“That girl can dance, but Goddamn. This fuckin’ song.”
My gut clenches, and I grind my jaw so tight my teeth shift a little in the gums.
Fuck. This is not going to work.
I don’t need to look up to see who Forty’s talkin’ about. It’s Story.
She should not be here tonight.
Cue’s figured out to put her on nights I ain’t bouncing, but shit happens. Dancers call in sick. Or there’s times like tonight when we’ve got club business, and I’m here even though I ain’t on the schedule. And—I ain’t gonna lie—if it’s been a while, I sometimes trade with one of the other guys cause self-control ain’t really my strong suit, and Story’s my weakness.
Cue’s smart enough to be nervous—although not fuckin’ smart enough to send Story home—and he’s eyein’ me from behind the bar. Bet he’s worried about the glassware. His place got trashed by the Rebel Raiders not too long ago, and he’s sensitive about his stuff.
And shit does tend to happen when Story and I are workin’ the same night. Glasses do get broken. Chairs. Faces.
Truth is shit tends to happen whenever I’m around, but that’s kind of my job. I’m the explosives, as Heavy, our club prez says. Either here, out crackin’ skulls for Steel Bones, or backing my old pal Frisco, hunting bounties up in Pyle. I prefer the enforcer work. It feeds the beast, keeps me relatively steady. Or at least out of county lock-up on the regular.
This business we’re doin’ tonight, though…way out of my wheelhouse. If the order didn’t come from Heavy himself, I’d have told Forty to fuck himself. Had I known Story’d be dancing tonight, this would have been a non-starter. She don’t need to be near trouble.
That’s why I try to stay away.
I sneak a glance at the stage. Keep my eyes above the neck. She’s got that long, white blonde hair of hers done in two thick braids. Of course. Dorothy from Wizard of Oz braids. Yellow Brick Road and all. That’s how she thinks. Like a kid playing dress up. I let my eyes drop all the way down. Yup. She’s wearin’ sparkly red high heels with a strap across the ankle.
My dick punches against my zipper, and my fingers start to twitch. She’s got to get out of here. I cut my eyes to Cue, and he shrugs. I’m gonna break that motherfucker’s shoulders if he shrugs at me again.
My body heats, and I’m itchin’ to stand, walk over to the bar and make that asshole send her home.
“Drink.” Forty presses a cold one in my palm. “You know how much is ridin’ on this.” Forty slaps the sides of my head. “Chill the fuck out.”
I laugh. “We been rollin’ together since sixth grade. You ever known me to chill out?”
Forty snorts. He sees my point.
I throw one back, knowing it’ll only add fuel to the fire, while he rummages in his pocket.
“Heavy thought we might need reinforcements.” He drops two white pills on the table in front of me.
“The fuck?”
I don’t do drugs. I mean, I’ll take a toke when Boots is passin’ a blunt around the clubhouse, but that’s the extent.
“It’s a Xanax. No biggie. Deb takes one when she gets anxious about shit.”
“What’s Deb got to be anxious about?” Deb is Pig Iron’s old lady. She does the books.
“The fuck I know. Menopause? Just take it. You cannot fuck this up, and we both know your fuckin’ temper will fuck this up.”
Sad thing is? He’s right. He knows it; I know it. Charge, the dude who just plopped his ass down at our table, he knows it.
“So these pills are gonna calm my ass down?”
“Works for Deb,” Forty says.
I down the pills with a swig of beer. “Next time I see Deb, I’m gonna ask her why she gotta take a pill to chill her out.”
Charge chuckles. “You do like to live dangerously, don’t you, my brother?”
I shrug. We’re jokin’ but there’s truth in the statement. I am how I was made. Fucked up. I wreck shit, which is why Story needs to fuckin’ leave.
I can’t drag her off the stage, make a scene. Forty’s right. There’s too much ridin’ on this shit.
My hands are fisted, and I’m set like a spring, but Deb’s pills must be magic, cause somehow, I stay in my seat, nursin’ a long neck. I scan the room, wishin’ to speed time, prayin’ Story picked three short songs for once.
I should know better.
She’s danced to “American Pie” and “Hey, Jude,” with all the choruses.
I make myself shake out my hands, rest them on the table. There are no threats here—yet—just a bunch of truckers takin’ a break after the weigh station, and the usual suits who work in Pyle and probably tell their wives they get stuck in rush hour. Every motherfucker in here is a pervert, and I’m the worst, ‘cause I know how innocent the girl on stage is, and I still can’t stop myself from starin’.
Her tits wobble and bounce while she does this cute half step around the pole. She’s wearin’ sky blue pasties ‘cause this is Luckahannock County and besides the opioid epidemic and the unemployment, we still got the good old blue laws.
The pasties are huge, too. The sight of her nipples is seared in my memory. They were like saucers, so big, it’d be hard to fit ’em in my mouth. I’d manage, though.
My mouth waters, and I take a deep draw of my beer.
I need to look away.
Back when she was fifteen and looked at my loser ass like I hung the moon, I swore to myself I was gonna stay away. I ain’t done a decent thing in my life, but I never took what she offered.
I’ve stayed true to my word. When she was seventeen and showed me her tits at a picnic, I left it alone. When she turned eighteen and her ma started bringin’ her to parties, I steered clear. And then when she showed up at The White Van last year and—in a moment of stupidity I made damn sure he regretted—Cue hired her? I banished myself to the storage room doorway, and otherwise, stayed the fuck away.
I can’t help it if my eyes don’t take orders from my brain too good. Especially tonight when this meet has me on edge, and Deb’s happy pills are bluntin’ my edges.
Story’s strutting to the edge of the stage now, stopping every few feet so an asshole can stick a dollar in her garter. Under the table, my hand finds my knife, and I grip the hilt ‘til it bites through the callouses on my palm. The only reason I don’t get up and bash some skulls is that her eyes are roamin’, too. Like they always do.
To find mine.
And damn but her eyes…they’re like a cartoon character, the Japanese ones, too wide to be real, and as blue as a robin’s egg. Her eyelashes are thick and long, and I know that females wear fake ones, but I’ve memorized this girl’s body from age fifteen. Nothin’ on her is fake.
She’s blinking at me with those freaky, moon pie eyes, and her lips turn up, not like when a dude slips her a tip, but the way they do when I run into her at the clubhouse or back near the changing room. Her real smile. A little scared, a little shy, but mostly so fuckin’ happy to see me.
It guts me like it always does. Sets my blood on fire. Incites the ugly and makes me want to beat that happy out of her before it ruins her.
I tear my eyes away and turn them to the door.
My cock is hard as shit, my temper’s about to break, and my brother-by-blood is gonna be here any minute.
That thought alone is enough to douse my dick with cold water.
No way is Ike Kobald gonna see me starin’ at Story Jenkins. It’d be like danglin’ a bunny in front of a wolf. And then there’s the small fact that he’s a Rebel Raider hang-around from way back. That’s why we invited him after all. To welcome him home from SCI Wayne where he served his sentence. And to pump him for intel on the war we seem to have brewing. See what he knows about the Rebel Raiders torchin’ the Patonquin site and trashin’ The White Van.
Ain’t gonna lie. Havin’ a Kobald brother on the outside again makes me twitch. My mind rests easier when they’re all inside and accounted for. It’s good I’ve got Forty
to my left and Charge to my right. When I let the uneasiness drive me to something stupid, at least there’ll be big motherfuckers to slow me down.
The double doors finally swing open, and I force myself not to check on Story. She’s still up there. I can tell by the truckers singin’ along to “Tubthumping.”
“Baby brother!” Ike stomps in like he owns the place, bringing in the cold and the dank smell of cheap cigars on his jacket. He’s gone bald on top like Dad, he’s bulked up, and he’s missin’ a few teeth. So am I, but Heavy made me get bridges.
I stand, let Ike thump my back. He throws a few punches at my ribs like it’s old times, and I do nothin’, just tighten my obliques to absorb the impact. Heavy and I talked through how this needs to go. I stay chill and let Forty and Charge talk.
We sit, Starla brings over another round, and Ike leans back to take in the stage.
The ugly flares. Shit. Heavy mis-fuckin-calculated. Chill is not going to be possible. I’m going to gouge Ike’s eyes out of his motherfuckin’ face if he doesn’t—
Forty raises a hand, a C-note between two fingers, and waves Danielle over.
“A lap dance for our friend.” Forty grins and slaps my knee, while Ike scoots his chair out so Danielle can hover over his lap. Don’t see how we’re gonna be able to talk like this, but it’s a hell of a lot better than me sending him through a wall before word one.
“Steel Bones sure knows how to welcome a guy home.” Ike smirks, his gaze darting between Danielle’s tits and Forty. He knows something is up.
The fact that I wouldn’t piss on him if he was on fire—and he knows it—probably clued him in.
“How long were you in?” Charge asks. “SCI Wayne, right?”
Ike nods a few times as if he’s seen the war. “Thirty-six months. Got six off for good behavior. Would have been out last year if Jeannie hadn’t come to the parole hearing and cried her fuckin’ eyes out. Whaa-whaa. He broke my jaw. Whaa-whaa. PTSD. Had a cunt as head of the parole board that time. Bitch ate that shit up.”
My knees start jiggling, and my throat burns. I know for a fact if the pills weren’t mufflin’ things, my hands would be around his neck. Fucker sounds just like Dad. Whaa-whaa. Mommy’s hidin’ in her bed again. Cryin’ like a bitch. Rather suck on a crack pipe than FEED HER FUCKIN’ KIDS. WHAA-WHAA.
The ugly churns my guts, kicking speed through my veins, and every part of me is itchy, jerky. I want to pull Danielle off his lap, slam his shit-eating face into the table. It would feel so good. My fingers twitch.
Charge stiffens next to me. He can sense it. He’s been at my side since we were kids, and he’s backed me in enough brawls and pulled me off enough assholes that he knows the signs.
“Got a job lined up?” Forty changes the subject.
“With a felony assault conviction?” Ike shakes his head, and moves to grope Danielle’s tits. She looks a question at Forty, and he puts another twenty on the table. NO TOUCHING is, of course, posted on every wall.
Ike cackles. “Perks of ownership, eh?”
“We might have a gig for you.” Forty makes a show of tucking his thick roll back into his inner jacket pocket.
Ike pauses mid-grope, looks up.
“Do you now?” His smile is sly. Dad’s smile when he talked to anyone outside of the family. Like he’s getting one over.
“Wouldn’t require anything but what you’d be doin’ anyway.” Forty raps on the table for a refill.
“This about Patonquin?”
“Might be.”
“I ain’t patched into the Rebel Raiders.” Ike licks his lips and pinches one of Danielle’s nipples. Hard.
She shrieks—pain, not surprise—but she’s a pro. She slaps his chest, playful, and giggles, “Behave.”
I wince, rise half to standing, ready to drag her away and behind me, and that’s when I notice Ike’s full attention is on me. Not her. He’s smirking.
“What, Dudley Do-Right? What did ya think I was gonna do?” He leans over and licks the nipple he just tweaked, eyein’ me.
Dudley Do-Right. Dad’s way of fucking with me when I tried to get between him and Ma. You gonna get her off the glass dick, Dudley Do-Right? You wanna take this belt instead, Dudley Do-Right?
I shrug, thanking the Lord for Deb’s little white pills.
“Don’t know,” I say. “But I think you should take Forty up on the offer. Minimal risk, maximum reward.”
Ike grins again, slapping Danielle’s tits so they jiggle. “What do you think, honey? Should I take my little brother up on his big deal?”
“Whatever you want, big guy,” she purrs, tripping her fingers down his chest.
I make a mental note to slide an envelope into her locker. She’s good people, club pussy from way back. We owe her big for this.
“All right.” Ike sniffs. “I ain’t gonna wear a wire or any of that shit.”
“Don’t expect you to,” Charge says. “Do your business, and if you hear anything, call Forty. Shit pans out, cash upon delivery.”
Ike curls a finger in Danielle’s G-string, tugs it loose, and leers down. “Sounds good, sounds good. But one thing—”
He lets Danielle’s panties snap back into place, and he turns that leer to her face. I want to beat it off him. I hadn’t grown to my full height when he left home to shack up with Jeannie, so I don’t have any memories of getting mine back with him like I did with Dad and Markie and Keith.
Every fiber of my body wants to make that memory now. I’m panting with it, negotiating with myself that if I hold one more second, then I can let it out. One more second. I can do one more second. The ugly is churning up a racket in my brain, though, and thinkin’ is getting harder and harder.
“What’s that?” Charge asks, easy as always.
“I wouldn’t feel comfortable not dealin’ with family. I go through Nickel.”
I can almost see Forty swallow the hell no.
“After all, you can’t trust family, who can you trust?” Ike sniggers.
I was holdin’ on by a thread, but now that thread’s shredding down to nothin’, and my muscles tense, ready to blow, to wipe this fuckin’ mistake of a human being off the face of the planet. Then I catch sight of Story in the mirror above the bar.
Strains of music filter through the chaotic mess of hate and memories and chemical urges moshing in my skull.
The end of song three. “Manic Monday.”
Jesus Christ. It’s fuckin’ Friday.
And it’s a Goddamn miracle but the chaos slows, and I can follow a train of thought. In less than a minute, Story’s gonna do that stupid ballerina curtsy she does, and then she’s gonna come down to work the crowd for drinks and lap dances. She’s gonna head straight for this table like a bee to a flower ‘cause she ain’t never had no sense for danger, and she’s under the misapprehension that I ain’t the worst mistake a woman can make.
I stand.
Charge makes to hold me back, but I shake him off. I’m cool.
“Gimme a minute.” I make a quick run behind the bar, grab a couple of Cue’s Cohibas. I saunter back just as the last strains of the song fade out to a few drunk hollers and half-assed golf claps.
“All right, brother,” I say. “You deal with me.” I gesture to the door with the cigars, makin’ sure he sees the gold of the label.
“Cohibas?” Ike’s eyes go from Danielle’s rack to what I’ve got in my hands. My stomach turns.
“Only the best,” I say.
I fuckin’ hate the things. Everything in that shithole I grew up in reeked of cheap ass cigars. The drapes, the carpet, the dogs. When I moved to the clubhouse, I burned all my clothes. There’s a point where you can’t wash the smell out.
Ike follows me out front to the wrought iron bench underneath the neon Live Nude Girls sign. Forty and Charge don’t give it a minute before they come out to babysit me. I hang for about an hour, forcin’ smoke into my lungs, listenin’ to my piece-of-shit felon brother talk about how he’s gonna get
back in the game, make Jeannie pay, buy a fuckin’ Land Rover.
I got to give it to Deb’s little white pills. Without ’em, there’s no way I wouldn’t have shut his ugly mouth with my fist. ‘Course there’s also the glimpses of white-gold hair I catch through the door every so often when a dude comes out to light one up. That keeps me shut up and in-line like a damn soldier.
That girl…she’s always been a fairy-tale princess lost in a den of trolls. Too bad I’m the dragon in the story. And now I even smell like smoke and shit.
CHAPTER 5
STORY, PRESENT DAY
I had a great night.
I made two hundred and twenty-four bucks before Cue’s cut, and sixty of that was from a lap dance where all the guy wanted to do was tell me how his Cavalier King Charles Spaniel needs an operation—which is awful—but at least the guy can afford it.
Anyway, then Nickel came in, even though he wasn’t on the schedule. He was meeting some creepy dude who looked like him, but a decade older and bald. I know pretty much everything about Nickel Kobald, since I’ve been creepin’ on him since ninth grade. It was probably one of his brothers. They’re all bad news. I thought they were all incarcerated, but I guess not.
But the best thing tonight, though? Nickel let me see him looking at me.
He won’t, usually. Since the bathroom incident, he goes out of his way to act like he’s not watching, even though we both know he is. He’s damn near worn a hole in the floor by the storage room. But sometimes—once in a while—he slips up. Either that or he gives up, and he doesn’t hide what he’s doing. What he’s thinking…
He looks so angry when he owns it, like he can’t help it and that makes him absolutely furious. I can’t even tell you how hot Nickel Kobald is when he’s seething and barely holding it together. He’s got these perfect high cheekbones and chiseled jaw and these kind of half-sunken eyes. When he’s pissed, all of the angles on his face go blade sharp, and he’s so beautiful, I get shivers all down my spine.
I also feel totally guilty because I know he has an anger problem.
It’s not like when people say, “Oh, such and such has an anger problem,” but they really mean the guy’s an asshole. Nickel has a real, serious, anger issue. Like the kind you need to see a shrink about. I didn’t get that when I was younger, but I do now.
Nickel's Story: A Steel Bones Motorcycle Club Romance Page 4