out and getting drunk amongst these people that I’m really just trying to blend in with while concealing my true identity. I have a feeling after a couple beers I’ll be all Southern drawl and blowing my cover.
“Fuck it,” I say. “Might as well.”
When in Rome. I might as well just do my best to blend in by doing exactly what Stacy Smith would do. Stacy Smith has no reason not to hang out and have a drink.
“How are you holding up?” Olive asks me. I didn’t even see her sneak in the front door. I swear I feel like a vagrant whenever this girl comes in the room. She’s always dressed perfectly, just scandalous enough to show off the fact that her body is flawless, her make-up is dark, and not a curly blonde hair on her head out of place. I want to hate her. I want to be jealous of her. In a past life, I might have, but this girl has been nothing but kind to me since I walked through those doors.
This is her home, after all. Everyone in the club loves her. I kind of do, too. Obviously, I need to keep my distance. Pouring my heart out to the first woman who treats me with kindness isn’t going to bode well for my mission.
“I survived, I think,” I laugh. “Everyone is taken care of. All I have to do is clean up a little bit, and she’s all yours.”
The place is really starting to fill up for the evening. I walk around and dump ashtrays and pick up stray bottles from the tables, throwing them in the trash. Maybe I’m just imagining things, but every time I look over my shoulder, I can almost feel Goob’s eyes on me by the way he’s staring me down. I highly doubt he’s checking me out, I’m covered in food and beer, and I can feel my fake eyelash dangling from the corner of my face by a thread.
I’m a mess and I know it, but I’ve been running my ass off all day.
Soon, the place is so packed that I can barely make my way through the crowd to finish my cleanup duties. I watch Olive out of the corner of my eye as she handles these bikers with ease, cracking jokes and lining up shot glasses with one hand, cracking open beers with the other. She’s definitely a pro. I don’t know if I’ll be around long enough to ever get on that level, but I’m going to try in the meanwhile. I can tell by the Jeep she drives and the clothes she wears that the woman isn’t hurting for money.
“Are you going to need help?” I ask her as I toss the last of the bottles in the trash can and tie up the bag. “I don’t have anywhere to be.” My feet are telling me otherwise. They’re telling me to find the nearest place to sit down and do just that, but I wouldn’t mind the cash, and I definitely want to stay on her good side.
“I’m fine, sweetie,” she assures me. “Just cut me some lemons and limes and get yourself a drink.”
With the mad rush of bikers that just filed in, the trash follows shortly behind. I am well aware of these types of girls. Everyone around here calls them dirty birdies, but where I come from, they’re just club sluts. They’re the kind of women that you love to hate. I understand their “function” from growing up in a club. These guys deal with some of the shadiest shit on a daily basis. Crime, drugs, violence. Having some easy ass floating around is just a good way to blow off some steam.
Their personal motivation is a totally different story.
One that’s not usually a problem for the club, until they ma
ke it that way.
A thin brunette with eyeliner so dark she could double as a raccoon and a leopard print dress so tight I think I could see her internal organs makes it a point to push her way up to the bar right next to where I’m trying to cut lemons and limes, damn near stepping on my toes with her skanky sparkle stilettos.
“Do you work here now?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I reply, head down, not really eager to entertain her stupid questions.
“Well I need a beer, and Olive is really busy. Think you can just sneak back there and grab me one?”
“Sorry, I’m off the clock.”
“Whatever,” she says, looking at me like I’m the most disgusting thing she’s ever seen before drifting off into the crowd. I don’t let it bother me. Making nice with those types of chicks is rarely worth it. They’ll take until they bleed you dry then screw your future husband and “accidentally” text you the video. Ask me how I know.
“Do you need anything else, Olive?” I ask. “Ice, straws?”
“I’m good!” she says, pulling a bottle of beer out of the rolltop cooler and cracking it open. She puts it in my hand. “This is what you drink, right? Go on, girl. Grab your tip bucket and go have fun.”
“Thanks,” I smile. “I’ll be in the office counting my money. Come get me if you need a hand.”
“Relax,” she says with a wink. I got this.
Chapter 4
Goob:
“What do you know about this chick?” I ask, covering my hand with my mouth.
“Why? Do you think she’s hot?”
That’s irrelevant, even if I do. She’s a really pretty girl, at least from what I can see of her. She’s petite, her body fit like she’s not afraid to pick up some heavy weights every once in a while, and her eyes are this crazy green that I don’t think I’ve ever seen before in my life. They’re hard not to stare into. The way her tits are straining their way out of that black lace tank top makes it a little easier, though.