Wicked

by KB Winters

  Hopefully, he would be my boss so his looks would mean fuck all to me.

  “Right.” I stared at Joplin and then Gunnar, waiting for someone to speak. “Do you guys have questions?”

  Gunnar chuckled. “Yeah, sorry today has been crazy already. Let’s go back to the office and do this interview right.”

  Suddenly, alarm bells went off. What the hell kind of interview required me to be in a room with two big ass, strong ass men?

  “Is that necessary? We can’t do it here?”

  Gunnar stopped and turned to me, studying me before he spoke. “No. Don’t worry, no nudity or sex required for this job, Hazel.”

  Since beggars couldn’t be choosers, I gave him a polite smile and a nod to lead the way before I slipped my hand into my purse and wrapped it around my pepper spray. Just in case.

  The office surprised me. I’m not sure what I expected, but certainly not this statement that said The Barn Door was all business, a bright recessed light in the ceiling, a sleek metal desk with a leather office chair. Two metal chairs sat on the other side of the desk and behind them a dark sofa made me wonder why the hell they’d put a couch in there if they didn’t expect any sex.

  “Very minimalist,” I said, waiting for my instructions.

  Gunnar snorted and sat down on one of the metal chairs. I saw him send a discreet nod to Joplin. Interesting.

  “That’s one way of looking at it, Hazel. We’ve been open for a while, but the office is strictly utilitarian. We don’t play around in here.”

  Play around? I bowed my head to indicate I understood and kept looking around the room, not because I was interested in the décor, but because there wasn’t a damn thing else to look at except the two men stumbling through this interview. Still, I needed this job so I sat down in the other metal chair with my back straight, crossed my legs, and kept a polite but slightly mysterious smile on my face. “So?”

  “Right.” Joplin finally broke his stare with a few rapid blinks. “You don’t have much bartending experience.”

  It wasn’t a question, but I had practiced an answer on the way over. “No. The problem with working in bars is that I didn’t know who a creep was until it was too late. Since this is an exclusive club, I’m hoping this place will be different.” There was enough of the truth woven in that they wouldn’t ask questions so I smiled through it, hoping they wouldn’t ask more on that particular subject.

  “What’s your cocktail knowledge?” Joplin stared right at me as though I was about to reveal the secrets of the universe and I stumbled. Dammit.

  “Pretty substantial. I can make pretty much anything from a margarita to a Manhattan, a Whiskey or Pisco Sour too. Most of the martini style drinks, some classics and a long list of one-offs.”

  I wasn’t sure if that came off as cocky or competent, but I figured a secluded adult club like this would have high-end clientele who knew their shit.

  Gunnar snorted and shook his head. “Pisco Sour? Did you just make that up?”

  I flashed my best sexy but untouchable bartender smile. “Pisco, egg white, lemon juice and simple syrup.” He still wasn’t convinced. “Google it.”

  He pulled out his phone and did, then flashed a grin at Joplin before swinging that all seeing gaze back to me. “Slow Screw Up Against the Wall.”

  My lips curled in the spirit of competition. “Vodka, Sloe gin, SoCo, OJ and…Galliano.”

  “Damn, you’re good. Criminal record?”

  “Nope.” Thank fuck for that. Most of the other fosters I knew ended up in juvie or jail before they aged out of the system, not because they were bad but because life was damn hard when they’d been rejected by the people meant to love them forever.

  Gunnar’s smile faded slowly and he leaned forward. “You do know what kind of club this is Hazel?” I nodded and his shoulders relaxed, making me wonder how the other applicants had reacted. Terribly, I hoped.

  “Good. The job is for front bartender but sometimes we might need you to take the back room if you’re up for it. But under no circumstances do you have to get sexy or anything with anyone. Clients or employees. Got it?”

  “Sure.” He was so serious, gravely so, that it kind of warmed some of the ice on the outer layer of my barriers. A little. “Thanks for saying it, anyway.”

  “Good. And if we hire you, report any inappropriate behavior to me or Saint, here. No touching allowed.”

  “Me or the clients?” Shit, what possessed me to ask that question? Now they would think I was some kind of perv—or worse.

  Gunnar laughed and Joplin didn’t.

  “Touch or indulge if you want. Off the clock though. When would you be available to start?”

  “Yesterday?”

  Gunnar’s broad shoulders fell just a little more.

  “Great. We have a few more interviews today, but we’ll make a decision by tomorrow.” He stood and left the room, the rest of us apparently forgotten.

  “Do you have any more questions, Mr. Saint?”

  His green eyes had a faraway look about them, not like someone daydreaming but someone who couldn’t look away from whatever it was they saw. I didn’t want to bother him, but I couldn’t exactly leave now, could I? No, I couldn’t.

  I placed a hand on his and sat there as one minute ticked by and then two. Three. Five. Eight. “Mr. Saint?”

  His eyes blinked slow at first, then faster like little hummingbird wings, revealing the barest hint of his oddly colored green eyes. “What are you still doing here?”

  “Gunnar just left and you were uhm, not listening. So I waited,” I said and tried to discreetly remove my hand, but that only drew more attention to the inappropriate touching. “I need this job, and I wanted to make sure all of your questions were answered.” I hoped that didn’t sound as sexual to him as it did to my own ears because yeah, the guy was hot, but I needed a job more than I needed a man.

  Then again it had been months since I’d been fucked properly.

  “I hear a bit of accent in your voice. You from here?”

  That’s what he wanted to talk about? “Uh, yeah. I lived most of my life in Arkansas, and I’ve lived around here for about a year, so a southern girl, I guess.” It was a strange question that left me feeling unsettled, but it was easy enough to answer. And still, I smiled.

  Joplin stood and took a step back. “I think that’s it, Hazel. If I have more questions I’ll give you a call.”

  “Okay, thanks Mr. Saint. Have a good one.” I tossed him a half-hearted wave and made my way down the dark hall and to the front room and back out into the overcast day. It was hard to read this interview. At a sex club.

  With two guys so normal they looked like cops. Undercover cops sure, but still cops. Gunnar seemed impressed by my cocktail knowledge but Joplin didn’t seem too impressed about anything, not to mention I was pretty sure he’d gotten the wrong idea about me hanging around.

  If I did get the job I would have to be more careful. Keep my head down, eyes averted and ears open. Back against the wall.

  Fuck, I hoped I’d get the job.

  Chapter Three

  Saint

  Gunnar leaned over to me across the front bar. “Hazel is obviously the best candidate. She knows her drinks and she’s good eye candy for the members.” Excitement turned his blue eyes almost black. “What did you think?”

  What did I think? That was a good damn question. The woman had left me feeling…something. I couldn’t name it and didn’t want to think about Hazel. Maybe it was all that pale creamy skin with her shockingly dark brown eyes and darker hair. Or maybe it was the deep-seated pain I saw in her eyes that she couldn’t conceal.

  “She knows a few drinks,” I said as if I didn’t care one way or the other.

  Gunnar frowned. “What’s the problem, Saint?”

  I shrugged because I had no fucking clue. “No problem, but…isn’t she kind of young for the main bar?”

  “That’s exactly why I want her. She knows a lot of drink r
ecipes, and she looks good, which means customers will spend a lot of money just trying to get some alone time with her.”

  His excitement was almost contagious. Almost. Except all I could think about was a woman like Hazel would get eaten alive in a place like this. Chewed up, spit out, and forgotten about before she was could head for the door.

  It was a bad idea, a really bad one for a variety of reasons. But Gunnar was right about one thing. She’d do a good job, not to mention she said she needed the job.

  I shrugged. “Fine. Let’s hire her.”

  “Great,” he said and pushed away from the bar. “I’ve got some calls to make back at my office, but don’t forget about later.”

  Then he was gone before I could say anything else.

  Gunnar was determined to not just heal me but to turn me into a badass, motorcycle riding biker. There were worse things I could’ve been, and at least Gunnar gave a damn about my well-being. Still didn’t mean I was ready to become a biker or a vigilante, but everyone on Hardtail Ranch was a work in progress.

  “Enough,” I growled to myself, frustrated that my mind continued to wander whether I wanted it to or not. It was damn annoying, and I needed to get it under control if I had a chance in hell of doing a good job as manager of this club. Gunnar put his trust in me, and I planned to make sure he never fucking regretted it. Which meant I needed to stop dicking around and place a call.

  To Hazel.

  Thankfully, the phone rolled to voicemail. “This is Hazel, leave a message,” it said. Short and simple, no frills, just like the woman herself. Even dressed to impress yesterday, she’d kept it simple with sexy, figure-hugging jeans and a blouse that gave her peekaboo cleavage.

  “Hey, uh, Hazel. This is Joplin Saint from The Barn Door. I’m calling to let you know the job is yours, if you want it.” I stumbled over my words and got the fuck off the phone as fast as I could, keeping my words civil and distant. I should have prepared what I wanted to say first, but lack of sleep was fucking with me and I found it damn near impossible to focus.

  Why was Hazel screwing with my peace of mind? There was something about her I couldn’t shake, and it had nothing to do with her beauty. She’d caught me staring at her, but instead of batting her eyelashes or poking her chest out to ensure she got the job, she looked away. At first. Then I drifted off to the desert thousands of miles and a whole fucking world away, to a time when my whole world had been torn apart by a bunch of religious-fucking-zealots. I hated going back there but I couldn’t control where my mind visited. And when I came back, Hazel appeared in front of me, her small hand soft and delicate on top of mine. The worst part was that I did feel comfort and warmth coming from her, a kind of compassionate touch that was only meant to soothe.

  She was a damned enigma with her polite but distant smile. Her brown eyes that for all their light and life couldn’t hide some kind of suffering. She’d painted them with a shimmery green color and outlined them with thick black eyeliner that made them look so huge and dark it was all I could do not to stare into them. Her pale milky skin under the dark curtain of hair and long lashes gave her an innocent appeal that belied the very grown up pain she clearly carried.

  I snorted out a laugh at that. Me, diagnosing someone else’s pain while avoiding mine like a blind man.

  I had to stop fucking around and thinking about Hazel, though, because it turned out that running a club was a big damn job. It wasn’t just employees I had to worry about with schedules and benefits and paychecks and discipline, but also club inventory that went a lot further than booze. The Barn Door kept free condoms and lube on hand for all members, a huge number of sex toys for purchase, which then had to be replaced. There was social media, which thankfully Peaches had taken over along with the club newsletter that announced weekly special-themed events.

  No matter how much I complained to myself, I appreciated the hell out of this job. It kept me busy and more importantly, it kept my mind occupied enough that I didn’t think about the guys, the friends, the brothers who hadn’t made it home with me. Higgs, Jank, and Pony Boy were my brothers, the closest thing left to family I had. And they were all rotting away in pine boxes in D.C.

  Bullshit, that’s what it was.

  ***

  “Ready?” Gunnar’s voice sounded behind me. I turned quickly, hand at my side in search of what I no longer kept there.

  “Shit man, don’t sneak up on me like that.” I sent him a narrow-eyed glare, but the asshole just grinned in reply. “Ready for what?”

  Gunnar looked down at his bike, all leather and chrome. And noise. His gaze flicked back to mine with one brown brow arched in question. “Motorcycle lessons.”

  I groaned. “I got a hang of the basics.” That much was true. I had the controls memorized but it would take some time before I got used to the hand controls.

  “Good, but you’ll need more than that to ride beside me. And to get your license.” He laughed when another groan escaped. “You can’t be out here riding dirty, Saint. We’re trying to limit our contact with the cops.”

  “Oh, is that how it works?” My voice dripped with sarcasm, which brought a flash of surprise to his eyes.

  “Smartass.” I walked beside Gunnar toward the big empty field with soft grass that provided plenty of cushioning for an inexperienced rider like me.

  The lesson, like the first one, went well. I wasn’t comfortable on a bike, yet, but I would be. This was part of being in the MC, being one of the Reckless Bastards. Being a brother. The longer we stayed at it, the more comfortable, the more confident I became.

  “It’s starting to feel natural,” I said as we parked the bikes, and I took off my helmet.

  “Good,” Gunnar said, slapping my shoulder. “You should get out here every day for an hour or more until you feel confident. Long distance rides can be brutal and with Hardtail being out in Bum-fuck Egypt, most rides will be long as hell.”

  I nodded and stared at the machine next to me, cold and intimidating. The keys to some other type of freedom.

  “So, Saint,” he said as we walked back to the Barn. “Have you given any more thought to the armed robbers situation?”

  “I’ve thought about little else, Gunnar.” But I still hadn’t reached any decision. Unfortunately. “Didn’t you come here to get away from this kind of shit, Gunnar? To get Maisie away from it?”

  I didn’t mean to be an asshole, but that was all he spent the first few months in Opey talking about, keeping danger and shit away from his sister.

  “I did, but this is inevitable, Saint. We have to hit them before they hit us because trust me, they will get around to us eventually.”

  I could see that Gunnar believed that, but to me it sounded eerily familiar.

  “So what you’re saying is that they’ll greet us as liberators?”

  He groaned and shook his head, raking a hand through his thick hair. “Is that how I sound?”

  I shrugged. “A little. So, tell me, what made you come out here and build a sex club?”

  “Adult entertainment, Saint.” He chuckled and ran his hand across his stubble. “Once I liquidated everything in Mayhem with the original Bastards, I wanted to come out here and relax. With Maisie. I met this real estate agent, Leah, Lorna, can’t even remember her name but she had the hook ups.”

  “For a sex—I mean, adult club? How do you get hook ups for that? Was she an madame or something?” This was all new to me, but it paid well. And I didn’t have to partake.

  “She’d told me they used to have an adult club over in Vance, but the owner died and they closed it up. I got with the Mayor and city council and they were all for it. Apparently, the Mayor and his wife have some serious kink. Gave me some good tax breaks, too, so here we are.”

  “Cool. So about the robberies, you really want to take that on? With Maisie and all?” I asked.

  “No, Saint, I don’t. But we have to come up with something.”

  I didn’t want to be a fucking vigilante, bu
t Wheeler’s words kept bouncing around in my mind.

  “I’m not sure I can do this.” Not sure I even had the guts to pull a trigger anymore, honestly.

  Gunnar sent me a knowing smile. “If only there was a way to help you with that.” His sarcasm wasn’t lost on me.

  I flipped him off while he continued to laugh at my every fall, every stumble. But when the motorcycle lesson was over, I called Wheeler’s brother Mitch, to make an appointment.

  To talk.

  Chapter Four

  Hazel

  Eating instant noodle soup was getting old. Too salty with almost no variety, the only thing it had going for it was that it was dirt cheap and fairly low in calories. Being poor was doing wonders for my waistline, so that was a bonus. Plus, having a smaller ass meant the springs in the sofa didn’t dig uncomfortably into my butt cheeks and also meant the bed didn’t squeak as much as it used to when I tossed and turned all night.

  But this was home. My home. I’d spent all day yesterday and most of today here trying to get a job. I needed to keep paying too much of my hard-earned money on rent for this place. The off-white paint was chipped in at least ten thousand different spots, and a brown stain in the corner seemed to grow larger by the day, but the landlord wasn’t big on repairs. Or complaints. Or anything but collecting the rent on time. Still, the rent was cheap-ish and the building was relatively safe, at least when the neighbors didn’t leave the front door unlocked because they were too fucking lazy to bring their keys. It was an ongoing battle, since I always made sure the door was closed and locked, no matter how I found it.

  Okay, the place wasn’t much, I knew. I’d furnished it with crappy, faded blue furniture, a 19-inch flat screen along with a few pots and pans and other dishes, a full size bed and some clothes. But all of it was mine, and I would protect it any way I could. From anyone who threatened it.

  Story of my goddamn life.

  I tossed the Styrofoam container into the trash and grabbed my phone from the charger, noticing a few missed calls and messages. The first voice was the one I most wanted to hear. “Hey, uh, Hazel. This is Joplin Saint from The Barn Door. I’m calling to let you know the job is yours, if you want it.”