by Nicole James
“Hi. I’m Michaela, Cullen’s oldest child. I’ll be in charge of the bar temporarily.”
Right off the bat, someone interrupts me. “Temporarily. What exactly does that mean? Are you selling?”
She’s a blonde with her chin in the air and, apparently, a chip on her shoulder.
“I’m sorry. And you are?”
“Ronnie.” She snaps her gum.
“What do you do here, Ronnie?”
She rolls her eyes. “I wait tables.” The way she says it implies I’m an idiot.
“How about we start with each of you telling me your position. Who’s my cook?”
A middle-aged man raises his hand. “I’m Carlos.”
“Nice to meet you, Carlos. Do you have help?”
He lifts his chin to a young woman. “Anna. She also covers my days off.”
I nod. “Great. Bartenders?”
A sexy guy with a Euro vibe and ink-covered arms lifts his hand while leaning back in his chair. “Phil.”
Another woman with a long dark ponytail lifts her hand. “Sasha.”
Another guy lifts his hand. “Kevin.”
I nod. “Thank you. I assume the rest of you are waitstaff. Thank you all for sticking with us through this difficult time. I’m sure you’re all eager to get back to work, and I’d like to open as soon as possible. I’ll want to go over our inventory with my bartenders and cooks to make sure we’re ready to open or if we need to order anything. Other than that, I expect things to continue as they have been. If there are any problems or concerns anyone would like to address, I—”
The gum-snapping Ronnie cuts me off. “Yeah, you got our paychecks?”
“Paychecks?”
She rolls her eyes at me again, and I’m ready to throw my water glass in her face.
“Yeah, paychecks. We haven’t gotten any in weeks.”
“I see. I wasn’t aware of that. I’ll take care of it immediately.”
“So, what does that mean? Like, are you calling the payroll service, or are you writing us a check?”
I stare at her, totally not having the answer. “Umm …”
“You don’t even know who the payroll company is, do you?” She stands up. “This is fucking bullshit. Even old man Mooney wasn’t this stupid.”
I jump to my feet, having had enough of this bitch’s mouth. “Shut up about my father. Yes, it’s been a trying time for my family. If you had any manners, you’d know that. I’m stepping into a job I know nothing about, that’s true. But this is my family’s business, and I’ll figure it all out. I’d appreciate all of your patience as I do that.” I glance around at the faces, some shocked, some smiling. I turn on Ronnie. “As for you, I’ll mail you a check. There’s the door.” I point at it.
Her brow arches, then she whirls and stalks toward the front, calling over her shoulder. “Fuck you, and fuck this place.”
After she slams out, I glance around at the remaining group. “I apologize for the outburst. If any of the rest of you feel the same, you can follow her out. I’ll mail your check.”
There’s silence for a moment, and I’m sure I’ve made a colossal failure of my first day, when Phil begins to clap. He’s smiling. Soon Kevin joins in.
“Glad somebody finally put that bitch in her place,” Phil says.
Kevin nods. “Good riddance.”
The others all nod, approving.
I slide back into my chair. “I’ve just got one question.”
“What’s that, boss lady?” Phil asks, grinning.
“Who’s our payroll company?”
They all burst out laughing.
Six
Michaela—
I’m sitting in the office on my laptop, walking through the steps to submit payroll electronically. The company representative was all too happy to get me set up on their system. Apparently my father drove her crazy, insisting on calling it in every week and taking up a half hour of her day. Although, she was sad to hear of his passing, and admitted she’d actually miss the lively Irishman’s calls.
Someone’s banging on the back door and I get up. We’re expecting a shipment of beer from the distributor. I open the door and am greeted by the driver, who’s leaning on a dolly loaded down with cases of longnecks. He looks past me.
“Phil here?”
“I’m Michaela Mooney. You’ll be dealing with me from now on.” I hold my hand out for the clipboard and pen so I can sign for the delivery. I scan the invoice. He starts to roll past me, but I stop him. “Hang on, let me see what you have.”
He huffs out a breath, bothered that I actually want to double check the shipment and drops the dolly flat, making the bottles rattle. I glare at him and check what he has.
“Thank you.” I check off the items.
He brings in two more dollies full and four kegs. Then he wants his paperwork.
“Where’s the rest?”
“That’s all of it.”
“You’re missing a case of Blue Moon and two cases of Heineken.”
“I already unloaded ’em.”
Does he think I’m stupid? “Um, no, you didn’t. I counted everything.”
“Look, lady. Maybe you counted wrong. It was all on the truck, and now it’s not.”
“Look, buddy. It may have been on the truck, but you didn’t bring it in my bar.”
“You signing that or not?”
“I’m not paying for product I didn’t receive.”
“You got a problem with the invoice, work it out with the sales department. I’ve got a route to finish.” With that, he tears off his yellow copy, unsigned, and stalks back to his truck.
“Oh, I’ll be calling the sales department. Count on it,” I yell after him.
I turn back to the propped open door to see Phil leaning against it with his arms folded.
“You know they’re the only distributors that deliver to Uprising, right?”
“I’m sure I can find another one. I won’t be cheated.”
He lifts a brow and walks back inside.
I crumple the invoice in my hand and return to the office. I’m about to make a call when Kevin appears in the doorway. I look up, tucking the phone under my chin. “What do you need?”
“Any chance you could let me off early? Amy’s puking her guts out with morning sickness and needs me to bring her some Gatorade.”
“I suppose.”
“Great, thanks.” He’s gone in a flash.
Five minutes later, I’m on hold with the distributor when Phil appears in the door. “Tell me you didn’t let Kevin leave early.”
“Yes, why?”
“Because it’s Two-For-One Draft Night, and we’re about to get slammed. Plus, it’s Karaoke Night, so I’m gonna need help. You know how to draw a beer from the tap?”
I hang up the phone and follow, murmuring under my breath, “How hard can it be?”
Five hours later, I see how hard it can be. I’m dead on my feet, tired of yelling over the crowd noise, and trying to hear the orders shouted at me. More than once, I’ve gotten it wrong, and they were not happy.
It’s finally starting to clear out. I glance at the clock over my shoulder. It’s almost closing time. At that moment, Phil yells out, “Last call.”
Thank God.
The old guy at the end of the bar rises and slips one arm in his jacket. I grab his tab and bring it to him. “Here you go. That’ll be thirty-six dollars.”
He avoids eye contact and jerks his chin. “Put it on my tab.”
“Excuse me? This is your tab for the night.”
He huffs. “My monthly tab. Cullen always let me pay at the end of the month.”
“Sorry, I need you to take care of this tonight.”
“That’s not how it’s always been done.”
“Well, things are different now.”
“They sure are and not for the better.” He jerks his wallet out and slams down a twenty, a ten, a five, and a one, leaving no tip. Then he stalks out. Unbelievable. I�
��m pissed, but I’m also wondering just how much he’s run up on his monthly tab. I’ll probably never see a dime of it.
As I watch his retreating back leaving out the front door, I see several bikes roll past. Their heads turn toward the bar, and I’m sure they realize the place is back up and running. I worry they’ll stop, but after slowing for a moment, they roll on by, their pipes echoing loudly against the building as they hit their throttles.
An hour later, the bar is cleaned and the last employee has left. I lock the doors, turn out the neon signs in the window, and make my way to the office. It’s eerily quiet with everyone gone, so different from the madhouse it was just a few hours ago.
Utterly exhausted, I collapse in my father’s chair; I’ll always think of it as his chair. If this is what it’ll take every night to keep this place in business, I’m not sure I can do it.
Not only that, I feel completely out of my depth. The employees, the vendors, even the customers act as if they all question my worthiness to run the place.
I want to scream at them all, I don’t even want to be here!
Maybe they’re right. Maybe I’m not up to the task of preserving the family legacy that my ancestors four generations before me have now entrusted into my hands.
While massaging my forehead, I notice the manila envelope that came in the mail today at Ma’s. I stopped over there this morning to check on her and happened to see it in the pile, so I grabbed it up and shoved it in my handbag before she could open it. It’s from the Uprising Police Department, and I have a feeling I know what’s inside.
I rip it open and pull out the documents. There’s a cover letter with standard verbiage wrapping up the case. The next pages consist of the coroner’s report and, finally, my father’s suicide note in a sheet protector.
It’s short and scribbled in handwriting that looks nothing like my father’s. Maybe he was drunk when he wrote it. I read the words, although they don’t say much. In fact, it’s very impersonal, and the phrasing doesn’t sound like my da at all.
I set it down and scan over the coroner’s report, trying to make sense of it. It’s lengthy and includes the autopsy and the investigative report. It mentions the angle of the bullet, entry and exit, and time of death.
I pause and back up at the part that says the bullet entered his right temple, exited above his left ear and continued, causing a hole through the driver’s window.
It says there was gunpowder residue on my father’s right glove.
I look at the picture of the gloves they had in evidence.
I move to the next pictures: one shows the damaged window, the other, where they’d pulled the slug out of a support beam under the stairs.
Thankfully, they didn’t include any pictures of my father’s body.
With shaking hands, I shove it all back in the envelope, then I put my head down and cry.
Seven
Sly—
I’m leaning back against the seat of my parked bike with my legs crossed at the boots and an elbow resting on the gas tank. I take a drag off my smoke and exhale into the starry night sky. There’s a nip in the air, and I’m glad I’ve got a flannel shirt on under my cut.
It’s quiet while we wait to pick up this gun delivery. The drop is in the middle of nowhere, down some dirt road that leads to a landfill. Luckily, the breeze is in our favor tonight, and we can’t smell it.
I look over at North as I flick my ashes. “How’re things going down at Centerfolds? That new chick workin’ out?”
He folds his arms, his legs spread in a wide stance. “Not bad. She needs a little more experience.”
“Practice makes perfect.” I grin.
“How much did you lose on the O’Conner fight?” Bash asks me.
“Five hundred. I’ll make it up next week on Ramirez.”
“You notice Mooney’s is back open?” Jinx asks, glancing over at me.
I nod. “Yup. Did some checkin’. Looks like the liquor license has been transferred to a Michael A. Mooney. So, I guess the widow’s not sellin’.”
Bash frowns. “I thought the son was just a teenager. Cullen have a brother we don’t know about?”
I shrug. “Don’t know. Think I’ll drop in on the way back to the clubhouse tonight. Guess I’ll find out.”
“You want company, I could use a beer?” Bouncer asks.
“Nah, I’ll just slip in discreetly and check things out. Less obvious if it’s only me.”
North chuckles.
“What’s so funny?” I ask.
“You, tryin’ to be inconspicuous. You won’t last five minutes before some chick’s hittin’ on you, pretty boy.”
“Look who’s talkin’, Magic Mike.”
He flips me the bird.
The distant sound of tires on gravel carries to us, and I drop my cigarette, grinding it under my boot.
“Look alive, boys,” Chaos growls.
As I stand, my hand slides under my cut to close around the grip of my Berretta, ready to pull it if need be. We expect this to be an unmarked black panel van carrying two Vine City Vipers and four cases of semi-automatic Glocks. It should all go smoothly, but experience has taught us to be ready for the unexpected.
My brothers beside me, North, Jinx, Bash, Bouncer, and Chaos all come to attention.
The vehicle drives around the bend and appears through the trees. It is indeed a black panel van, but I won’t rest easy until this deal is done. Judging by their darting eyes as they step from the van, the Vipers are just as anxious as we are to be done with this.
Ten minutes later, the product is divided up among our saddlebags. Eight per bag loads each rider down a little over twenty pounds, a barely noticeable difference, but at about six hundred bucks a pop, retail, the haul is worth sixty grand. Of course we don’t pay anywhere near that, so this’ll net us a nice little profit once we unload them, plus, it’s not a cash deal but rather a drugs-for-guns exchange.
As soon as the van pulls out, we mount up, eager to get the fuck out of here. My brothers and I roll down the gravel, then hit the blacktop and, two by two, fall into formation with Chaos, our president, and Jinx, our road captain, leading us out. Next is Bash, our VP, and North, our enforcer. Pulling up the rear are Bouncer and myself. He’s one of the MC’s nomads, and as such, he’s not tied to any one chapter but rides freely among them. I envy his freedom in that regard, but I love my brothers and the security of knowing exactly who’s got my back.
Trust and loyalty are complicated things. Anyone who says they’re easy is full of shit. That’s why we put our prospective members through such a rigorous probationary phase. We’ve got to know, and I mean unequivocally know we can trust them with our lives and that they’ve got our backs before we give them our loyalty for life and that patch we value with the utmost respect.
It’s the reason the six of us are so tight. We know beyond a shadow of a doubt and with absolute certainty that we’d go to any lengths necessary for this club and each other. Brothers before all others—we don’t take that shit lightly.
We ride through the countryside, cruising down empty back roads. Ain’t nothin’ better than a late-night ride like this with just the rolling hills, tall southern pines, and stars in the sky above—not to mention, good brothers at my side.
Before long, we hit Uprising, Georgia’s city limits, population 2002. I chuckle to myself every time I see that sign. I think the prison block I was in had more inmates than that.
I downshift as we take a curve and roll over a set of train tracks. The breeze ruffling my flannel sleeves lessens as we slow down. Highway 42 leads us down the main drag through town, and I see Mooney’s Pub approaching. I lift my gloved hand and wave two fingers at Bouncer, signaling I’m pulling off. He gives it back as I slow up and drop out of the line. I hear his pipes as he hits his throttle, speeding off with my brothers.
Rolling slowly to a stop, I drop it into neutral and use my boots to back the bike into a spot in front of the bar, my tire up agains
t the curb. Lowering my kickstand, I dismount and stare up at the place as I unbuckle my helmet. It’s past midnight and they’ll be closing soon. Even on a Friday, no bars stay open past one a.m. around here.
I hang my helmet on one of the handlebars and step up on the sidewalk. Through the window and beyond the neon beer signs, people are visible at the pool tables. Music drifts to me and increases in volume as I pull open the door and enter.
Unsnapping my cut, I take a stool at the end of the bar near the entrance and swivel slightly to watch a tricky pool shot. The guy sinks the cue ball and curses.
One of the bartenders approaches. His eyes drop to my cut for a split second. “What can I get for you?”
Either North or myself have been picking up protection payments from Cullen every Monday night since we took over the Kings of Carnage. But we always came after closing, so this guy has no clue who I am.
I order a bottle of beer, and he reaches in the tub of ice under the bar, yanks one out, and sets it before me.
“Want a glass?”
The corner of my mouth pulls up and I shake my head. He moves off to wait on another customer, and I scan the room, remembering back to the last time I was in here.
Cullen was alone when I walked in. He was setting a tall ladder up under one of the antique light fixtures that hung twelve feet up. He glanced over at me.
“Sly. Punctual as usual, I see.”
“Ain’t I always, old man?” I ambled toward him with my hands in my pockets.
“Yup, that you are.” He started to climb, but I stopped him.
“Get down before you break your damn neck, Cullen. Let me do it.”
He stepped back off the rung, surprise written on his face. I climbed the ladder, then reached around the frosted white globe that I knew had to be original, until I located the screws.
“Careful, those things are tricky.”
I removed them and lowered the globe, setting it gently into his waiting hands. He placed it on the bar top as I removed the blown bulb, then passed me the new one followed by the globe.