by Warren, Rie
I scanned out over the crowded barroom as rock music blasted from the speakers and police sirens blared from the streets.
At least I was reasonably sure the pigs weren’t after us . . . this time.
Another honey began making eyes at me, that one blonde and all cutesy and probably a coed from Tulane.
No way was I touching that.
Slade took my empty and slipped another bottle into my hand. He also dropped my Zippo into the front pocket of my cut.
I lit up a smoke immediately as I took another drink of cold beer.
The heat from outside compounded the body heat inside, and it was probably a cool eighty degrees inside Thunder Road.
Like most nights, Slade manned the bar with Chase. He had a certain flair with the customers. If by flair one meant his curt fuck you attitude that proved to be a favorite with the cool kid wannabes.
“Another pussy drink for Man Bun!” Slade loudly called out an order just placed by—I glanced to my left—yup, some chill guy sporting the man bun.
Chase juggled a tall glass and a cocktail shaker in his hands. “Pussy drink for Man Bun! Gotcha.”
Those around the bar guffawed, Saint and me included.
Pussy drink meant mixed shit, whatever we had on hand, with some ice. It didn’t matter if these pretentious douchebags ordered a mojito, a dirty martini, or a mudslide. We didn’t serve top of the line anything except for insults.
Authentic ambience. They got that in spades.
Man Bun accepted his drink and gulped the cloudy mixture without wincing, because he was cool.
Then he asked Slade, “Hey, bro. Can I see your knife?”
Stupid couillon was clearly looking for trouble.
“First of all, I’m not your bro. Second, this beauty’s called Veronica.” Slade’s steely blue eyes turned a definite shade of deadly as he unsheathed the shiny KA-BAR. “Third, you can see Veronica here if you wanna get your fingers chopped off.”
He swiftly threw the knife so it whistled hilt over blade to land with a thunk, the pointy end piercing the old wooden bar top right between Man Bun’s splayed index and middle fingers.
Instead of showing fear for his life, Man Bun left a freaking five buck tip.
The playful threat of dismemberment proved to be good for business.
Who knew?
I tipped back my beer, thinking about shooting some pool, when a surge of electricity licked up the center of my spine.
I turned slowly, expecting a taser at my back, but there was no one on my six.
On high alert for trouble, I searched through the barroom, only stopping when my gaze landed on a newcomer.
Not a man. Not John E. Law. Not one of the usual cherries either.
The girl stood off on her own, sipping from a beer bottle. Her liquid brown eyes large in her pixie-sweet face, she looked unsure and uncomfortable with her shoulders nearly climbing up to her ears.
The tears on her snug jeans probably weren’t meant to be trendy, and the overlarge shirt chopped at the neckline and armholes probably wasn’t a fashion statement. Scanning lower, I noted chunky black boots more scuffed than mine.
Whoever the fantôme was, she wasn’t prissy.
Not a regular honey.
I elbowed Saint in the ribs, slyly pointing out the girl who bore inked designs down both arms. “You seen her before?”
He swiped two fingers down his goatee. “Nope, can’t say that I have.”
“Bien. Hands off. She’s mine.” And if she wasn’t gonna be mine, she wasn’t going to be anyone’s.
As I watched, the gamine shook her bottle with a wrinkle of her nose before peering into the empty depths.
I seriously considered calling a cab to make sure she got out of the area without getting hustled or hassled. Or walking her home myself. An air of vulnerability radiated off her, an almost tangible innocence.
Or maybe I was frigging delusional.
No one was innocent in this city.
“You done gawking yet? Ready to get on with the show?” Slade had silently approached and gripped me by the scruff of my neck.
I shrugged free of his hold. “Huh? Oh. Right. Revenge.”
I tore my eyes from the girl to locate Revenge. That asshole had finally shown up. He was supposed to be on bar duty from ten to closing. So basically he was just fifteen minutes late . . . I mean, he did have to commute alllll the fucking way from his room upstairs.
During his long-ass commute he seemed to have picked up two fellow travelers otherwise known as bed buddies.
A luscious blonde hung off one of his tatted arms, Demi off the other. Seemed she’d gotten over her snit with me and moved onto her next Legion conquest.
Her sudden interest in Revenge caused no jealousy in me at all. But when one of the bearded yupsters approached my gamine with his hand outstretched and a smile on his face, my hackles rose and my hand went to my blade.
Then my vision was obscured as Lennox and Saint manhandled Revenge away from his babe duo to come front and center with me.
“Aw shit. What’d I do now, Prez?” Revenge squinted at me from silvery gray eyes.
The hipster circus gasped in tandem as Chase cut the music off.
Should’ve charged the cunts cover charge tonight for the entertainment value alone.
Revenge had come to us through Saint. They’d both been banged up in the joint. You know, small crimes and misdemeanors . . . not. But they were completely rehabilitated. Fine upstanding members of the community . . . or close enough.
The rest of Blood Legion surrounded us, creating a big, black leather-wearing wall. Bad dudes. Rogue riders. Nomads united.
I circled slowly around Revenge, bowie knife in hand.
Worried whispers tinged with excitement slithered to my ears:
“Is he going to actually cut him?”
“Is he going to kill him?”
“Should I call 911?”
Merde.
Revenge held his chin high and kept his eyes on mine when I faced him again.
“Revenge, you did your time in jail and with this MC.”
Gasps from the Indie frauds.
I placed a hand on his shoulder. “You made good on your promise to put Blood Legion above all others.”
I sheathed my knife with a slick move. “You haven’t fucked up yet.”
With a nod to Slade, I let a grin ease across my lips.
Slade placed Revenge’s cut in my arms, and I lifted the leather with the new patch first for all others to see then I presented it to the man himself.
“Welcome. You’re a motherfuckin’ officer now.” I handed him the vest.
“Jeeesus. Y’all almost made my scrote crawl back up inside my nutsack with that shit.” A smile broke across his face as he slipped on the new vest bearing his tail gunner patch and the Blood Legion colors. “Thanks, Prez.”
He pumped my hand then bumped my fist then it was whistles and shouts and shots—the liquor kind, not the gun kind—all around.
As the crew congregated around Revenge, I got a new bead on my mystery girl. Seemed she hadn’t taken the bearded twit up on whatever he’d been offering as she still nursed an empty beer bottle as she stood by herself.
“I’m not calling you Gunny though.” I heard Slade mention to Revenge.
As a former Marine, Gunny meant something entirely different to Killian Slade, and we all got that.
“Heard,” Revenge replied solemnly. Then he strutted around like the cock of the walk. “Drinks on me! None of that pussy shit though.” He pointed across the room to all the MC tourists. “Yeah, I’m lookin’ at you.”
That time the laughter was a little more nervous.
I liked it.
Breaking free of my biker brethren, I navigated around the pool tables and passed by the booths, only snickering a little when some asshole hauled out a freakin’ hookah pipe and started toking it up.
Amateurs.
The girl wearing the dusty, scuffed shit
kickers captivated me. The closer I got to her, the more my heart pounded. Heat spiked to my cock, and I could finally make out the tats trailing down both her arms. Shooting stars burst across her shoulders. The stars got smaller and smaller all the way to her wrists. Honey-colored hair lay straight as a sheaf of wheat down her back nearly to her narrow waist.
When I stood in front of her—my shadow throwing her into darkness—she jerked and glanced up.
And up. And up.
Mon Dieu, the gamine was tiny, her body tight. Something haunted eclipsed her eyes, and she shuttered them closed.
There was a different air about her, that was for damn sure.
Stepping back a couple paces, I tried to look less aggressive. I even bent my knees so I didn’t loom over her like a menacing giant.
“Buy you a drink?” I smiled. “That is, assuming you’re of age.”
She opened those gorgeous eyes again, and I noticed bright flecks of gold in the nutmeg-colored irises.
Her shoulders finally loosened, and she smiled back. “Ah’m definitely of age. And I’ll take that drink, as long as it’s not one of those pussy ones.”
I straightened up, chuckling. Her soft voice echoed in my ears, a beautiful light Tennessean lilt.
“No pussy drinks for you then, cher.”
“I’m Mercy.” My gamine held out her hand.
“Mercy?” I rocked back on my heels. “You’re kiddin’ me, yeah?”
What were the chances? The words Storm had spoken to me when I’d been on the verge of killing Venom came back to me in a rush: “Being a man means knowing when not to kill. Having mercy.”
“No.” Her head tilted to the side. “I’m not kidding. Why?”
“Uh. My name’s Angel.” I enfolded her palm in my larger hand, a sizzle running straight through me. “Angel L’Esperance.”
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About Rie
Badass, sassafras Rie Warren is an OG Amazon All Star author of Bad Boy books and MC romance. She delivers five star sex, suspense, and the best banter around. Her stories are one hundred percent original, do not contain fluffy plots or virgin brides, and wring every last emotion from readers to leave them with a satisfied smile. Rie’s tough alpha males are never brought to heel, but are instead healed by the feisty femme fatale of their perfect match.
She grew up in Maine, went to college in Iowa (Iowa, what?), lived in Scotland, and married in Englishman. In true roundabout fashion, they came back to the States, settled in South Carolina’s lowcountry, putting down southern roots and pursuing their arty endeavors. Tale spinner and character diviner, Rie is a lover of sleep, wine, and rude memes often involving either Disney characters or Winnie the Pooh. She is raising two teen daughters along with an entire brain full of unruly characters.
Rough-talking alpha men? Rie has that on tap.
Stubborn sassy heroines? You bet.
Smoldering sex scenes that’ll set your Kindle on fire? Check, check, check.
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