He shoved the bag off his stomach, jumped up and started toward her with a good old-fashioned throttle on his mind, but she slammed her own door in his face before he reached her. He was angry enough to break it down, but was under direct order from his president to not touch the girl.
He turned his defiance on the people who had come out into the hall to watch the show and gave them the finger.
As they shuffled back to bed, he heard Eric say, “Told you she was a pain.”
On the other side of the door, Brigid realized why she thought she’d recognized the intruder. He was a younger version of Brant with really long, really gorgeous hair. She looked at her right hand that seemed to have a memory of wrapping around that hair sometime during the night.
Chapter 4
At two o’clock in the afternoon, Brant heard a knock on his office door that was just a little less respectful than usual.
“Come in, Brash.”
Brash opened the door. His hair was pulled back in a leather thong. He closed the door and flopped into the chair in front of his dad’s desk.
“So. You want to tell me what I missed?”
“Nice to see you, too.”
“Had a long night, Pop. Stow the sarcasm and tell me who that is in the guest suite.”
“You had breakfast?”
Brash raised his chin and narrowed his eyes. “When you start answerin’ questions with questions, I know I’m not gonna like what’s comin’ next. I saw her sittin’ at the bar talkin’ up Eric. Looked serious.”
“Well, it is and isn’t.”
Brant spent half an hour bringing his son up to speed on the new arrival.
“Jesus, Pop. Everything about this sounds like a bad idea.”
“Well, it’s a shame you weren’t here to add your opinion before the vote, but you were takin’ ‘personal time’. I’m puttin’ you in charge of seein’ to it that she learns just enough to fulfill our part of the bargain. And no more.”
“Why me?”
“’Cause she’s cute. Maybe even real cute. If I put one of the married members on her, there’d be hell to pay from the old ladies. Tried givin’ Arnold that job, but I could see that was a train wreck leavin’ the station.”
Brash barked out a laugh. “Arnold? What’d you expect? If she’s been here a day, I’d be surprised if he hasn’t already done that tap dance.”
“Then prepare to be surprised, son. She’s not that kind.”
“Well, why not you? You’re single.”
Brant looked at his son sideways and smirked. “Not givin’ you the job as your pop. This is your president speaking.”
“Okay, but I didn’t get off to a good start. She may not take kindly to my presence. And I’m only gonna be around for the first month of her contract. I’m takin’ off for a month. Goin’ on a, uh, sabbatical.”
It was Brant’s turn to let out a surprised laugh. He raised an eyebrow. “Sabbatical?”
Brash tried to look like he owned the word, but truthfully, that’s what his brother had called it.
“Yeah. A sabbatical. I’ve earned some time off. I’m gonna spend some time fishing. Get my head cleared. Haven’t had a vacation in, well, ever. I want to take it now. So I was plannin’ to spend this month makin’ sure everything’s in order.”
Brant tapped his fingers on the desk lightly, eyes darting around, like he was seeing everything that could go wrong with the businesses in his son’s absence.
“Fishing, huh?”
Brash almost held his breath. He’d never gotten away with anything growing up. If his dad couldn’t read his mind, he did a damn good imitation of it.
“Yep.”
“When did you develop an interest in fishing?”
“Everybody needs a hobby.”
“And I thought yours was loose women.”
“Well. It is. But I’m gettin’ older and it’s time to branch out.”
“Gettin’ older,” Brant repeated drily. “What’s goin’ on with you? Really.”
Brash tried to hold his father’s gaze. He’d been training for a moment of a good lie most of his life. He’d kept his stare steady when he’d been fourteen and taken the 1939 Lincoln hotrod out of the showroom for a joy ride. He’d made himself appear completely sincere when he’d been caught setting fire to a construction site Port O Potty. When he was fifteen, he’d only blinked once when he was asked about fucking a member’s daughter, which of course, was way out of bounds. Still, his father knew he was lying every time.
Going with the idea that, when it came to Brant Fornight, honesty was the best policy, he decided on saying, “I need some time off, Pop. Can we leave it at that?”
Brant couldn’t argue with it. His son was a grown ass man who deserved no-questions time off when requested.
“Yes. We can. What’s your plan to keep things seamless while you’re gone?”
“I was thinkin’ that if I divide my responsibilities ten ways, give a little bit to everybody but you and Rock, it wouldn’t be too much of a burden and shit would still get done. That’s why I’m waitin’ to go till next month. Gives me time to train everybody on what they’re doin’. If anybody comes across somethin’ they don’t know how to deal with, they can ask you. Right?”
Brant nodded thoughtfully. “I wanna see the exact plan, who’s doin’ what. Don’t assign jobs until you get final approval from me.”
Brash grinned. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Prez.”
He got up to leave but Brant had more to say. “About the girl, you’re still on the hook for what she does this month. As to who gets the job next month… I don’t know yet.”
“Pop. How am I gonna train people to do my job while babysittin’ the civilian?”
Brant gave him the fuck-you smile. “There’s your challenge. Got faith in you, son.”
Brash huffed out a breath as he left. His dad played that card way too often. Not that it didn’t still have an effect on him. He supposed he’d better go get a handle on the intruder first.
Eric saw Brash emerge from the hallway at the left end of the bar. “Brash. Come on over here and meet Pain. Where you been, brother?”
Brash locked eyes with the copper-headed beauty and saw the immediate change in her expression. Unmistakable hostility. Still, his hand remembered the feel of palming an ample and inviting, flannel-covered breast when she was still warm from being in bed.
He walked straight over without taking his eyes off Brigid.
“Pain. This is Brash. He’s not the toughest or the handsomest or the most entertainin’ of us, but the president is his dad.” Eric laughed at what he believed was consummate witty banter.
Brash nodded at Brigid. To Eric, he said, “Can I have a few minutes with the lady?”
Brigid raised her chin with just enough defiance to make her interesting. “We’re not finished.”
Brash gave Eric a look that said, “I’m waiting.”
Eric shrugged in response and slid off the stool. “Later, Pain. Plenty of time for blab later.”
As Brash took Eric’s place on the barstool, he motioned to the prospect who was tending. “Orange juice.”
The prospect nodded and threw a dishtowel over his shoulder to rest there while he poured juice.
When Brash turned to face Brigid, it was the first real long look they’d had at each other. She was struck by how much he looked like his father, and by the fact that he was beautiful enough to make a woman’s mouth go dry. She was sure that Eric had either lied when he’d said that Brash was not the handsomest of them or he was vision impaired.
Getting his first protracted look at Brigid in the light of day, Brash thought his fleeting encounter hadn’t begun to do her justice. The similarity between her eye color and hair color gave her an exotic look that was captivating, at the very least. He could tell by the set of her mouth and the intensity of her eyes, that she was still mad. Even though he was the one with the swollen lip.
When her eyes drifted down to that li
p, she had the gall to smirk at him, which made him want to either kiss her into an apology or give her a reciprocal slap on the butt. While turned over his knee. His cock jerked a little at that thought, which translated into a smirk of his own.
“About last night…” he began.
She turned toward the bar and took a sip of her drink. He couldn’t tell if it was lemonade or a cocktail.
He started again. “I was road weary and mistook you for club tail.”
She turned toward him slowly. “Club tail.”
“Yeah, well. I’m sure you get the idea. That’s what we call girls who show up for club barbeques or parties hoping to get fucked by a biker. I used to live in that room. I figured it was somebody hoping for seconds, which I don’t usually do, but I was too beat to enforce my own rule.”
Brigid couldn’t help wondering how often Brash had been to the ‘club tail’ buffet.
“I see. So that’s your idea of an apology?”
“I hadn’t really planned on makin’ an apology. Per se. Was a mistake. I lived in that room for a long time.”
“I heard that,” she said drily.
“But I’ll make you a deal. I’ll apologize for mistaking your reason for bein’ asleep in my bed…”
“Your former bed.”
He smiled. “My former bed, if you apologize for cuttin’ my lip and knockin’ me down with my own damn luggage.”
She stared for a full minute before deciding. “Deal. You go first.”
“Okay.” He grinned. “I’m sorry for feelin’ you up.” Then he leaned over and talked close to her ear. “Although I gotta admit it was enjoyable and I wouldn’t turn down another chance. If you were so inclined.”
When he leaned back, she said, “I accept your apology. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have people to interview.”
“Where’s my apology?”
“What apology?”
“The one you agreed to.”
“Do you have that in writing?”
Brash’s playfulness had disappeared. “First lesson, lady. We’re not criminals, hard core or otherwise. But it’s still a very bad idea to fuck with us.”
“Do you mind if I record that?”
He picked up the phone sitting in front of her on the bar, set it to record and turned it on. “This is Brash Fornight recording Brigid Bailey’s apology.”
He held the phone by her mouth.
She smiled just a little. “I’m sorry for busting the big scary biker’s lip. And for knocking you on your, um, ass. Although both were satisfying in their own way.”
Brash smiled, stopped the recording and put the phone back where it had been. “There you go.”
He downed his orange juice all at once, slid off the stool, and walked straight to Eric, who was at the curved end of the bar. She watched as he leaned into Eric. She guessed he was talking about her because Eric’s eyes darted in her direction. When Eric gave a nod of his head, Brash strode out the front door without giving her another look.
When Eric returned to finish their conversation, he was more reserved, which had the effect of appearing less friendly.
Brigid’s first question was, “What did Brash say to you?”
“Sorry, Pain. Out of bounds.”
“Okay. Tell me what you do for the club. Exactly.”
Eric described his principle job as head of security for the SSMC’s 6th Street night club. He’d been a member since he was twenty-three and couldn’t imagine any other sort of life. The club and its satellite community of wives, girlfriends, children, and various other family members were everything to him.
As they sat at the end of the bar and talked, people came and went, always eyeing them with open curiosity. When Eric left, she didn’t actively seek out someone to interview. Instead, she made a sandwich in the kitchen, ate alone at one of the immense stainless steel counter-height tables, and thought about what Eric had told her.
Afterward she went to her room to gather up her laptop. She went back to her place at the far right end of the bar because she’d discovered that it was an excellent place to establish Command Central. She could observe all the comings, goings, and interactions with a tiny swivel of her stool.
“Hey, Bradley.” The prospect behind the bar gave her a macho chin jerk that seemed out of place on such a soft baby face. She knew he had to be older than he looked. “Could you plug this behind the bar?” She held up the end of the cord.
After plugging in the cord, he looked up. “You want somethin’?”
“To drink?”
He rolled his eyes as if to say, “What else?”
“Can I have a coke?”
“Sure thing.”
“Let me ask you something. If nobody was around, would it be okay for me to come around the bar and get my own drink?”
He gave her a crooked grin that suggested he might actually belong among the bad boys. Someday. “You could. But fair warnin’. If you set foot back here, you may be in for more than you bargained for. You might end up servin’ drinks for hours.”
That’s when lightning struck and it was all she could do to contain her enthusiasm.
“Really?” she asked innocently. “Maybe you should teach me how, just in case that happens.”
Bradley looked intrigued. And perhaps pleased by the idea of instructing. “Yeah. Why not? Come on around.” Bradley handed her an apron. “You don’t need to get Coyote Ugly.”
“What?”
“You never…? What I mean is you don’t need to put on a show. There’s no point, since there’s no tips. And you don’t need to learn to mix drinks ‘cause club members have got simple tastes. Beer. Whiskey. Tequila.
“On party nights we might get a stray woman who wants a rum and coke. If somebody asks you for somethin’ you don’t know how to do, just put ‘em in their place. Say… Beer. Whiskey. Tequila. What do you want?”
“That sounds easy.”
He snorted. “I’m just gettin’ started. So somebody says they want beer. You need to know which ones we have cold and ready to hand over. If they say whiskey, you need to know which kind.” He pointed to the shelf behind him. “We keep seven brands in stock. Sometimes folks want it straight. Sometimes they want somethin’ with it.”
As he went through the options, Brigid was thinking it was a good thing she was a quick study and had no problem with audio learning.
“And you need to know how much to give ‘em. So this is a shot glass.”
She nodded even though she had already known what a shot glass looked like. He ran through the options of what people were mostly likely to ask for.
“What happens if we’re out of something?” she asked.
“We better not be out of somethin’ because I’m in charge of makin’ sure we’re not out of somethin’. If we run out, you’ll see my head mounted up there.” He pointed to the space above the mirrored wall behind the bar.
And that was how Brigid Bailey became the SSMC new and unofficial tender of the bar.
By the time Brash returned that evening, Brigid was beginning to feel at home on the flip side of drinksville. She’d learned how to pop beer tops quickly, operate the taps, and keep the premises mostly clean. She was looking at an old mixed drink manual someone had left behind the bar instead of watching club member interactions.
Car Lot approached the bar with Edge.
“Pain,” Car Lot said in simple acknowledgement, acting like it was the most natural thing in the world for her to be wearing a waist apron, bartending in the Sons of Sanctuary MC clubhouse. “Porter,” was all he said indicating that he’d take a Pecan Porter beer.
“Okay.” She looked at Edge.
“Peacemaker.” He winked. “I like it pale.”
Brigid caught the innuendo directed at her complexion, but a guy like Edge would never get a schoolgirl blush to bloom. She didn’t react in any way, which she supposed would be Edge’s worst nightmare - inattention.
She pushed napkins their way, popped tops, and
set a bowl of nuts between them.
“So you two are friends?”
They both smirked, but Car Lot answered. “Yeah. Club members are more than that.”
“But maybe you’re tighter with some than others.”
Car Lot looked at Edge then shrugged. “Maybe.”
“What happens if you have a disagreement?”
“The usual.”
“What’s the usual?”
“You know, depends on what it is. We might settle it in Circle. Sometimes Prez decides how things are gonna be for us.”
“I know this is going to sound like a dumb question to you, but what’s the circle?”
Edge leered at her openly. “It’s like cage fighting, but the cage is made of people instead of bars or chain link.”
“You mean like MMA?”
Car Lot laughed.
“No. More like a bar fight. Even if we’d had training in Asian chop chop, we couldn’t use it in Circle. Wouldn’t be fair.”
She thought that over for a second. “So you settle your differences with fights, but there are rules.”
“Exactly,” said Car Lot. “Hey. How come you’re behind the bar?” He said it like he’d just then realized something was out of place.
Brash took a seat at the other end of the bar. She knew he was there, but she was enjoying pretending to ignore him. Finally he got tired of waiting. “Little service!” he demanded.
She took a deep breath and walked slowly to the end of the bar.
“What’ll it be?”
“We still have some of that Aged Hellfighter?”
“I think so.”
She returned in a minute with a napkin, a beer, and a bowl of beer nuts.
As she was pouring the beer, he said, “Looks like you found a way to make yourself useful.”
“I did. How about you?”
“You’re askin’ if I found a way to make myself useful?” He chuckled. “You know I just can’t stand it. I gotta know where you got two fifty to spend on askin’ bikers questions.”
Brigid studied him for a few seconds. “You want to trade answers?”
“I’m takin’ that to mean it’s a good story.”
Two Princes: The Biker and The Billionaire Page 14