by A. C. Bextor
“Holy smokes,” Ziah breaks in.
“Fuckin’ hell and here we go,” Pop utters next.
Mom’s determination fades and she turns. I can’t see her face, but the others do and as if in slow motion, everyone casts their glances away.
She rattles off in Spanish before turning back to me and pasting on another smile. As she does this, I note that Mom was a beautiful woman once. Through her tanned, but wrinkled skin, the tired in her eyes, and her small frame’s posture, I could see how she’d give any man around a good run for their money.
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, Elenor. I’m not fuckin’ playin’ this shit,” Pop shoots from the distance.
“Think Mom just found her next victim,” Pyke whispers. “Wonder who she’ll pick for her.”
Pick for who?
Sty answers, holding Sunny in his arms. “You can trust Mom,” he states. “She picked good for me.”
What?
Sunny smiles. “She did, Mia. Mom told Sty he was a fool if he waited much longer.”
“Elenor, swear to Christ, we are not doin’ this,” Pop punishes.
“Ignore el marido,” Mom demands, flipping her hand up in the air to dismiss. “What is your name, cariño?”
“Mia.”
“Just Mia?”
“Mia Zanders.”
“Mia Zanders,” Mom parrots. Her hands come to my face, squeezing my cheeks as she did Sty while pledging, “A beautiful name for a beautiful girl.”
“Elenor, let’s go already,” Pop calls and Mom’s head turns. “Mia’s workin’. Leave her to it.”
Mom’s eyes slam shut and another string of rapid-fire Spanish spills from her tight lips. Before she steps back, she turns to glance my way again. Pop moves in to extract her from where she stands.
“We’ll talk,” she promises.
“That will be nice,” I return.
Pop, sensing where this is headed, corrects, “She’ll talk, you’ll listen, she means.”
More anger from more words. More words I can’t understand.
Grabbing her around the shoulders, he smiles softly at me before the two walk off through the room and its people.
Finally, the new arrivals disappear down the hall.
Turning back to the room, I notice the crowd has shifted. Some are taking off to wherever they were headed before. Some retake their seats at the bar. I stare into nothing; thankful the crush of people, along with the intensity of Mom, is gone.
“Mom’s right to have been confused about you,” Sunny charges.
“What do you mean?”
“If you’re gonna be here, you gotta at least look like you fit in.”
The discussion of clothes again.
I have clothes. Two suitcases slammed full are sitting on the floor in my room. Dresses, pants, sweaters, even a very nice pair of jeans. I need a lot of other things and soon. What I don’t need are clothes.
“I don’t know how long I’ll be here,” I give for sake of argument.
“I told myself, too,” she tells me on grin, fumbling around in the cabinet beneath the register. “Didn’t stick.”
“You told yourself what?” I query.
“That I didn’t know how long I’d be here. I never imagined that after only one club party, I’d leave the life I had before this one.”
She had a life before this one. I’m sure most here probably did, however being in the throes, thick among them, I hadn’t thought of this before.
“Why did you leave the life you had before?”
“Honestly?” she prompts and I nod. “I worked a day job. I lived how I thought I was supposed to. But coming here, I met people who were like me. Women who wanted more than an average man. Men who wanted more than an obedient woman.”
“So you live here?” I ask.
Nodding, she says, “Before Saint’s I lived black and white. Literally. I was so far up society standard’s ass I couldn’t breathe.”
“So you’re happy here,” I surmise.
“Totally happy.”
I get it. Well, maybe I do. Being here, the short time I have, has opened eyes to the possibility of a life outside my own. Not to say—this one—but maybe another.
“You and Sty…” I start and Sunny stops mid-motion. “You two…”
Sunny laughs. “We most definitely do.”
Well then.
Sunny takes a look around the bar, slaps her hands together and surprises with, “So, that’s about all there is to it. You’re a quick learner, which made training easy.”
“That’s it?” I panic, eyes wide as I note the mess of boxes toppled over on the floor before moving my focus to the dirty glasses stacked high near the sink.
As she grabs a bottle of beer from the cooler, she turns to me, smiles, and then says, “Sty isn’t happy I’ve been working overtime this week. He’s been waiting for the good news.”
Well, I’m happy to oblige Sty, but I’m still confused.
“Mia,” Sunny calls and I look up. With a reassuring smile, she promises, “Honey, you’re ready.”
But, I’m not ready. As far as I’m concerned, training has just started. Sure, most of the guys who stop in order bottled beer or water, but still. One week of on-the-job-training in a place like this hardly screams ‘ready.’
I’m a lot of things, but I’m definitely not ready.
I’d say the first day was the worst. The cash register loathed me.
The second day was better, but not by much.
The third, fourth, and fifth day seemed better, only because when I got so frustrated—to the point of breaking glass bottles—one of the guys would swing around the bar to help.
Ziah has been my lifeline.
The young boy has followed me around every chance he’s been able. When he would stop to explain something, I’d listen. Sunny said he’s been here as long as she has, so I listened carefully to all he had to say. Unfortunately, he took this as my undying commitment to him. I know this because he told the others I’ve been ‘claimed.’
Whatever in the world that means.
As part of my training, Sunny brought me up to speed on club terms that she felt prudent I know. So far, not much has stuck. I’m hoping not to be here long enough to understand the lingo.
“And what if I need something?” I pose, certain I’ll need something.
“Just have one of the boys come find me. Sty is back for a while, since Elevent called a stop to any ride outs. I’ll be here all the time, too.”
“How you doin’, sweetheart?” Pyke, the gentle, long-haired older man pulls me from my thoughts as he glances down the row of men along the bar, all sitting at attention.
“I’m okay.”
“You don’t look okay. You look a frightened mess,” he murmurs, grabbing a coaster and putting it directly in front of him. “Been at this a few days, Mia. You can relax now. You’ve gotten the hang of it.”
So nice.
Pyke reminds me of my grandfather. Except, Grandpa didn’t have long hair. And he never cursed. But there was a sweet and gentle nature to him that I naturally gravitated to. Maybe I’m just wishing for a life I once had, but either way, I like Pyke.
“Thanks,” I give back. “But Sunny’s leaving me today.”
“Yeah,” he utters and bends his neck to hide a smirk. I don’t get the joke, but whatever. “Sunny told the group of us.”
“She did?”
This explains how sweet they’ve all been this morning.
“She did, darlin’,” Vante pipes up at Pyke’s side. “Welcome to the crazy.”
Pyke takes a long look down the bar to the row of men, who are front and center. I hadn’t realized, until now, why they were all here. They’ve come to make my first official day hell.
Baptism by fire.
“I’ll take a tall glass of OJ.” Ziah smiles up at Vante, who vacates his seat, leaving Ziah to take the stool right next to Pyke. “Make it a cold one,” the little man adds with a toothy grin. “An
d my friend here will have a bottle of whatever’s good.”
“How old are you?” I query, looking into Ziah’s dark eyes, wondering how many hearts he’ll shatter along his way growing up.
“Woman, age don’t matter,” he answers. “But if you gotta know, I’m nine.”
Younger than I thought. I suppose if he’s been raised here, with these men, he’s been forced to grow up fast.
“I’m gonna be ten next month,” he imparts. “El said I could have a party. You gonna come?”
“I don’t know,” I give him honestly.
“You have to come if I invite you, and I’m inviting you.”
“Okay,” I accept and he nods.
“I asked Elevent if we could light up the pit this weekend. He said yes,” Ziah explains, looking up to Pyke.
“That so?” Pyke returns, after lighting a smoke and settling it in the ashtray.
“Yep. But he said I had to get Gypsy to help set it up. I’m gonna go find him when I’m done seein’ to my girl.”
“Son, don’t you have chores this mornin’?” Pyke pokes, turning to the boy who’s watching me in careful study.
“A fire pit sounds fun,” I wade in, catching Leglas now standing in the front room.
His hair is up and he’s dressed as he was before. A faded, black tee shirt and a pair of jeans, so worn, there’s a gaping hole at each knee. He doesn’t look happy. He’s narrowing his eyes around the room.
That’s when the air surrounding us all evaporates.
Pyke smiles. Ziah grins at his side. Vante stretches from behind Ziah, reaching his arms overhead while he shakes his head.
I don’t understand.
As their focus moves beyond my shoulder, a mix of tension and heat holds me in place. When I straighten, a towering wall of muscle steals my breath.
“What the fuck are you all doin’ down here so early?” a very deep and very angry voice reverberates against my back. “This isn’t fuckin’ happy hour.”
The hair at the nape of my neck stands on end, as his scent fills my space. He smells dark and spicy with a hint of exhaust. Never in my life would’ve I have guessed the smell of fumes to be attractive. But it is.
And why am I all too happy I interrupted Lane and Elevent in a clinch upstairs?
When I look back, Elevent towers above where I stand. He’s wearing a plain black, faded tee shirt. His hair is wet and disheveled, as if he used his hands for a comb. The scruff around his jaw is darker than I’ve ever seen, thicker as well. His brown eyes are hard, narrowed at the men sitting and standing about the room.
“What else do we have to do?” Pyke argues. “You give us a newbie, who looks like she does, you think we ain’t gonna clear our schedules for her first official day?”
Looks like she does? Oh no.
“Mama Mia here is my woman,” Ziah adamantly claims, again.
Somewhat leaning to my side, but leaving his chest centered against my back, he lifts the tip jar I placed in the middle of the bar this morning. When I found it in the cabinet, I took it out and gave it a good wash. When I propped it on the bar, Sunny shook her head and smiled.
Now I’m rationalizing that this may not have been such a good idea.
Elevent’s jaw ticks, an angry vein at his temple bulges. His glare focuses on the few dollars sticking from the top of the jar as he asks, more so demands, “What’s this?”
As he awaits an answer, the men all turn their heads, staring anywhere but at their president.
Where is Mom when you actually need her? And where the hell is Sunny?
Grabbing it from his hold and settling it back to the bar, I advise, “It’s a tip jar.”
“A what the fuck jar?” he abruptly returns.
“The guys have been tippin’ your girl,” Sty asserts casually from across the room.
His back is leaning against the far wall and he’s holding Sunny around the middle. She’s smiling brightly in his arms. She didn’t go far. Maybe she saw this coming.
Maybe they all stuck around to watch.
“What the fuck are they tippin’ her for?” Elevent clips in confusion and surprise.
Looking around the room, I note a few of the brothers smirk. Some outright smile. Others mumble between themselves. I assumed they were tipping because the answer is obvious. I’m waiting on them.
“People tip when they’re served,” I bravely inform, looking down and folding a towel. “You know, you walk into a restaurant, you eat, you like the service…” I continue, getting more anxious with each word. But I don’t stop. Nope. Not me. Instead, I push, “It’s pretty common. Service staffs don’t make much. So…a person leaves a tip as a reward.”
“Leave a tip,” Elevent comments as though pondering.
“Yeah. A tip. For servicing another person. Get it?”
“Oh, shit,” I hear Vante hiss.
At this, I look up and the heat from my back disappears.
“Fuck me,” Pyke says, as I’m about to exhale a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
Sunny’s sudden gasp travels its way across the room.
“Oh, Mama Mia,” Ziah groans, looking down to the bar, his elbows holding his head in his hand.
With all this, I realize my mistake.
I turn to the side where find Elevent fuming. He searches my face—for what I don’t know. My sanity, I’m guessing. My common sense, maybe.
Then his bottom left eyelid twitches.
Oh, shit.
I swallow hard, rethinking my simple explanation.
“Step back, Angel,” he instructs, his tone low as he swoops up the jar and slams it down near the register. The change bounces inside the glass and a few dollar bills drop to the counter in a flurry.
I fight to stay still, be quiet, and not put back what he just took away. However, the more pressing matter is that he called me ‘Angel.’ And I don’t think with the tone he used to say it that it wasn’t meant as a term of endearment.
No matter. Pressing forward.
Giving him the benefit of the doubt, I inform, “My name isn’t Angel.”
“You’re whatever the fuck I wanna call you,” he scolds, giving me his back and slamming a button on the register. The drawer flies open and he grabs and fist full of cash.
Asshole.
Conceding, I convince, “Fine. You can call me Angel.”
In his profile, his jaw ticks as the thumbs through the dollars in his hand. “Permission not needed.”
All or nothing, I include, “But don’t call me Angel if you expect me to answer.”
From across the room, I hear Sty whistle low. Way low, as if a warning. Sunny’s face has lost her happy expression. Ziah quietly jumps from his barstool and stands as close to Pyke as he can get. Pyke is still smiling.
What have I done?
Technically, I should let Elevent call me whatever he wants. Granted, he’s being paid to have me here, to babysit a twenty-five-year-old woman. Yet, he didn’t agree to be paid for a pain in the ass.
“I like her,” a member, I just met this morning, chimes in. I think his name was Blaze.
Elevent drops the cash, twists his body, and takes a step forward, his chest nearly colliding with mine. He likely thought I’d be smart—take a step back. However, I’ve watched Cricket and Sunny. And I admired how they stood their ground. And I’m a quick study. Sunny said so herself in that I learned swiftly.
“Angel,” Elevent hisses, his face only inches from mine. “A word?”
Elevent doesn’t wait for a response. Instead, his impatience turns him away with certainty that I’ll follow. I watch with undo fascination as the angry biker stomps out from behind the bar, heading to the inventory room on booted feet. I bite my lip to hide my smile.
I just caused a big, broody macho man to almost lose his shit. This shouldn’t be funny, and it wouldn’t be had I not given away my common sense when I agreed to come here in the first place.
But damn it, I’ve never wielded that kind of
power over anyone before.
“El wants a word, sweetheart,” Pyke starts quietly, while the others around us watch. When I turn my gaze to his he goads, “You best get going.”
Dropping the white dish towel on the bar, I straighten my pose. “Well, I best,” I snap and hear someone chuckle.
“I fuckin’ win, bitches,” I hear Sty remark. “Less than two weeks and El’s already puttin’ Baby in a corner.”
I stop midstep, twisting at the waist, and level Sty with a scolding scowl. Sunny and I are what I consider friends. She won’t let him hurt me. At least I don’t think.
Max, a very young and very rambunctious prospect, barks a laugh. “Fuck. I’m out then. I figured he’d at least give her thirty days ‘cause she’s so fuckin’ cute.”
Pyke shakes his head, clearly amused at this game; more amused than I am. I’m not one-hundred-percent fluent in biker speak, but the unvoiced intent in his words is clear.
Pyke lifts his chin to the inventory room door. “Don’t listen to the boys. They’re all jealous.”
Jealous? “Of what?”
The old man ignores my question and pushes, “Go on, Mia. Elevent ain’t gonna hurt you.”
Right.
A tip jar.
A glass container, brimming with change and dollar bills, set in front of a line of brothers staring at her tits and ass as she serves them. Not one of those assholes had a hankering to taste anything this morning—but her. And as soon as I entered the room, the feral thoughts going through their dirty minds became palpable.
A fucking tip jar.
When the door to the inventory room slams shut, I ball my fists and turn in place. Angel is standing at the wall next to the door. Her hands are behind her back as her body leans against them.
Christ, this woman has been here less than ten days and she’s turning the brothers into sad, pathetic, Catholic schoolboys, who can’t help but touch themselves thinking of her. Not only does she not have a clue what the fuck she’s doing behind a bar, inside a club, or what sick thoughts are crossing the minds of every man here, she’s happy to be fucking doing it.