by Warren, Rie
Everyone welcome. That included northern transplant hipster fuckheads who frequented our watering hole. The bushy bearded imposters loved the genuine vibe. If only they knew.
If only these walls could talk.
Venom and the bulk of the outlaw crew had been incarcerated. Former members and bad seeds Burn and Kouto dead at the hands of Storm and Slade. A bunch of women who’d been loyal hangers-on had been put in WITSEC never to be seen again.
Of the crew during those bloody days that left only Slade, Lennox, and me.
And Solomon.
I’d been careful, doing my due diligence and all that shit, letting new members join us. Now at more than fifteen members total plus Chase the prospect, we’d paved a new path.
But we were still the same roughneck dudes.
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.”
Two
Mercy
I’D NOTICED THE BLOND man as soon as he’d turned up in the bar. Something about the way he grinned and joked captured my attention. When he clocked me—bright blue eyes lingering appreciatively on my crummy old boots and my frayed old jeans—a warm shiver rolled through me.
Then a sudden seriousness overcame him when he’d inducted the brawny gray-eyed man into a brotherhood of sorts. The blond was clearly in charge of the other bikers.
“Drinks on me!” The new inductee shouted, boasting his new patch.
I didn’t know a lot about motorcycle clubs. My folk were more into pickups, ATVs, and dirt bikes.
With the open invitation for free booze, customers rushed the bar. I still hung back, cradling my one empty beer.
I didn’t pursue men. There wasn’t much hope of a love life for me. Heck, I’d never really even tried flirting on for size—I hadn’t had the opportunity for anything like dating.
I looked up from fiddling with the label on my bottle to see the biker with the unruly blond hair approaching. He stood head and shoulders above the rest, his legs long, his waist trim.
An arrow of awareness shot through me. He was like nothing I’d ever seen, and definitely not a man I’d ever had the chance to talk to before.
I realized just how tall he was when he towered right in front of me, his sheer size a little intimidating. But then he’d bent down, flashed a pair of deep dimples, and I thought my heart would seize inside my chest.
After accepting his offer of a drink, I offered my hand. “I’m Mercy.”
Something curious flashed across his vivid irises. “You’re kiddin’ me, yeah?”
I didn’t know why he’d ask such a question, except I guessed my name was a little unusual.
Then he said in that gorgeous deep drawl, “I’m Angel.”
His strong hand eclipsed mine, and a light laugh left my throat.
Angel and Mercy.
My memaw would’ve said it was a sign.
I didn’t believe in any such thing though—not signs, not miracles, not hope, and not help, not anymore, and it was almost a relief when this Angel released my palm to go get some drinks.
Maybe I should just disappear before something bad happened.
Something bad always happened.
I wasn’t allowed out. I’d only escaped for a few hours tonight because the men had gone off to the bayou thinking they could bag some gators. They really just wanted to play with their guns without getting shot back at.
I’d wandered around, soaking in the city life. New Orleans fascinated me. All the colors, and all the different colors of people. The street buskers and the pretty buildings. The scent of mouthwatering food and the atmosphere of celebration.
I was just a l’il old country girl, excited to explore with my first taste of freedom.
It was the long line of big motorcycles that’d drawn me to the Thunder Road Bar. The bikes and the old black man standing outside by his grill.
“Git on over here, m’petite. Want you some ribs? I make me a mighty fine slaw too. I’m g’on git you a plate.”
“I don’t have enough money, mister.” I’d shoved my hands deep in my pockets, drawing my shoulders up around my ears.
“D’on be worryin’ ’bout dat now. Old Sol treat you right.” He’d plated up mouthwatering glazed ribs and a big spoonful of coleslaw, sliding a plastic fork into my hand.
I’d eaten like a starving waif, scarfing down the succulent new flavors as quickly as I could gobble. Sol had watched me, grinning and nodding. The truth was, I usually went to bed hungry. Woke up even hungrier.
Nothing had tasted finer than that roadside meal, except for maybe my memaw’s mountain stack cake.
As soon as I’d finished eating, the man had pushed me to the open door of the bar. “Got you enough money for a beer?”
“If it’s cheap?”
He’d cackled. “Oh it be cheap as piss. Probably taste as bad too. Git on in dere. Remember to come back and see Old Sol here next time you fixin’ to fill up dat hunger in your belly, m’petite.”
His kindness had hit me in the gut, and I’d found enough courage to enter the bar and buy a beer.
Now it was nerves not hunger that gnawed away at my gut. Fleeing seemed the best option, but Angel already cut a path toward me.
His long-legged swagger mesmerizing, I dropped my gaze to the crotch of his jeans where I noticed a bulge that made my cheeks warm.
He passed me a beer, and our fingers brushed together. Heat sizzled, and if he was an angel I couldn’t imagine the devil being much more tempting.
“Laissez l’bon temps rouler.” He clinked his bottle against mine before taking a swig.
I drank too. Beer never affected me that much. At only twenty-three, I’d grown immune to a lot of bad things during the years.
“What does that mean? What you just said.”
Angel’s lips looked firm, and I bet they were cool now, slightly moistened by his drink. “Let the good times roll.”
“Guess I wouldn’t know much about good times.” I began peeling the label from my bottle, too aware of how I looked.
I wasn’t dressed up in my finest, not that I had anything finer than my hand-me-downs. The clothes embarrassed me, but I’d done my best to make them fit. Rolled up the jeans and tugged on a belt to
cinch in the waist. The old white shirt didn’t do much for my figure, but I didn’t have much of a figure anyway. At least I was clean. I’d used all the hot water for a long bath as soon as the guys had the left place earlier.
And still Angel stayed beside me, leaning a shoulder against the wall.
An easy smile graced his face. “So, what do you do, Mercy from Tennessee?”
“I never said where I was from.” Suspicion drew me up tight.
“Ahhh, cher.” He reached out very slowly and grazed a knuckle along my cheek. “That pretty accent gives it away.”
I blushed, trying to tear my gaze from his. “And I take it you’re from these here parts.”
“Cajun born and bred.” His powerful chest seemed to fill out even more beneath the leather vest and dark T-shirt he wore. “What was it you said you do?”
“I didn’t.” I affected a coy smile I wasn’t sure I could pull off.
It was hard to explain my situation, and I didn’t really want to talk about it anyway. I’d only had enough money for the one beer, which I’d nursed for as long as I could.
I wasn’t allowed to go out and get a job. Wasn’t allowed to open a bank account or make new friends or do anything remotely close to bettering myself.
I took another glance around the bar, which had to belong to Angel’s MC gang, but the whole thing was odd. The bar was open to the public as a business. Where I came from, gangs didn’t mix with others. Yet, inside Thunder Road, everywhere I looked I saw those weird bushy bearded hipster types my people would just as soon shoot between the eyes as break bread with.
My kin didn’t hold with freaks, hippies, liberal snowflakes, or colored people.
There was an ingrained racism, an almost maniacal phobia, which I couldn’t escape.
Or I could escape. Here. For an hour or so at least.
“Hey, Angel! You got a live one there?” A man with tons of chunky silver rings on his fingers yelled over to our quiet corner.
“Fuck. Off. Saint,” Angel replied, swiping him the middle finger without even looking.
“Saint?” I asked, lips curling together. “And Angel.”
Angel winked. “And don’t forget Mercy. Must be destined, oui?”