He’s the most mesmerizing man I’ve ever seen. Strong. Fearless. Totally mental.
“Get out of here,” Nickel growls at me. “And quit bein’ so stupid.”
“Nickel?” I don’t quite know what I mean to say. Maybe don’t kill him. Maybe make it hurt.
“Git.” This time, there is a threat in his voice, and I do have a sense of self-preservation, so I bail.
I try to hurry back to the clearing, but it takes a while ‘cause the clouds have drifted over the moon and the grass is really high. I hear a thud behind me, a few muffled snarls, and then nothing. When I’m a few yards from the bonfire, Nickel catches up. I know it’s him because his tread is heavier than any of the boys. Besides, there’s no way Ryan or the others are gonna be walking that quickly anytime soon.
Nickel slows down when he gets next to me, keeping a foot or two between us. His face is all shadows, but I can smell the copper of blood.
Should I say thank you? Sorry?
I should probably say thank you.
I open my mouth to speak, but he beats me to it.
“Why the fuck were you doin’ cheers for three dudes out in the fuckin’ woods?”
Yeah. I know it was stupid. I knew when I was doing it. Growing up where I have…I know how guys are. My skin prickles with embarrassment, and I’m happy it’s too dark for him to see me blush.
“They said if I was good, they’d get me on the squad.” I know how lame I sound.
He snorts and walks silently beside me a while longer. Then he says, “Why the fuck do you want to be a cheerleader? Thought you danced.”
Huh? How would Nickel Kobald know that?
He must sense my confusion because he kind of grunts, and spits out all grudgingly, “When your ma was fuckin’ Big George, five, six years ago, you had a charity thing up at the community college in Shady Gap. Big George made all us prospects go.”
Five or six years ago? That was, like, my first or second show troupe recital. He saw that?
“Was I wearing a yellow body suit with sequins or a black-and-white polka dot tutu?”
There is a long silence.
“I have no fuckin’ idea.”
He must be sorry he said anything because he doesn’t say a single word more until we’re past the bonfire, close to all the trucks with their lights on.
“Story?”
“Yeah?”
“You want to be on the cheerleading squad?”
I don’t really know. I thought I did. The idea of being on the team, in the middle of the other girls, girls no one ever looks down on—I guess the idea of that is what made me go off into the woods with three guys I didn’t really know.
Cheerleading is fun and all, but I do pointe, and pointe’s way harder.
“I guess not,” I mumble.
“You want to be with those guys?”
The question makes my stomach sour. It wasn’t like that. “No,” I huff.
Nickel stops, reaches out all sudden and grabs my forearm so I stop, too. He leans down, so his face is almost level with mine.
He speaks real slow and clear. “Stop doin’ things you don’t want to do. And stay away from those motherfuckers. Hear me?”
I nod. His raspy, clipped voice echoes in my ear. I hear him, all right.
“And Story?”
I glance up.
“Give me the phones.”
My cheeks heat while I wiggle and tug them from my butt pocket where they’re all three wedged in tight as a drum. I lay them in his outstretched hand.
“What are you going to do with them?”
He shrugs a shoulder. “Toss ’em in the river.”
Then he jerks his chin and stalks off toward his brothers.
The rest of the night, he doesn’t talk to me once, but his eyes never leave me while he leans against Ryan’s F150 with Creech and Hobs. When the guys finally hobble out of the woods, Nickel stares them down, daring them to say anything. They catch on right quick and tell everyone they were wrestling out in the windbreak. Letting off steam. No one believes them. Not when Nickel has his knee bent and the bottom of his mud-caked boot propped on Ryan’s pristine driver’s side door.
Even though I beg, my ride won’t bail while the guy she’s crushing on is still around, so I sit on a log real close to everyone else, my arms wrapped around my belly for an hour before another girl from Happy Trails offers to drive me home. Nickel and his brothers are still there when I go, so I don’t know how it all ends. I hear later that Ryan had to say “please” to get in his truck.
You think the whole thing would’ve taught me a lesson. Keep your head down, stay in your lane, play it safe. Life’s hard enough; you don’t need to add the misery of wanting things you can’t have.
But that’s not how God made me. I’m the kind of weed that sprouts in concrete and makes a crazy bid for the sun. It’s kind of stupid, straining for something you should know better than to want, but no one ever accused me of being too bright.
No matter what anyone said, after that night, I was a goner for Nickel Kobald. Talk about wanting things you can’t have.
CHAPTER 2
NICKEL, PRESENT DAY
I ain’t never shot up or snorted shit, but I understand addiction. Hating something you can’t resist. Knowing it’s gonna do you in but still showing up for it, time and time again.
For the length of three songs every hour or so, Wednesday night through Saturday, I’m addicted to the doorway of the storage room at The White Van gentleman’s club. Least ways, I can’t seem to drag myself away from it.
I always know it’s her comin’ out from the first few notes blaring outta the sound system. Whatever she’s gonna pick any given night, it ain’t the hip hop the other girls favor. Tonight, I hear the twang of jumpsuit-era Elvis, and I know it’s Story’s turn. I settle back into the door frame, leaning as casual as I can, forcing myself to look like I ain’t gonna pop off at the slightest provocation.
I want one of the motherfuckers in the audience to try and grab her. To call out somethin’ wrong. The ugly is burning in my blood, my cock getting stiff just anticipatin’ her long leg easing through the curtains, and I want to beat every asshole in this club blind.
The crowd don’t never oblige me, though. Like tonight, the good ol’ boys hear Elvis, and it’s as if they all took a drag of the good stuff and the buzz hits them at the exact same time. They leave off their talk, lean back, grin all dopey. They got Story’s number, too, and they know this girl gives ’em what they want. This is redneck country. Ain’t nobody heard of Lil’ Wayne, but everybody knows and loves the King.
Elvis begins cryin’ about bein’ caught in a trap, and when the drum starts poundin’, the curtains part, and Story high-steps onto the stage, hands thrust high in the air like a magician’s assistant, swishing her ripe ass from side-to-side, the widest smile in the world turning the place into something else.
A moment ago, it was all darkness and neon lights, black paint on the walls and floors, sticky imitation leather and grimy tables, all of it reeking of stale sweat, liquor, and cum. But when Story Jenkins is onstage, everything else fades to black. Dudes stewing in misery, carrying on with their buddies, or tying on a righteous drunk—they all leave off what they’re doin’ and watch like kids leaning forward in a movie theater, bringin’ beers to their mouths without takin’ their eyes off her.
Me, too. I’m watching. Anchored in place.
And I got the same dumb smile on my face as every other man in the whole damn place.
Story’s got nothin’ on but red tassled pasties, a red thong cut high—showing off the sweet divots under her sharp hip bones—red garters, and the highest red platform heels you’ve ever seen in real life.
We got pretty girls at The White Van, but don’t nobody look like Story. She’s got thick blonde hair down to her butt, high tits the size of bowling balls—more duckpin than ten-pin—an ass you can set your drink on, and a waist so little you wanna wrap your hands around t
o see if your fingers touch.
I wanna touch almost as much as I wanna watch, and I can’t tear my eyes away. It’s magic.
It’s like—in this life—we hardly ever get to see people doing the thing they love. My brothers on a ride, Ernestine down at the club with her grandbabies…I can’t think of no other times when I see pure human happiness. Looking around this room—dudes relaxing on a Friday night, drinkin’, gettin’ a lap dance—you see lust, smiles, hunger, worries set aside. Not bliss. Not on the floor.
But up on the stage?
Pure bliss.
Story dances, and she takes you with her. It’s not like with the other girls when they make like they have eyes only for you. Story’s lost in her music and her moves, and all of us sad sacks of shit only have eyes for her.
The ugly eats away at me at the very same time I’m high off watching her. I’d think it was jealousy or frustration if I didn’t know myself better. It ain’t as simple as that. What I got in me is the opposite of whatever God gave that girl when he made her. She’s a flipped light switch in a dark room. I’m…
I’m the asshole lurking in a doorway, dick hard, scanning the crowd for a motherfucker, any motherfucker, to step out of line. I need to break my fists on a face and purge the devil ridin’ me harder the longer she dances.
Call it blood lust. Maladjustment. Call it psychotic. You wouldn’t be far off.
“Suspicious Minds” finally ends and “Take Me Home, Country Roads” begins, and it’s fuckin’ ridiculous, but by the second line, everyone’s singin’ along, even the businessmen who work up in Pyle.
Story’s got the worst taste in music. She’s like a dude, drunk off his ass, flippin’ through a radio dial in some bumfuck county where they don’t get any good stations.
I’ve seen her dance to “The Rainbow Connection.” King Missile’s “Detachable Penis.” “All My Exes Live In Texas.”
She’s on a downhome kick tonight. I wouldn’t be surprised if she ends this set with that one. Or maybe Johnny Cash. You ain’t seen nothin’ until you’ve seen an inverted pole spin to “Ring of Fire.”
Her taste in music is a running joke around the club, and if she wasn’t the biggest draw Cue’s got, maybe he’d make her ditch the weirder choices. Listening to the dudes bellowing John Denver, arms thrown over each other’s shoulders, the whole place breathing deeper like someone finally cracked a window, you can see why he don’t.
Story Jenkins is magic.
It’s almost like she hears me thinkin’ cause her eyes find me in the doorway—like they always do—and she lets a smile break across her face, warm as sunrise. There’s a twinkle in her eye. She’s teasin’ me now. She leaves off poppin’ her ass and archin’ her back, and she goes to her knees, resting her butt somehow on those crazy heels by twisting her ankles till her feet lay sideways.
She drags her fingers up her splayed thighs, and my eyes follow till I’m lost between her thighs where her red panties wedge between her puffy pussy lips. There’s a collective moan from the crowd and a few yips and hollers.
Goddamn. She needs to stand back up. Push those knees together. Go to all fours and whip her hair around like she does.
Or spread those knees wider. Show me more.
‘Cause there’s no doubt. She’s showing me.
She’s reading my face, her lips twitching each time I shift my stance. She cups her tits and offers them to me, slowly easing her knees further and further apart until I catch a glimpse of pale pink on either side of the red silk.
I stiffen, fist my hands, but I’m stuck in place, my breath comin’ shallow, desperate, and she’s panting too, not from the dancing but from my eyes on her. She needs to fucking stop, but I’ll die if she does, and then she slips one finger into her mouth, eases it between her parted, pink lips and—
A loud bang from the direction of the room we call the “Way Back” cuts through the room like a record scratch. It’s followed by high-pitched screeching. Jo-Beth. The ugly perks up, and my body readies for action.
Thank the Lord. Shit’s going down.
A man in a suit, belt unbuckled and jacket in hand, stomps past.
“You owe me twenty more!” Jo-Beth is in hot pursuit, her mascara streaked and her lipstick smeared like the Joker’s.
“You got all I’m going to give you!” the man barks, pausing to buckle himself.
Jo-Beth reaches for his arm. He jerks his elbow back to avoid her hand, way harder than he has to, and Jo-Beth takes one in the stomach. She makes a little “oof” and staggers, but Jo-Beth don’t go down easy.
By the time I cover five feet, she’s taken her heel off, and she’s whacked him a good one upside the head.
“Give me my money!” She swings again, way too close to his eyes.
Austin, the new kid, gets there the same time I do. He pulls Jo-Beth off before I can get my hands on the dude. It’s only a split second, but the asshole manages to slap Jo-Beth with his full force, knockin’ her head back. She can’t do shit cause Austin has her arms pinned back.
The ugly floods my brain, mutes the music and the shouts, and my body moves without my brain. I’ve got the asshole in a headlock, and then I’m dragging him across the floor. A table skids, a chair topples.
I use his face to slam open the swinging door, and then we’re in the parking lot. The ugly is throbbing, singing. I land blow after blow, only vaguely aware that another man in a suit and glasses has jumped in until he lands a haymaker to the side of my head, setting my ears ringing.
The ugly rears up, and if it had teeth, they’d be drippin’ saliva like some alien monster. I smile, my split lip burning. It feels so good—the pain, the clarity, the not-having-to-hold-it-in—that I let the guy get a few jabs in for fun, don’t even raise my arms, cackling with release while I sway from the blows.
This new guy is serious. He’s studying up, his body turned. He ain’t soft like his friend. It’s clear from his stance, this ain’t his first rodeo.
I wipe a thumb across my nose, and I dive in. There’s a few more minutes of glorious pain, scrabbling as we trade the upper hand over and over. Then there’s the bite of asphalt as we take it to the ground, no longer a brawl but a war, and the ugly almost, almost wears itself out—I think—it ain’t never had enough before so I can’t be sure that’s even possible.
And then there’s hands on me, dragging me off. Austin has one arm, Forty has the other, and Cue’s elbow is hooked around my throat. I pull forward, make it a few steps, but then Cue goes dead weight behind me, and I got to fall back or lose air.
The guy I was fightin’ climbs to his feet, weaving in place. His glasses are cracked. His buddy’s still curled on the ground.
There’s a flash of purple, and Forty’s only just able to catch Jo-Beth with his free arm before she goes to finish what she started.
“He owes me twenty!” she shrieks.
The rumpled ball on the ground whimpers, and the other guy pants, still catching his breath. He’s holding his side like I got his ribs. I ain’t gonna know what I’ve done to myself for another hour or so. Until the ugly wears off, I’m always numb. Even with Cue’s help, it’s hard enough to stumble to my feet.
“For what?” Cue asks from behind me.
“He wanted me to swallow,” Jo-Beth answers. “I said twenty extra, and he said fine.”
The dude on the ground whines something. It sounds like “bullshit.”
“You negotiate up front?” Cue asks.
“He asked during.” Jo-Beth is rounding her eyes, blinkin’ her lashes. Ain’t gonna work with Cue.
“You know the rules. All prices and services negotiated up front. Less hassle all around.”
“Fine.” Jo-Beth gives up the puppy dog and rolls her eyes. “You want me to eat the twenty along with his nasty jizz, then?”
Cue lets out a long-suffering sigh, and his cigar breath on my neck starts the chills to wracking me like they always do after I come down from a fight. I roll my shoulders and
my brothers take the hint and drop me.
“All better?” Forty jokes.
I crack my neck and shake out my arms.
The dude with the glasses is eyein’ me, and it’s tense, but I know he ain’t gonna call the cops. He’s a man in a suit and tie, but I recognize his stance. He’s got his own monkey on his back.
He limps over and squats by his buddy, fishing the dude’s wallet out of his pants. He pulls out a wad of bills—way more than twenty—and hands them up to Jo-Beth. “Here.”
She fists the cash, and she’s halfway back to the club before the dude on the ground can groan a protest.
“We good here?” Cue asks, and glasses guy nods. “Your friend ain’t welcome back.”
“I get that.” The dude in glasses helps his friend to his feet. The asshole starts muttering about the cops. He says he’s gonna sue us, take us for everything we got.
“Eric. Shut the fuck up,” the guy says. “They’re Steel Bones.”
Eric shuts the fuck up.
They roll off in an Audi while Austin and Cue go back in. Forty offers me a swig from the flask he keeps in his breast pocket. It’s got an Army seal on the outside and Macallan on the inside.
I take it with a grunt, and the I savor the burn. It’s good to feel something besides the bone-deep cold that sets in when the ugly begins to recede.
We’re quiet a long moment, watchin’ the cars drive past.
“You could have killed him,” Forty finally says on a long exhale.
I don’t say nothin’. There’s nothin’ to say.
I’ve known Forty more than twenty years. This ain’t the first time he’s told me that. Nor the hundredth.
“I’m goin’ in,” Forty waves me off when I try to hand his flask back.
When he passes through the front doors, they swing wide enough that I can see Story working the floor. She’s got two drinks in hand, a beer and what’s probably an apple juice in a martini glass, heading for a table in the corner.
Her enormous blue eyes catch mine, and for a second, her dancer mask drops. Pink circles bloom on her cheeks, and her lips turn down a notch, plumping up her full bottom lip. She looks shy and worried and caught—all at the same time. She takes a half step toward me, and I shake my head once, raising the flask to my lips.
Nickel's Story: A Steel Bones Motorcycle Club Romance Page 2