by Celia Loren
“Violet Avery,” Flint says, studying my face for an uncomfortably long time. I have to force myself not to look away. Something tells me this is some kind of test. “Your father and I were stationed together for a bit in Nam. Good man.”
“Really?” I squeak, surprised. That’s definitely not what I expected to come out of his mouth. So much for impassivity.
“I’m not sure how much Rooster told you,” he continues, studying my face. “He thought it would be better to give you to us without warning so you wouldn’t have time to...stew about it.”
“That was thoughtful of him,” I say dryly.
“Well, to fill you in,” Flint goes on, “The Satan’s Sons MC has grown rapidly in the last few years. We moved in here just this past year and have accepted several new prospects, and are expanding our territory. I wouldn’t have moved in on the Devil’s Army when your father was running things, but now...”
He trails off. I wonder if he’s trying to spare me his true opinion about Rooster.
“We saw an opportunity,” Flint finally says. “Normally I would have just taken the territory and, let’s say...disbanded the Army, but Rooster has some connections that I want. Your husband is an interesting man. He assured us that you’d stay with us as collateral until he has proven himself trustworthy. Of course, we’re going to take some precautions to make sure of that.”
I want to laugh and cry at the same time. I have to stay here until Rooster has proven he’s trustworthy? Rooster is the scum of the fucking earth, so it looks like I’ll be staying here for quite a long time.
“At that time, the Devil’s Army will become a support chapter of Satan’s Sons. It’s an unusual arrangement, but we could use someone here to keep the place in order. I mean some of the fucking younger guys, they think this is a goddamn hotel. No idea how to cook, clean, nothing. They’re busy fucking the sweet butts, and the sweet butts are busy getting high.”
“So, I’m like a...den mom?” I ask, cocking an eyebrow at him.
He smiles wryly at me. “A den mom. I like that. You’ll clean, cook—we have fifteen members staying here on and off right now. Others might stop by for a meal. In total we’re twenty-five strong. This is the Satan’s Sons’ mother chapter. I want it to look like it. With your pedigree, you should know what a well-run club looks like.”
“My dad knew how to run things,” I allow, “He taught me everything I know.”
Flint leans forward and runs his eyes over me. “Now, I am this club’s president, but I can’t be watching all these young guys every second of the day,” he says ominously, “Watch yourself. I know you grew up around club life and aren’t completely naïve about this stuff. They’re good guys, they’re my brothers, but these are the type of men who are used to taking what they want.”
I swallow. It’s a sound warning. I remember the stories that Rooster told me about the Sons and wonder if they’re true. I get a good feeling from Flint, but even he admits he can’t be everywhere at once.
“Bean!” Flint yells, and he appears at the door again. He must have been waiting nearby. “Show Violet around. Take her to see Crow. Then she should get started on lunch. The boys are real excited to have a home-cooked meal for once.” He turns back to me. “Oh, and we’re having a party tomorrow night for one of our own, Drifter, who’s coming back from Afghanistan. You’ll need to work with the old ladies on that, make sure it’s all set up.”
Drifter...that’s the one Hollywood mentioned last night. Flint looks back at his computer, and I shyly clear my throat.
“Um, sir? Could I...are there any other shoes I could wear? These heels—they’re not great for cooking and cleaning.”
Flint’s brow furrows. I’m guessing he doesn’t often have to think about women’s heel height.
“Thank you for the rest of the clothes, though,” I hurriedly add.
“I can get some shoes from one of the sweet butts,” Bean pipes up.
“Good,” Flint says, and waves us out, “Get a move on.”
I follow behind Bean as we go back up to the second floor, mulling over what Flint has just told me. There’s no way that Rooster doesn’t do something to fuck up this arrangement, and that will put me in danger. Not that he gives a shit about that. I’ll have to find a way out of here. I’ll go home and get Scout, quickly, before the alarm is raised, and then I’ll disappear. I might not have any money or friends, but nothing could be worse than being held prisoner here indefinitely.
We pass my room and stop a couple doors down. I see Cherish has put up some pink fabric over the window so that no one can just look in. Bean pushes the door open without knocking. Cherish is sitting on her bed, painting her toenails red. There’s some incense burning on the bedside table. She looks up and smiles at Bean.
“Hey, Bean, what can I do for you?”
“Cherish, this is Violet. Do you have any shoes she can borrow?”
“I don’t need anything fancy,” I add quickly, “Just some old sneakers or something I can clean in. I’m a size seven.”
Her smiles holds, but starts to look a little forced. Shit. Last thing I need is to make an enemy here. She must just be suspicious of the new girl in town.
“No problem. We’re the same size,” she says.
Cherish grabs some old Adidas sneakers from a neat line of shoes against the wall. I look around the room as she does. She’s put a cheap hanging rack along one wall for clothes, and there are pictures taped everywhere. It’s clear she’s really tried to make it her home. I spot one framed picture on the bedside table. It’s of a guy in fatigues leaning on a mud wall. He’s looking away from the camera into the distance, as though he doesn’t know the picture is being taken. His profile is chiseled and gorgeous, but I only get a little glimpse.
Cherish hands me the shoes and a pair of socks. I sit on the floor to pull them on.
“Thanks so much, Cherish,” I say as I stand up.
“Of course. Keep them as long as you need them,” she replies, the smile plastered back on her face.
“Let’s go,” Bean says. He turns and walks back down the hallway and I follow him. I turn to smile at Cherish and see that she’s glaring at me. Great.
I don’t have time to think about her, though. Bean’s stride is so long that I have to hurry to keep up with him. As we pass my room, I push open the door and drop my sandals just inside the door. We go back downstairs and cross through the lounge area. A few guys are up and milling around, and they look me over as I walk.
I glance around the property as we head outside and across the dirt over to a low, white building. As we approach, I see that it looks like it’s been gutted inside and turned into a garage. The sounds of power tools confirms my theory, and as we get closer I can see spare parts spilling out of it.
We turn the corner and are greeted by a scene of organized chaos. Half-built choppers line one side of the garage and spare parts line the other. A few prospects are milling around, working on the bikes. Bean approaches one guy wearing protective glasses and using a soldering iron on an almost-finished bike. He pauses and I wait silently next to him until the guy finishes and pulls up his glasses to inspect his work.
“Crow,” Bean calls out, and the man’s head snaps up. He grins wolfishly when he sees us.
“Well, well, I’ve been looking forward to this,” he says. I glance nervously at Bean, but can’t read his expression. Crow drops his glasses and soldering iron and gestures for us to follow him. I examine his jet black hair and pale skin and wonder if he’s named after that comic book character.
He leads us through the garage to a door at the back that ushers us into a large office. Another biker is in the corner. He’s seated on a rolling chair and pushing himself between two different computers. He has a pair of noise-canceling headphones on and his head is bouncing to the beat of the music. He doesn’t glance up at us, and Crow has to wave his hand in front of one of the computers to get his attention. He pulls off the headphones and looks up. Lynrd
Skynrd plays softly through the headphones until he moves his mouse over and the music stops.
Crow places his arms around my shoulders excitedly.
“This is one of our new prospects, Twitch,” he tells me. Twitch looks up at me and begins blinking quickly. It’s quite an endearing tic to me for some reason, and I find myself smiling at him. “Twitch has been working on a special project just for you,” he continues. I stiffen, and he smiles at me. “Not to worry—nothing painful...unless, well, why doesn’t he just show you.”
Twitch grins and grabs a black band from his desk. It looks like one of those things runners wear to keep track of their heart rate or something.
“This,” Twitch begins in a high voice, “is an ankle monitor.”
Crow breaks in, unable to keep his excitement in check. Boys and their toys. “We know someone in the sheriff’s department. This thing cost us quite a few free lap dances down at Private Eyes. That’s our strip club.”
“I’ve hooked it up to sensors that surround our property,” Twitch jumps in. His eye tic is less frequent, now that he’s talking technology. “If you cross the electric barrier, an alarm is sent to every single brother’s cell phone. They’ll be on you before you can go ten feet.”
My jaw drops open. Shit. This is going to make any kind of escape far more difficult. Satan’s Sons seems to be way more technologically advanced than the Devil’s Army—from what I’ve picked up, anyway.
“Um, can you roll your pant leg up?” Twitch asks nervously. If I had to guess, I’d say he doesn’t have a lot of experience around women, though I’m sure that will change once he gets his patch. I bend down and roll my jeans up to about halfway up my calf, then put my toes on the edge of his chair. I’m glad I shaved my legs yesterday.
Twitch begins fastening the monitor around my ankle. Crow steadies me around the shoulder as I wobble on one leg. He looks down at me and studies my face.
“Phew, if I was twenty years younger...” he says. I actually laugh. He’s the first biker I’ve met here who doesn’t seem to have his guard up with me. “Hey, aren’t you supposed to reassure me that there’s no way I’m twenty years older than you?”
“Oh, sorry—didn’t realize you were fishing for a compliment,” I grin back at him.
“So, I heard you can cook?” he asks hopefully.
“Yeah,” I reply, “Though I’ve never cooked for quite this many people before.”
“Chicken,” he says earnestly, “Roast chicken.”
“...Chicken?” I ask.
“My mom always used to make this roast chicken with garlic,” he says, his eyes going all dreamy, “So good.”
“You don’t have an old lady to make it for you?” I ask.
“Oh, I do, but Tina’s not much of a cook. Maybe I ought to be in the market for a new model,” he winks suggestively at me.
“If only I were twenty years older,” I sigh, and get a loud guffaw out of him.
“Done,” Twitch announces, and he unrolls my jean leg. “I tested it out yesterday. The sensors line the stone wall. You won’t see them, so to play it safe, you should stay five or ten feet inside the wall at all times.”
“Got it,” I say, the grin fading from my face. Still a prisoner, even if I am making jokes. Well, at least they probably won’t lock me in my room at night now.
I follow Bean back to the main building. We enter an industrial kitchen and I look around, galled. Fuck. I’ve been cooking for Rooster for years, and my dad and his brothers before that, but this setup is pretty intimidating.
“Kitchen,” Bean says, unnecessarily. He points to a stairwell next to the ovens. “Laundry is downstairs. Go around every day and get everyone’s dirty stuff and return it to them. There’s also cleaning supplies down there. Make sure the clubhouse and all the rooms are cleaned. Don’t go into the offices or garage without a brother escorting you. Look around and tell me what you need for today and the next few days.”
“Um...OK,” I respond. I start rummaging through the cabinets, checking out what kind of cookware and dishes they have. Everything is, well, pretty shitty. It looks like they’ve just gathered what they could find lying around. I turn to the fridge and find mostly beer, some butter, energy drinks, milk…what have these guys been eating? I open the cupboards next to the fridge and find a dozen boxes of cereal, all open. Well, I guess that answers that question. “Do you have a pen and paper?”
“Yeah, hang on,” Bean leaves the kitchen by another door, which I realize now must lead to the offices. I’m a little surprised that he’s leaving me alone until I remember my new friend, the ankle monitor. I walk around testing the appliances to keep myself busy. Probably best not to think about my situation.
I begin compiling a grocery list in my head. Flint said there’d be up to fifteen bikers for every meal, so I think about how much food I’d make for a family of four and multiply it by five, since these guys are huge and probably eat more than normal people.
Bean comes back in with the pen and paper. I plan on cold cuts and pasta salad for lunch because it’s easy and we’re getting into the late morning already, and roast chicken, baked macaroni and cheese, and spinach salad for dinner. I add what I’ll need for the next couple days, and plenty of basics like flour, sugar, and eggs. Plus some baking sheets, pots, and casserole dishes.
I hand the list to Bean and he runs his eyes down it.
“I’ll get one of the prospects on it,” he says. “You should...um...hell, I don’t know. I’m sorry.”
I smile at him. It’s the first time he’s showed any emotion. “I’ll get started on that main room.”
He nods, relieved. “I’ll be in the office if you need anything. Don’t come in, though—just yell.”
“Right.”
He leaves through the door to the lounge area and I hear him hollering for a prospect. I head over to the stairwell and go down to the laundry area. I look over the cleaning supplies and wish I’d added some to the list I’d given Bean, but they’ll do for now. I grab a mop and bucket, and fill the bucket with a canister of bleach powder, disinfectant, and a rag. Who has a mop and no broom?
I head back upstairs and into the lounge area. I dump the cleaning supplies on the floor and pull my hair back and braid it. I’ll have to look around for a hair elastic. My hair’s too thick to stay in a braid for very long without one. I look around and see the bars have been removed from some of the windows and I’m able to open them, so I do.
It smells like mildew and beer in here, and I don’t want to inhale the chemicals I’m going to use. I start with the couch pillows, taking each one outside and banging them against the side of the building to get the dust out. I replace them, and hope that I can find a vacuum around here somewhere to clean the couch frames. Then I grab the rag and disinfectant and start with the bar and all the other flat surfaces. I’m just finishing up mopping the floors when a prospect walks in carrying grocery bags.
“Careful! Floor’s wet,” I say, and the prospect freezes. “Sorry, I mean, would you mind going around back? I’m Violet, by the way.”
“Green,” he says with a nod, and walks back out the door. I see him passing by the windows on his way to the kitchen’s back door. I pack up the cleaning supplies and bring them back into the kitchen, sticking to the wall so I don’t track dirt around the clean floor. Don’t start thinking above your station, I remind myself. Just stay out of their way. I’m far from done with cleaning the lounge, but it looks and smells a little better already.
In the kitchen, Green is unloading the groceries onto the counter. I start unpacking everything as he brings it in. I check the clock on the microwave—12:30. Shit. They’ll be expecting lunch soon. I take a large pot out of the oven and start boiling some water. I chop up some basil and tomatoes for the pasta salad, then toss the tortellini into the hot water. I plate the cold cuts and chop up more tomatoes and tear up lettuce. I bring the rolls and condiments into the lounge and put them on the long wooden table. A couple biker
s are already entering the lounge. The pasta is done, so I drain out the boiling water and run cold water over it, then dump it into a big bowl and add the tomato, basil, and some mozzarella. I bring everything out into the lounge and add it to the food on the table. Not bad, I think, surveying my work. I grab some plates, forks, and serving knives from the kitchen, and figure they will get their own drinks.
Green has wandered away into the lounge and is eating already, so I open the door to the office to tell Bean that lunch is ready. I can’t see him, and really don’t want to yell, but I guess it’s my only choice. I take a deep breath and yell, “Lunch is ready!” Maybe I could ask them for one of those triangles to ring when food is served. I’m not entirely sure if I’m kidding or not.
I start piling up the dirty dishes in the sink and clean them with the new sponges I’ve asked for. When I’m done, I open the door to the lounge a little and peer in. There are about a dozen bikers gathered around the table now, and they seem to be eating happily. At least some of them must have day jobs, and have come back here for chow.
Closing the door, I feel oddly satisfied. I’m not used to feeling so...useful. I realize I haven’t eaten anything yet today, and grab a box of stale Cheerios from the cabinet and take a few handfuls. I hope there’s some food left from lunch for me. I close all the boxes to the rest of the cereal so it won’t get stale, or staler than it already is.
The voices in the lounge are quieting down so I head in and see the mess all over the table. Ugh. At least there’s a little food left so I can have lunch. I eat quickly, running through the list of what Bean told me to do for the rest of the day. I should ask him to get me a cookbook too—I don’t have very many recipes memorized.
I clear the table and do all the dishes. I stuff everything into the dishwasher and turn it on, then carry the cleaning supplies back down into the basement. I find a plastic laundry basket and carry it upstairs. I wish the bikers would all just put their dirty clothes outside of their rooms like a hotel or something, because as it is, I have to go and ask them for their clothes. I want to just exist quietly here, limit my interaction with them as much as possible.