Devil's Fall: Dust Bowl Devils MC

by Britten Thorne

  On the other hand, maybe she was being smart. How many hours did she actually have to work to make enough to live on? Everyone knew the stereotype of the girl stripping her way through med school. It was no big mind-blowing secret that there was good money to be made. All you had to do was kick aside all your self-consciousness and shame. Whatever Aster was doing, she wasn’t dependent on their family’s money. Not like Senna had been. Aster had gotten out.

  Senna hoped the biker would back off once she’d perched on a stool at the bar, but no such luck. She did get a better look at the patches on his vest as he slid onto the stool next to her - the horned devil with the scythe and the cloud of smoke or dust behind it. “Dust Bowl Devils Motorcycle Club,” it read. There were smaller patches around the back and on the front whose meanings she didn’t understand - “OC,” “1%,” a few others she couldn’t quite make out. Drugs, crimes, what am I doing here?

  “Valentine will do a dance for you,” he said, looking her up and down once more. She wanted to shrink away from that gaze - his eyes were just too intense. He made her nervous, and it wasn’t just because of his display of aggression outside. It made her feel exposed. Like he could see more about her than eyesight alone could account for. Lust and judgment, she told herself, Like any other man. Still, is was disconcerting.

  “Really.” She gave him a blank stare. “I can’t just buy a drink. You make every one of your patrons get a dance or get towed?”

  “No,” he said, waving over one of the dancers on the other side of the space, “But it’s what you agreed to.” He grinned.

  God help me. She had to force herself to look away from that smile. It was twisted, like he liked what he saw but was making fun of her. Yet despite all that it was somehow charming.

  “Houlihan!” he barked at the bartender, “Fancy drink for the fancy lady. Give her the special.”

  “I’ll take a beer, bottled,” she called after, “And pop the cap where I can see it, please.” And wash your hands. And wipe down this bar, for the love of God.

  “What’s the matter, sugar? Don’t trust old Houlihan?” There was that grin again. If she stared too long she knew she’d end up falling for it, smiling back, flirting. Something about it triggered all sorts of bad ideas in her head; ideas that made her bite her lip and start to sweat. A biker at a strip club? Am I that starved for male attention? Focus, Senna, focus. She forced her mouth into a neutral line, giving away nothing.

  “I don’t trust any strange man who tries to order me a ‘special’ anything.” When Houlihan arrived with her beer, she practically shoved the photo under his nose, determined to focus on why she was here instead of letting the biker continue to distract her. “Have you seen this woman?” she asked, practically wagging it at him. He snatched it from her just to stop her.

  “Can’t say,” he said, passing it to the biker. “Have you?”

  She didn’t even wait for another sarcastic answer before grabbing it back from him. “Thanks, you’ve both been very helpful,” she muttered, taking a long swallow from the bottle. Just ignore them. Ignore him.

  The girl arrived - Valentine. She wore red sequined lingerie and heels so high that Senna was sure her own ankles would break if she tried to so much as stand in them. Valentine planted a long, tongue-wrestling kiss on the biker before speaking. The sight sent a stab of ugly emotions through her - the sort she was unwilling to acknowledge or even identify. She blinked and made herself watch, waiting patiently for the two to break apart so she could continue her quest and get the hell out of there. “Who am I dancing for?”

  “Smart-ass college girl over here.” There it is, that’s where the anger’s coming from. He thinks I’m a snob. She laughed to herself. If he knew how broke she was and how she’d been living, he might have a different opinion. I guess I still give off those rich girl vibes, dammit. Not that I ought to care. She shoved the picture at Valentine before the girl’s hips could complete a single gyration as she approached. “Have you seen this woman?”

  Valentine barely spared it a glance and a shrug. She turned and brushed Senna’s knees with her ass in tune with the music. Senna tried to fight back the blush that warmed her cheeks; at least the red lighting would keep it from being visible.

  She sat tall and stiff with her beer in a tight grip as Valentine turned and swayed her tits in her face. The biker whistled. At least someone’s having fun. “If you can take another look at the picture, I’d really appreciated it,” Senna said, emphasizing “really,” hoping it sounded like “money.”

  When Valentine looked to the biker instead of answering for herself, Senna knew it was a lost cause. Hell, they were just making fun of her. I should have just stayed in the parking lot. “You know what? Nevermind.” She shoved a wad of cash at the girl, took another long swallow from her bottle before slamming it and another crumpled wad of dollars onto the bar, slid from her stool and walked away. Couldn’t even get a “no” out of them. I might be the worst detective ever. At least the night air was cool - she inhaled it in large gulps as she crossed the lot.

  Back in the confines of her van she finally felt somewhat safe again. At least the feeling of that biker’s eyes on her had faded, though she could still sense an echo, an itch between her shoulderblades. Shake it off, girl. The club itself sat just off a quiet, tree-lined highway, and there was nothing across the street from the parking lot but the entrance ramp itself and an underpass that looked like a good place for cars to go to die. Good enough as anyplace else, she thought as she drove across and parked. She couldn’t see the front doors anymore but she could see straight into the parking lot. She’d recognize her sister from a distance, no problem, so she settled in to wait, feeling for all the world like a hobo, or a hermit, or whatever variety of “homeless” it was that slept in a van. How goddamn far I’ve fallen. That guy in there would probably find this hilarious.

  She curled her legs beneath her and leaned back in the seat, elbow hanging out the broken window and heavy metal blasting through the speakers. If nothing else it would help her stay awake. Not that she thought she’d be dozing off anytime soon. Her worry for her sister was still her primary concern, but those blue eyes and that wicked grin beckoned her imagination. Tall, built, full of arrogant masculinity and radiating danger, he was nothing like the suits she’d grown up with or the polo shirt wearing boys she’d been going to college with. He was a completely different creature from an opposite planet.

  What was a little more heat when the night air was so warm already? Better to let her mind linger on the stranger than to wait for the grief that followed her to finally catch up. Better to think about him than to think about home. As long as she kept her eyes on the parking lot, her imagination could go where it wanted. She’d bet those big rough hands of his were covered in callouses from years of hard work; she was certain those bulging muscles beneath that shirt were as hard as she imagined. And those arms - goddamn. He could probably pick her up and twirl her like a baton.

  She squirmed in her seat. Okay, now I know I’m way too sex-starved. This is ridiculous. She turned up the van’s stereo and sang along, getting half the heavy metal lyrics wrong - who would ever know? You couldn’t understand what they were saying anyway. But she had to do something to get her mind off that biker before her concentration and her whole damn mission was ruined completely.

  That girl stuck in his head long after he watched her long legs carry her away and her ass sway on out the door. God, how he hated those stuck-up educated types. The women, especially. And that girl - whatever her name was - was easily amongst the worst of them. Dissing his job offer as if she was so high and mighty, as if she was so much better than the other girls who worked for him. See how much better you are when your trust fund runs out.

  He looked around the club with a deep scowl. Home stinkin’ home. He didn’t belong here either, but unlike her, he had no other choices. No one had his back, not anymore. Hell, his own gang were the bastards that had banished him here, to this
shitty strip club in the middle of nowhere. If anyone had ever told him that it was possible to be bored while half-naked chicks strolled around and flashed their tits, he’d have called them crazy. Now he was bored to tears.

  “Good riddance to that bitch,” Houlihan said behind the bar, nodding towards the door.

  “Fuck off,” Gunner snarled. The man backed away shaking his head, off to serve another patron. What did that old potbelly know, anyway? Gunner clenched his fists. She hadn’t been the first girl to show up with a photo in hand since he’d arrived five months ago. Hell, one of them showed up every other week. He recognized the girl in the photo all right but if she wanted to be found then she’d let her sister find her. It was none of his business.

  So why had she gotten under his skin so badly? She wasn’t even that hot, he thought, but it was half-hearted. She was attractive for sure, though that ponytail wasn’t doing her any favors. Her lips had been particularly distracting - but she wasn’t his type. She was too pretty in the face, too natural in her curves, just overall too fucking normal - she belonged back at her college dorms or her family estate, not out here.

  Cold as fucking ice, too. Absently, he rubbed the dogtags that lived his pocket between two fingers. Who the hell could resist his charm? She’d been utterly unimpressed. And unafraid, he reminded himself. Stuck-up rich girl. Thinks the universe is gonna protect her like magic. Still, it was sort of fun messing with her. Despite her stoic outward appearance, he’d seen her cheeks turn all shades of red when Valentine danced up on her. And he did feel a twinge of guilt about the window. If she was still loitering about in the morning he would have one of his guys fix it.

  “Who was that?” Yards settled on the stool the girl had abandoned. The older man wore the Dust Bowl Devils MC colors on his back but not the “OC” for original chapter, and therefore deferred to Gunner, despite the banishment. The Devils’ president had sent for a few east coast members to ride out and bolster their own numbers after a series of incidents just two years back. Yards himself was a drunk, and the other transfer working the club with him was a borderline retiree called Jupiter. Whatever had earned him that name, it wasn’t his size - he was the shortest, scrawniest old man Gunner had ever seen. He could shoot the eye off an eagle, though - he’d claimed it and proved it, so Gunner kept his geriatric comments to a minimum. Jupiter had watched the girl leave with a dirty-old-man leer that made Gunner’s blood boil.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Gunner replied to Yards. The drunk man shrugged and ordered another drink. Gunner watched his own knuckles turn white. He forced his hands to relax and rubbed his aching thigh. He needed to get out of there; he needed to ride his bike or a woman, it didn’t matter which, but it needed to be fast and hard before he fucking exploded. The girls around the room just weren’t going to do it for him. They needed their one waitress to stay on the floor. Valentine would kiss him but refuse to fuck him; Jade would fuck him but would not shut up at any point; and Navy Lady was far too old. Maybe that did it for other guys, but he just wasn’t going there. A ride on the road it is.

  But Bill called first, interrupting his plans. Gunner took his phone into the cluttered little office at the back of the club where it was a little quieter. “What’s happening?” he asked.

  “I’m sending some trouble your way.”

  “Yeah? What kind of trouble?”

  “Jupiter will take care of it. I’m just giving you head’s up in case there’s any cleanup necessary.”

  “What, you don’t trust me to take care of a little problem?”

  “Nope.” Bill didn’t even hesitate before answering. Things were supposed to get better while Gunner was away, cool down, but though it had been five whole months it seemed like things between him and the club were only getting worse.

  “Fine,” Gunner growled, “I’ll step aside and wait with a mop in hand. Shall I wear an apron, too?”

  Bill hung up. Gunner had to resist the urge to hurl the phone to the ground. Instead he shoved it in his pocket and flexed his fingers. Ride. Now.

  He strode past the bar and lied, “I’ll be back in an hour,” before heading out the door.

  “Sure you will,” Houlihan called after him. Gunner couldn’t even manage a drive-by lie without some tell on his face, something giving him away. It was frustrating at times, to say the least.

  He was relieved to see the minivan was gone - and oddly, a little disappointed. Not my type but fun to mess with. I wouldn’t have minded fucking her. Not that a stuck-up girl like that would ever have him, unless she was deliberately slumming it for fun.

  He felt instant relief just climbing onto his bike. He checked for his bell, knowing it was there but glancing down along the frame beneath the front wheel anyway. It felt like a bad luck night and its presence dampened the anxiety in his gut.

  The ride wiped the rest of the stress away completely. There was nothing quite like the roar of a heavy machine between your legs, hurtling down the open road at madman speed, the wind wrecking your hair and the sun baking your skin. Well, the sun was down now, but he’d take the rest.

  The asphalt and the night called. Busier bars filled with fewer sleazy dirtbags and moderately classier girls called. The club be damned, Bill’s “trouble” be damned, and especially damn that girl, whose stony face wouldn’t get the hell out of his head.

  ◙◙◙◙◙◙◙◙◙◙

  Gunner was never known for being responsible. Maybe that was part of what had gotten him into this mess in the first place. He wasn’t considering consequences when he stayed out all night, ignoring his phone, ignoring his responsibilities to his VP’s strip joint. Wasn’t he supposed to be babysitting the place? He knew he was getting too old for this shit. He just couldn’t make himself care.

  Sorry, Bars. He’d only had a couple drinks over the course of the night but they were making him morose. And tired. The sky was gray with the first hints of sunrise when he finally returned to the road and pointed his bike back towards Heaven’s Highway. He’d do a quick check-in to make sure the place hadn’t been burned to the ground overnight, then finally head home to the shitty furnished apartment he was renting to catch a couple hours of sleep. Not too many, he promised himself.

  He almost missed the van as he turned into the parking lot of the club just as the first rays of sunlight were peeking over the trees. His eyes would have passed right over it if it was white, or gray, or even just a little dirtier. But that powder blue was so out of place, he had to give it a second look. Seriously? He u-turned so fast he had to place a foot on the asphalt to keep from tipping. What the hell is this crazy bitch doing?

  He pulled up next to the busted window - no one in the driver’s seat. He stuck his head through and there she was, sitting up in back, rubbing sleep from her eyes and peering out the side window for the source of all that noise outside. He turned off his engine and knocked on the dashboard. She jumped - that certainly woke her up.

  “You? What do you want? You don’t own the underpass.”

  “Were you sleeping out here?” The back row of seats were gone and the empty space covered in pillows and blankets.

  “What’s it to you?” She slid open the side door and stepped out, shielding her eyes from the sunlight. Strands of hair had escaped her ponytail and she pulled the rest of it free. He hadn’t noticed its color in the dim lighting the night before - a warm, rich honey that made him want to tangle his hands in it. She was tall, too, and she blinked her big hazel eyes as she tilted her head up to look at him, as if to say “what are you doing all the way up here?”

  He liked taller girls. He liked the way they thought the extra height gave them extra power, extra authority. He especially liked how grateful they were to encounter a man that was actually taller than them, who could take that imagined power and authority and smash it to dust. This one was eye-level with his nose - a goddamn miracle for a lady of her stature. He kept those thoughts to himself, though.

  Instead, he sighed. Having d
rained all his irritation and pent-up energy the night before he was feeling a little more hospitable. “Come on,” he said, “No one’s around. You can use the bathrooms. Then maybe you can show me that picture again.”

  He wasn’t sure why he offered. Maybe his father’s words had gotten to him - the ones about never doing anything for anyone but himself. Then again, looking down at the cautious pout of her lips, he had other, less altruistic thoughts intruding on his tired brain.

  She hesitated but ultimately followed him as he wheeled his bike across the road and into the parking lot.

  “I didn’t catch your name,” she said.

  “’Cause I didn’t tell you,” he said over his shoulder, then, “Call me Gunner.”

  “Gunner. I’m Senna.”

  “Huh.” Under normal circumstances he would dismiss her name as unimportant information, but that one was different enough to remember. “Senna,” he repeated. “What’s that?”

  “Some plant. Yellow flowers. My mom was kind of a hippie.”

  The club was empty inside - even the cleaning crew was elsewhere. He led Senna straight past the stage and through the back doors that led to a hallway and his little back office. “So who’s that a picture of?” She frowned. “You gotta give me a little information before I can give you anything back.”

  “Her name’s Aster. She’s my sister.” He wasn’t surprised. Most of the photo-carriers were looking for family. But some were stalkers. It was policy to just turn them all away - less potential for mess.

  Gunner was hardly a stickler for policy, though. “Let me see,” he said. She handed him the photo. It was the girl he’d suspected it was when he’d given the photo a half-glance before. She was blonder, now, and went by a different name - and was not working at the club.