by Lana Grayson
My nails rapped on the bar, tickling their way to the tumbler. I shot cough syrup easier than this stuff, but I wasn’t getting off easy this time. It was a slow night, and I didn’t have any excuses or people to serve. Most of Sacrilege was on a run—their second of the week. That left a taste in my mouth as bad as the drink.
I washed the bar while the two cherry-cheeked prospects paid more attention to the Penguin-Flyers game than their beer. They were no help. Neither of them understood nuances or flavors or why anyone would drink something that tasted like a whipping by a pine tree.
I liked a flogging, but gin was one strand of twinkling lights and an angel away from ringing in the Yuletide. Good thing the bar’s clientele rarely ordered anything beyond what was on tap or whatever had the highest grain. It got them drunk and sterilized their wounds. We prized efficiency.
The tavern door scraped open as I shuffled empty bottles along the mirrored wall. The flash of leather sat at the bar, laughing at me before he even sat down.
“You still can’t drink it?”
I didn’t need Red’s attitude. I passed the tumbler to my cousin. He grinned as he downed the gin and licked his lips.
“Refreshing,” he said.
I’d smack the dimples from his cheeks. “Thought you were with the guys on the run?”
“I came back early. Wanted to talk.”
“Get you a beer?”
“Better get me two.”
I twisted the cap off an Iron City for him and poured another ounce of the gin. He searched over his shoulder, running a hand through our shared blonde hair to smooth the spikes his helmet had matted. I didn’t like his scowl. Red was only twenty-six, only a year older than me, and already his time in Sacrilege MC bled his expression into the same grimace as the fifty-year old grey-haired, pot-bellied bikers. He didn’t belong in the MC, but he never believed me.
“Things go well?” I stomped a foot as I took a swig of the gin.
Red shrugged. “Didn’t ask me to clean up.”
My stomach twisted. I never knew what to say when he talked about his skills. “That’s a relief.”
“Yeah.”
He grinned as the prospects hooted in front of the television. The Pens hadn’t scored, but the right-hook into a Flyer’s defenseman was as good as a goal. At least, for people who didn’t know how it felt to get hit. I forced myself through another sip. Red wove his fingers through the peanuts in a nearby bowl. I batted his hand away.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
He frowned. “You’re done.”
I pushed the peanuts at him, but the bribe didn’t work. “Done?”
“You’re not poking around Sacrilege’s business anymore.”
“You didn’t say please.”
“Something came up. It’s too dangerous now. Just keep your mouth shut and we’ll try and survive this together.”
I laughed. “Are you serious? Did you hear something?”
“Whatever crawled up Harbinger and Goliath’s asses? It’s big. And I’m not getting you involved.”
“I’m not involved.” I flashed a smile that never worked on him before but was too pretty to waste. “I’m just…interested. I’m only asking a few questions, seeing why our boys suddenly have all this extra money floating around.”
“This is bigger than some new score.”
I leaned in closer. My eyes probably widened too curious—a silver spark I never hid from Red.
“Drugs?”
“I don’t know.” Red rubbed his face. “I saw guns.”
My mind blitzed with possibilities. Guns. More money. Sacrilege’s scrambled meetings late at night. The second run this week. Whatever was happening in the club was major. We weren’t big enough to earn much or attract the attention of the larger clubs, and we weren’t powerful enough to piss away the extra money suddenly stuffing our wallets.
Something was up, but I didn’t have a clue what it was.
And neither did Red.
So it was up to us to find out. Not just to satisfy my curiosity—though it burned like an inferno fueled by the fat stacks of cash Goliath and Harbinger stowed away. Red was just as obsessed with their newfound secrecy.
Except I wasn’t a member. Red was. But he didn’t have an officer patch on his cut, despite how badly Sacrilege needed him. Red kept everything…clean. That was probably why they didn’t completely trust him. A man with his education and specific talents could get away with murder and make it look like the blood never spilled.
“I don’t trust this, Martini,” Red said. “You gotta stay out of it.”
“You asked for my help.”
“That’s when I thought Harbinger and Goliath stole extra electronics or made a deal for protection money. Whatever they’ve organized isn’t little or easy. And it’s not safe for you.”
“But I can do this,” I said. “How else do we figure it out? I’ll talk to the guys and Goliath. Liquor them up. Wink and flirt. They’ll tell me a few secrets, and we’ll work from there.”
“Too risky.”
I pitched the rest of the gin in the sink. Without a little red cloak and a picnic basket, the drink’s woodsy beat-down just wasn’t worth it.
“If Sacrilege gets in trouble, you’re gonna be the one cleaning it up,” I said. He knew I was right. “I don’t think they can handle anything big, and I don’t trust them to do anything right. If you get caught fixing their mess, you’ll be the one they sell out. And I’m not going to let my cousin get the blame for any crazy-ass scheme they’ve concocted. You’re better than this world.”
He met my gaze. “The guns they have? The money they’re talking? This isn’t a normal operation. You can’t interfere. If they think you’re trying to stop them or sabotage them—”
“I’m not! I just want to know what they’re doing.”
“Doesn’t matter. You gotta be ready to run.”
I didn’t like how that sounded. “Leave my home? My job? You?”
“Leave Goliath.”
I stole his beer, taking a swig. Leaving Goliath was easier said than done. Back when we first started dating, before his obsession, I might have gotten out. Now? Goliath dropped the charm and presents and sexy promises and tied an invisible noose around my neck.
“I’ll find out what’s happening here. And then maybe we can stop it before they get in over their heads.”
The door swung open. A bearded man stuffed into leather pants a size too small hollered from the doorway.
“I want the dirtiest Martini in the house!”
Red hid his concern in another gulp of beer. Conversation apparently over.
I waved at Harbinger and winked. “You and every other horny old bastard in this club, Sam.”
He cackled and shed a dusty jacket somewhere between the entry and the tables. The prospects stood as their president waddled past the television. He saddled up against the bar, slammed a crisp one hundred dollar bill down, and ordered a round for his men.
I didn’t ask where the money came from. Red didn’t let his eyes linger on the bill. If the cash didn’t come from the run, God only knew what couch cushion Sam dug through to earn it. He smoothed his chest-length beard with a grin and twirled the edges of his mustache for me. I gave my best too-cute-for-the-club giggle and offered him a beer.
“Make yourself something,” he said. “Double the olives.”
My eyebrow perked. “Please. There’s only one good olive in this place.”
Sam laughed and wagged a finger. “You’re trouble, Olivia. You listen here, Red. Never trust a gal who can drink you under the table. Little advice that served me well for fifty-eight years.”
Red snickered. “And that’s why you haven’t gotten laid in five.”
Sam pitched a handful of peanuts at Red and threatened to stuff the men who laughed into the empty bowl. Red ducked behind the bar to refill the snacks. I scooped the ice into the shaker and chased him away as he stole a bag of pretzels.
Sacri
lege’s aging club president stayed at the bar for the show as I shook the ice and wiggled every good part of me with it. I poured the vodka martini into a chilled glass, decorated it with one perfect olive, and toasted him. Sam got his beer, I sipped my house drink and namesake, and not a drop of gin threatened the sanctity of my bar.
The prospects cheered as the hockey game turned violent. Sam joined in the festivities, spilling most of his beer on the floor. He twisted and ordered another, plopping a second hundred down as the players separated and the game went to commercial.
“I’ll need a lot more of these,” he said.
“Celebrating something?” I earned his wink. I wrinkled my nose like a little bunny and ignored Red’s rolling eyes. “What’s so exciting?”
“Just you wait, Martini. Got some good things planned for us.”
“Oh yeah?” I opened the other beer, but I didn’t pass it beyond the counter. I leaned over, letting my chest press against the bottle. “Like what?”
“Can’t jinx it yet,” he said. He took the beer with a slow hand. “But good things are happening. You keep these coming for my men, hear me? Black me out, and one of those hundreds will be for you.”
“Sam, you make my job too easy.”
“Yeah, well.” His patience faded as the door slammed again. Not the excited bang of more returning members looking for a quick drink and quicker buzz. The crash jostled the televisions and silenced the prospects. “You might decide to black out too.”
So it’d be that kind of night.
Red tensed and swore, chugging his beer. It might have been a good idea, relaxing him a bit and taking the edge off. Then again, alcohol made Red chattier than usual, and Goliath wasn’t fond of the blue-eyed heartbreaker from Ambridge when he was silent and sober.
“Goliath already started celebrating,” Sam said. “Might be best to let him keep drinking.”
Red snorted. He drank from a bottle as it was easier to crack into an impromptu weapon, but Goliath didn’t need glass to hurt. I wasn’t about to spend my hundred dollar tip on first-aid supplies to clean shards of glass out of my boyfriend’s skull and stitch my cousin’s lip. Again.
The prospects stood as Goliath stomped over them. I sighed as he tossed a chair. The shell shattered against the wall. The TV flickered, but it was safe for now.
I stared at my drink. The olive peeked back. It definitely wasn’t strong enough for tonight.
“Where’s my money?”
Goliath was a man of few words—most of them as short as his temper and every bit as profane. The prospect didn’t get out of the way. Horse-collared and pinned against the table, Goliath asked again, not nearly as nicely as before.
“Where’s my fucking money?”
“Tomorrow!” The prospect pointed to the TV. “I got money on the game. I’ll pay you with interest.”
“Yeah, you will.” He hauled the kid up by the neck. He’d serve as Goliath’s dart board before the end of the night. “But first you’re gonna bleed.”
Red swore and slammed his beer on the bar. I hauled him back before Goliath used his tibia for a pool cue. No one stopped Goliath when he was raging.
No one except for me.
And it wasn’t a talent I was thrilled to have.
I drank the entire martini and nibbled on the olive’s toothpick. “Hey, baby. Aren’t you gonna say hi?”
Goliath was a raised fist from pummeling Sacrilege’s only decent prospect, the only one with the skills to propel the club from the gutters of the coal mining villages and abandoned steel mills scattered over this side of the state.
The bar quieted. The prospect dangled, dancing on pointed toes scraping the ground and pirouetting on a prayer that my boyfriend didn’t pile-drive him. Sam edged Red to the stool before he got too cocky for his patches. Goliath had a massive amount of leather binding his barrel chest, thick biceps, and stocky legs, but he wore emblems to prove what pumped in his veins was more than arrogance poisoned with whatever drug he chose.
Goliath lived, breathed, and fucked pure aggression. Red was lucky he only experienced two out of the three. I offered Goliath a candy-apple smile—the distracting cape to Goliath’s bull. He snorted and dropped the prospect. He wasn’t safe. If he borrowed money from Mike Goliath Cazlowski, he already faced the flash before the bullet.
“Martini, baby.” Goliath tried to be smooth, but a man of hardened edges and twisted intentions didn’t sweet-talk. He shouldered up to the bar, ignoring Red’s sneer, and nudged my chin as I leaned over the counter. “Just doing business.”
I gentled my voice. “He couldn’t breathe, sweetie.”
He twitched before he got angry, like a bad tell. Except the ridge in his jaw didn’t spoil a poker hand. It preceded the backhand.
Goliath wasn’t an ugly man. The opposite, in fact. There was a time when the ice in his eyes shivered me in all the right places, the bulk of his body weighed over me just where I needed it, and his strength teased the parts of me desperate for his restraint.
Except Goliath had no restraint, not in his strength or his temper. He rapped a scraped knuckle on the bar. His fingernail blackened, and a swirling bruise colored his hand.
“What happened, baby—”
“Get me a damned beer.” He gestured to Sam and Red. “Ain’t I good enough to get served here?”
Red muttered something clever under his breath that wasn’t smart to say. I shoved the beer in Goliath’s uninjured hand before he broke more skin. I rather liked my cousin’s teeth still in his skull.
“Course you are.” I winked. “You’re my first priority—”
“Why the fuck are you wearing a sweater?”
I didn’t mean to touch my neck. It was one of those reflexive motions, like throwing my hands in front of my face when voices rose or hiding a paring knife under my pillow at night. The turtleneck wasn’t horrible looking, and it did its job obscuring what shouldn’t have been shown.
Besides, I thought his run would last another day. I figured I had time to change before he got home.
Diffusing his temper was like charming the shrapnel out of a bomb with only a grin. It wouldn’t have worked for other girls, but I knew just where to snip. I stroked his fingers with wide eyes. His fist unclenched.
“It was cold when I left today. And it gets super chilly in here.”
“Wear a jacket.”
“Sorry, baby. I will next time.”
Goliath’s monster hand swatted for my neck. He didn’t pull me close. He trapped me, slapped his palm against my neck and tugged until he stretched the material.
“Can’t even see the ink,” he grunted. “You tryin’ to hide something?”
Yes.
His beer wasn’t enough. I scooped ice into a glass and poured an ounce of Gentleman Jack. He seized my hand as I passed it his way and squeezed until my fingers turned white.
“You ain’t listening to me.” He pulled a switchblade from his pocket. “Maybe I just cut that shirt off? Make sure everyone sees what you’re covering.”
It wouldn’t be the first time. I shook my head, but Red opened his mouth.
“Jesus, what’s your fucking problem?”
Goliath stood and grabbed the stool, slamming it against the ground only to grab the splintered shards for weapons. Sam leapt between them, chuckling as he pushed my cousin away.
“This ain’t your business,” Sam said. “This is between Goliath and his old lady. Go watch the game.”
“Goes for all yinz.” Goliath crashed the wood against the bar, slicing the palm of his hand with a jagged splinter. The blood didn’t stop him. “I see any of you jagoffs talking to her, and I’ll cut your goddamned balls off and shove them up your ass.”
“Okay.” I reached for him before he bled all over my bar—or worse, his cut. “Come on, baby. Let me go clean you up.”
Too much. He jerked his arm away and raised it instead. I steeled myself. I couldn’t avoid the hit, but the daughter of Benny “Duquesne” Wr
ight never backed down from a punch. We didn’t immediately retaliate, but we remembered, and we got even in our own time—preferably when Goliath passed out and I hit the highway faster than he chased.
But Goliath was damn fast on a bike. That was one of the reasons I liked him.
Fortunately, the blow didn’t come. He swore instead, and I pressed a towel into the cut.
“Let me take care of that.” The club had a bad habit of staring when Goliath was still sober enough to notice. I tugged him toward the storage room. “You’re hurt bad.”
He snorted. “Like you care. Fucking cunt. Won’t even show my ink.”
Every conversation was a tightrope walk over a pit to hell, and I exchanged the balancing pole for a hastily swallowed martini.
“Baby, I don’t need to show any ink. I belong to you.”
Goliath smirked. It only bared his teeth. “Do you?”
“Course I do.” The answer came reflexively. The monstrosity of a man relaxed and rubbed his hand through his hair. The pale stubble stained crimson. “Let me get you a bandage.”
Red simmered at the bar, the bottle trembling in his grip. He waited until I pulled Goliath out of the room before pitching it into the wall.
Christ, between the two of them I’d be sweeping long after last-call. And judging by the mini-skirted gashes who aimed for Sam’s lap, I imagined we’d be closing only once the guys blacked out in the wreckage.
Goliath sat on a folding chair tucked beside my inventory shelves. Even sitting, I looked at him eye-level. His huge size once excited me, but now his pupils dilated with something far stronger than anything from my bar. I used to hope that a calm soul waited to sober up under the drugs. Maybe not a nice guy, not even a good man, but someone who didn’t respond to questions with a slap and chucked prospects through plate glass windows for getting too close to his bike.
I hummed as I cleaned the splinters from his palm. He liked that, and I liked that he only swore when I pinched him with tweezers.
“I don’t want you in that shirt.”
I nodded. “I won’t wear it again if it’ll make you happy.”
“I shouldn’t have to ask.”
I resisted the urge to poke him with the tweezers. Patience came in many forms, including yielding the battle to fight another day. I bit the inside of my cheek.