Roadhouse (Sons of Sanctuary MC, Austin, Texas Book 5)

by Victoria Danann

  Her face grew instantly serious and she said, “I wouldn’t. You have.”

  Bless stuck her head through the window for a pet of acknowledgement from Clover. She seemed to be fine with the prospect of adding a female to the pack.

  “You can stay here in the house until I get the lock changed on the studio. Tonight’ll be even busier. I’m gonna take this dog for a run. Then we’ll head over and get you situated on details you might’ve missed last night, while I’m waiting for deliveries.”

  “Okay.” She nodded.

  “Need you to be on shift at six.”

  “Okay.”

  When Raze left to go for a run with Bless, Clover spread her map out on the bed. She had a plan.

  Get the car fixed.

  Work long enough to save up a thousand dollars in cash.

  Then move on.

  She’d been studying the map, thinking that her best chance was in the most remote place possible. Someplace that would be anathema to New Jersey. She planned to keep driving west to where populations thinned out to nothing. Maybe close to the New Mexico border. Maybe on the other side.

  She supposed her new table waiting skills could come in handy because there might not be a lot of jobs for anthropology majors. Or people with experience answering phones for magazines. She remembered what Julio had said about the fact that it was unusual for a server to earn the tips she got at the roadhouse and decided to factor that in to the plan.

  For some reason the view of Raze’s stern profile came to mind. She was itching to ask what had happened to make him so frowny. Maybe, if the right time presented itself, she would ask. Maybe she’d decide that Dripping Springs was remote enough.

  CHAPTER Seven THE DANCE OF BAYOU BANDITS

  It was a clear Goldie Locks kind of night. Not too hot. Not too cool. Just right for opening up the bay doors, which was a good thing because it seemed like half the county showed up to be entertained by the Bayou Bandits and Clover understood why. They were marvelously talented musicians who understood that Saturday nights at the roadhouse are supposed to be about fun and forgetting the troubles that stacked up during the week. And they brought the fun.

  By the time Clover had heard people shout, “Gin!” a couple hundred times she was getting used to the idea of that being her name. She decided it might be smart to start thinking of herself that way. Raze had made her a paper label name tag with “Gin” in big blue marker.

  She was raking in tips like the world was ending, more than the night before. The customers liked her smile and the fact that she was likeable without having to try too hard.

  The roadhouse was running the full complement of staff. There were four servers hustling the tables, two guys tending bar, and a really sweet, bald guy called Dunk who looked the part of beefy bouncer, but probably wouldn’t hurt a fly. Besides herself there were two servers who worked part time Friday and Saturday nights, and Marjorie, who’d decided to show up after all, miffed that Raze had given the best tables to the new girl.

  The bartenders both looked more “Sixth Street” than Dripping Springs. Both were cute and knew how to make that work for them. The way they flirted with Clover validated her attractiveness and bolstered her self-assurance. She realized she’d been missing that when answering phones at the magazine, going home tired, and making love to a spoon and a carton of ice cream.

  She was grateful to be working the inside tables. Fewer steps equaled faster service equaled more turnover equaled more tips. She was a fast learner. She put it together that Marjorie was working the outside tables as punishment for leaving Raze in a bind the night before.

  The atmosphere was so charged with life, she almost forgot that she wasn’t used to working on her feet for eight hours at a time. But when she stopped for a dinner break, she got the tossed salad with chunks of white meat fried chicken in it. She felt pretty confident she was working off the yummy breading.

  For the second night in a row she was just finishing dinner when Raze stuck his head in the kitchen and said something to the effect of, “Not payin’ you to shoot the shit with James and Julio.”

  She looked over her shoulder and said, “Keep your pants on.” That caused Julio to snort and James to turn around to see what the boss was going to do.

  Raze lifted both eyebrows.

  Clover rolled her eyes and grinned at Julio. “Thanks for dinner, James.” He lifted a spatula, but didn’t look up.

  She wasn’t surprised that Raze was aware she’d taken a dinner break. All night long, whenever she’d looked toward the bar, he’d had his eyes locked on her. Like she was his business. His only business.

  At first she thought he was staring at her in a supervisory capacity, making sure she didn’t mess up too badly. But after a time, she thought she might have seen something else in his eyes. Something more flattering maybe.

  Around ten o’clock the Bandits decided to liven things up with a little zydeco. Clover was sliding her tray onto the end of the bar for refill just as Raze had been coming around the end to see how things were going at the register.

  Nothing could have surprised her more than being grabbed by Raze and being pulled straight into zydeco dance. Within three steps they were on the dance floor with her protesting.

  “Wait!” she said. “I don’t, um, know how to dance to this music.”

  “It’s easy, stray girl,” Raze said. “Just do this.”

  He never stopped, just continued dancing, carrying her along until she began to match his steps, feeling the syncopated rhythm. Before a full minute had passed, she’d picked up the basic steps. The initial panic had melted into a happy anxiety, noticing that pretty much everybody in the place had stopped to watch.

  No one had seen Raze dance before. Had no idea he could, which was why the entire establishment had come to a standstill and cleared the floor.

  Clover didn’t know if the customers were laughing because they were having a good time or if they were laughing at her initial awkwardness. She knew they weren’t laughing at Raze. First, because he was nothing less than scrumptious in his jeans, ropers, and midnight blue Henley with sleeves pushed up his muscled forearms. The knit shirt clung to the hard planes of his body that, she supposed, he kept fit running the dog around. And, second, because he knew how to dance zydeco and look good doing it, which came down to being masculine, rhythmic and in charge. She’d learned in the twenty-four hours since she’d met Raze that he didn’t have any issues with the “in charge” part.

  He’d picked up Cajun dancing almost by accident when his Guard unit had gone to New Orleans years before for a training week that involved flood response preparedness. A woman in the unit, originally from Louisiana, had insisted he give it a try. Raze hadn’t danced since and honestly didn’t know what came over him, but there he was on the dance floor enjoying the fact that his employees and customers were having a good time.

  Feeling that stray girl was comfortable enough with the moves, he twirled her around twice without breaking step. The joy of the carefree moment, the pleasure of the crowd, and the laughter of the beautiful girl in his hands must have overcome him because he answered her laughter with a grin.

  What Clover saw was no ordinary smile. It was an expression that halted time and magnetized angels. It seemed that frowny guy had been holding out on looks that were unmatched in her catalog of noticeable boy memories, hiding out behind a frown. It wasn’t just the transformation of his face into heart-stopping beauty brought on by a flash of white teeth and light in his eyes. His lopsided grin also conveyed a sexy cockiness that was her undoing.

  Somehow she managed to finish the dance without making a fool of herself. When it was over, the entire roadhouse clapped, hooted, stomped and shouted.

  Raze danced her right back to the tray she’d left on the bar, twirled her one last time, said, “Thank you for the dance,” and disappeared into the back leaving her confused, breathless, and the center of attention, which caused a full body blush.

 
“So,” said Luke, the bartender, winking one heartthrob turquoise eye, “boss’s got a thing for you, huh?”

  “Uh, no, uh.”

  “Can’t blame him,” Luke said as he was topping off a draft. “Wish I’d spoken for you first.”

  She knew he was teasing and it was empty words, but she ducked her head feeling a sudden shyness coming over her. “It was just a dance.”

  Luke barked out a laugh. “Darlin’, if that’s what you think, then you really don’t know Raze Rouen. That was not just a dance.” He jerked the draft handle. “It was a damn miracle.”

  The other bartender, Carl, laughed at that.

  Hearing one of her orders called up, she gave a little smile and turned to load her tray and get back to work. It was impossible to forget about the dance when for the rest of the night, people were remarking on how fun it was to see Raze dance. She nodded and smiled, but it weighed on her heart that people in the community cared about Raze and loved seeing the frown gone from his face, even for a short time.

  The other servers teased her about wishing they were in line for a dance, but in the case of at least one, she thought the teasing was thinly veiled jealousy.

  She figured out early how to handle grabby hands. Dump a mug of beer in their lap and say, “Oops.” The first time she did it, the guy stood up, turned purple and looked like he might hit her.

  That was when she realized that she’d seriously misjudged Dunk. In superhero fashion, he was there in a flash, informing the customer that he had two choices, leave or chill in wet pants. Apparently word got around that ‘Gin’ wasn’t open to earning tips the touchy feely way because there wasn’t another incident.

  Raze made it clear that he’d seen the whole thing, just by the way he stared at her. She took the fact that he said nothing to mean he approved or at least did not disapprove enough to make a deal out of it.

  Dev Merit had been thrown out of his SoCal MC, the Renegades. Or, to be fair, the officers had voted to transfer him rather than engage in a war with a rival. It seemed the enforcer of a rival club had a problem with Dev fucking his wife.

  They gave him a choice of four clubs that would take him. He wasn’t thrilled about any of them, but settled on the SSMC in Austin.

  “And keep it in your pants when there’s a ring on the bitch’s finger.” That was the goodbye comment from his former prez.

  Dev couldn’t help it if women competed for his attentions. It was a gift. He supposed he could be somewhat more discreet and he had thirteen hundred long miles to think that over on the way to Austin. He was just fifteen minutes away from the SSMC when he spotted a roadhouse in a little town called Dripping Springs.

  He decided he’d stop in, have a bite, relieve himself, and get the local lay of the land before heading over to the Sanctuary compound.

  Within seconds of stepping inside he spotted a group of three bikers in the corner. They were wearing SSMC colors. So he decided to introduce himself. They’d heard he was coming and were glad to get a new member with his particular skill set, which was custom bike design. Wrecks and Rides was always looking for talent, especially if it had a following.

  They shook hands, kicked out a chair, and invited him to join them.

  Dev had removed the patches from his jacket because it wasn’t advisable to wear colors while riding alone and passing through the territories of at least eighteen clubs. But everything about his manner and dress screamed biker.

  Clover quickly learned that wandering hands were not the only pitfall to serving at a roadhouse. There was also the sort of lechery that might be welcome under the right circumstances. Such was the case of the blond biker with the beautiful smile.

  She noticed him join a table of guys who’d already been served. So she stopped by. “What will you have?”

  He looked up and ran his eyes over her in a blatant, checking-you-out-and-you’re-passing-with-flying-colors sort of way. Sparkling blue eyes that seemed to say, “I know something you don’t,” lingered on her breasts then shifted to scan her name tag. Smiling like the canary-eating cat, he said, “I’ll have some of that,” and pointed to the temporary label that read ‘Gin’.

  She didn’t acknowledge the double meaning he surely intended. Instead, she returned his smile and said, “Coming up.”

  When she walked away, she could hear his friends laughing. Beautiful biker was stuck with what he would almost certainly view as a woman’s drink. Gin.

  After turning on the security system, they walked to Raze’s house together.

  “D’you do okay tonight?” he asked as they walked.

  “I did. Better than last night. And it felt like I knew a little bit more about what I was doing.”

  He nodded. “That’s good then. I’m just gonna grab some clothes for in the mornin’,” he said. “Then I’ll be out of your hair.”

  She nodded. “You know, that’s silly. Putting you out of your own bed for a night was bad enough. Two is excessive. Let me just grab my duffel and I’ll take the studio. Which I’m grateful to have access to,” she added.

  He put a hand on her elbow and stopped her. “When I get the lock fixed. Maybe tomorrow. Meantime, you stay here with Bless. The studio was built for me.” He didn’t go into the fact that it had actually been built for far-too-young newlyweds. “And I’ll sleep sound as a baby.” She hesitated. “I’ll be right back.”

  He disappeared into his bedroom. As he went past he couldn’t help notice that the bed was made any more than he could help noticing that a pair of jeans, a tee shirt, and a matching set of red lacy bra and panties were on the bed. Seeing the lingerie, apparently worn, on his bed did something to his nether regions. He went hard as a rock. That sort of spontaneous reaction had not been part of his reality for a very long time.

  Checking over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t seen, he adjusted himself, stole another look, and opened a bureau drawer. He rushed straight for the door so that she wouldn’t think it was strange that he was holding clothing in front of his crotch. Some guys could get away with random boners and not have attention focused like ‘breaking news’, but not Raze. Being extremely well endowed was a mixed blessing and unwanted attention was the downside of the mix.

  “Lock this door behind me,” he said, and hurried out without waiting for a goodnight.

  “Huh,” she said to Bless before walking over and locking the door as instructed.

  Raze lay on his back on the bed that had been his growing up. It was an extra-long, dormitory style twin. So it still accommodated his height.

  The roadhouse had performed to maximum profit potential. Raze & Ruin had been packed with paying customers who clearly had a fine time and would be back.

  He was tired, but his mind was restless. It kept jumping from the dance and how the top of stray girl’s head had come to his chin. How pleased she looked when she caught onto the dance steps. How surprised she’d looked when he’d smiled.

  “Jesus,” he said out loud to the darkness. He supposed he’d gotten used to talking to Bless and now just talked to no one. Like a crazy man.

  He tried to keep his mind from returning to the red lacy lingerie, but he couldn’t stop picturing how it had looked thrown aside on top of his own bed, or how it would look on stray girl with no other clothes on her incredible body. He’d watched her all night, graceful as a dancer, hips swaying, drawing the eyes of every man in the place. He liked that she was interesting to his customers, but hated when customers looked too long and too hard.

  “What the fuck is wrong with me?” he said to the room.

  Every time his thoughts returned to the bra and panties his erection got more insistent until he knew he was going to have to take care of it before going to sleep. He did, with a vision of stray girl dancing in red lingerie, partly angry about the borderline discomfort, partly pleased and relieved to know his dick was still working.

  He drifted to sleep hoping that Press would not find what was wrong with the car.

  CHAPTE
R Eight THE CAR THAT WILL TAKE YOU AWAY FROM ME

  Clover woke to the smell of coffee. And bacon?

  She realized she must have been exhausted because she couldn’t recall going to bed. If she moved during the night, it didn’t wake her. She’d slept like the dead. But now there was coffee. And bacon.

  After rushing through a quick shower, she pulled on torn jeans, a soft short sleeve tee, dabbed on light makeup, towel dried her hair and left it down.

  “That smells too good to be true. Is there any bacon left?”

  She couldn’t help noticing how good Raze looked in jeans as he faced toward the stove and away from her.

  Looking over his shoulder, he took her in from her wet hair down to the poodle-pink nail polish on her bare toes, before saying, “Haven’t touched it yet, sleepy. No point in makin’ blueberry pancakes until you’re up.”

  “Why?” she asked as she sidled close to where he was standing at the stove. “You don’t like them? I know how to make them if you want me to take over. Not that it’s not fun to have you do it.”

  “Well, then, sit yourself down at the table there and let me finish what I started.”

  “Yes, sir.” She saluted. After pouring a cup of coffee, she said, “So the band last night was good, huh?”

  “Yep. Folks like ‘em.”

  “They did, but you were the star of the show.”

  His eyes slid to hers. “That’s how you see it?”

  She laughed. “That’s how everybody saw it. All night long that’s all I heard. Raze was amazing. Raze sure looked good out there with you.”

  “You’re makin’ this up.”

  “Am not.” She jumped up to sit on the cabinet so she could see his face while she talked to him. “Those people seem to really like you. Care about you, I guess. So it’s a really small town?”

  “Small enough that a lot of people know who I am. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that they ‘care’ about me. Most people stay pretty busy caring about themselves.”