by Zoey Parker
“But they won't, because Giovanni would never give that order.”
I barked out a harsh laugh. “Oh? Why is that? Are you banking on his Catholicism again? Did the Vatican issue an edict this week about not blowing up bars full of bikers?”
Bard smiled. “Well, that would be awfully nice of them, not to mention oddly specific, but no. Think about it, Nic. The Nest is the one place he knows we'll be, most of the time. He shoots it up, he blows it up, and sure, he's liable to take out at least a third of us at any given time. The problem is, he knows that after that, the rest of us will scatter, go to ground, and he doesn't know where. It's not like most of us have family members we're close to, or any real connections he could use to trace us. Giovanni knows there'd be nothing left for him to do but wait for our next move without knowing where it'll come from or what it'll look like, and hope it won't be too bloody. He's too smart for that, and too big on neatness and preparation to be comfortable with it.”
Before he could continue, a Reaper named Sperm—a shaggy, hippie-looking kid in his early twenties, who wore a beaded headband and a wisp of a mustache—stumbled in, clearly shitfaced. He was wearing a green elf hat with pointy plastic ears attached, and had pointy-toed elf shoes stretched over his boots.
“I wanna be a dentist!” he shrieked triumphantly, and then puked on the floor.
“Fucking hell. Am I the only who gives a goddamn about the rules anymore?” Growler roared. He gestured to two prospects. “You an' you! Take that maggot out the door, before I chuck 'im out the window!”
The prospects stepped around Sperm, lifting him by his arms and carrying him out as he slurred, “Show me your teeth!”
Bard grimaced at the interruption, took another sip of his rum and cola, and continued. “And consider this, too—most of Giovanni's business involves maintaining his relationships with cops, judges, and the State's Attorney, to name a few. Maybe they can sweep a few quiet murders under the rug, but a whole building getting shot apart or blown up, even in Rogers Park, will attract too much attention. It'll look sloppy, it'll get headlines, it'll be one more glaring example of 'crime run amok in the Windy City,' and it'll make sure all of his political connections run for the hills. No, Giovanni will keep the Nest right where it is, so he can keep an eye on us when he needs to. And when he does strike, it'll be precise. Surgical.”
I grimaced. “Swell. Thanks for cheering me up. So what's the plan?”
“Well, for starters,” Bard said, finishing his drink and swirling the ice cubes around in the glass pensively, “we can't have any more go-betweens, least of all Vole. We know he can't say anything to Giovanni that will make us sound reasonable, because that will only highlight the fact that this entire debacle was his fault. At best, he'll lose the rank of capo. At worst, his cousin will turn him into fish food.”
“Heh. Do they still do that?” I asked. “You know, the whole sleeps-with-the-fishes thing?”
“They're big on tradition,” Bard smirked. “And we can't let you be involved in the negotiations directly because chances are Giovanni will know you were the one who killed one of his people. It seems like the only way this can end without total eradication is if I arrange a meeting with Giovanni himself.”
“You think you can reach out to him without getting your hand chopped off?”
“We'll see,” he replied. I could already see the wheels turning in his head, considering the situation from every angle, weighing every potential loss and liability, imagining every possible scenario. I knew that if anyone could get us out of this mess without more carnage, it would be him.
“In the meantime, Nic, you might want to keep away from that apartment you've been staying in down the street. If Vole knows you're there, he might send a couple of stooges to take you out or even give it another shot himself, with or without his cousin's approval.”
I remembered the look on Vole's face before I turned my back on him—choking on black gutter-water, blood pouring from his broken nose, pants full of piss and shit, trying to hold back tears of rage and humiliation. Yeah, it wasn't hard to imagine him taking matters into his own hands, even at the risk of another brutal kicking or worse. For a moment, I wished I had held his rodent face under the water just a few minutes more and finished the job once and for all, but I knew that in the long run, it would only have made things worse for the Reapers, not better.
Still, it would have been damn satisfying.
“Yeah, I wasn't planning on going back there,” I said. “I'll probably just crash here tonight.”
“I believe that would be the best course of action,” Bard agreed, patting me lightly on the shoulder. “Try not to worry too much. We'll get through this. We've gotten through worse.”
Suddenly, the bell above the front door jingled. I felt my shoulders tense up, and for a surreal moment, I half-expected to turn around and see a dozen or more Mafiosi filing into the bar, dressed like something out of a 1930s gangster flick with fedoras and two-tone shoes, leveling old Tommy guns. They'd open fire, their bullets chewing the place apart until there was nothing left but denim, wood splinters, and gory pulp.
Jesus, Nic.. .seen too many movies, have you? Loosen up, for Christ's sake! Still, it was impossible to deny how much this thing with Big G had jangled my nerves. Since I'd been a Reaper, we'd rumbled with a handful of other crews—other MCs, as well as street gangs. We'd always come out on top, and we'd always been able to either come to a truce with them or stomp them out completely.
But this time—against a whole army of real gangsters, with seemingly-unlimited muscle, firepower, and resources on their side—I just wasn't sure we'd be able to walk away from it.
Instead of a legion of enforcers from yesteryear, a woman walked through the door. She was fucking gorgeous. She was a brunette, and she wore a dark shade of lipstick—a sensual crimson color somewhere between roses and blood. Her skin was pale, and seemed almost pearlescent against the black cocktail dress that perfectly hugged every curve of her shapely body. She had a pair of shiny black stiletto heels on which emphasized the her legs, and her arms and exposed shoulders seemed to be entirely free of tattoos. Despite her obvious uncertainty in these surroundings, she still seemed to carry herself with an almost regal air, her body language poised and self-aware like that of a dancer.
Or an actress, I thought. That would make sense. She's certainly got the looks for it.
Several Reapers whistled and cat-called when they saw her walk in, and her eyes widened briefly, taking in her surroundings. For a moment, I was certain that she'd turn around immediately and walk back out again. I imagined her heels clicking nervously against the chilly sidewalk as she clip-clopped her way back to the Red Line, hopped the next train with a sigh of relief, rode down to the safety of the yuppie enclaves in Lakeview or Lincoln Park, and spent the rest of the night sipping sangria or strawberry daiquiris and chatting with some DePaul Business major named Chad. It wouldn't have surprised me one bit. I'd seen plenty of girls who came into the Nest and turned right back around, although none of the ones I'd seen before had been this...
...this what? Beautiful? Gorgeous? Stunning? But none of those words really seem to fit this one, do they? None of them seem adequate enough to really describe her properly. Maybe Bard would be smart enough to know the right word to capture how hypnotic and compelling she is.
Or maybe it's just that no one's invented that word yet.
Instead of fleeing in search of safer pursuits, the girl took a deep breath and took a few more steps into the Nest, letting the door close behind her.
As though he'd heard my thoughts, Bard leaned over, jabbing his elbow into my ribs good-naturedly. “Wow, Giovanni's taste in hitters has really improved, eh?”
I nodded and muttered some vague agreement under my breath, but I couldn't look away from her. I'd seen plenty of hotter girls, but never one who captivated me so completely. It wasn't her eyes, or her hair, or her face, or her body, although I was certainly picturing what thos
e tits and ass would look like without that dress. No, it was just...her.
Is this what hippies and people who do yoga mean when they talk about someone's aura? Because damn, something is radiating from her in waves. And whatever it is, fuck, I am hooked on it.
As these thoughts drifted through my head, I realized that she was looking at me, too. Not just “looking at me,” but taking me in hungrily, as though she could see what I was feeling and maybe even felt the same things herself.
But that's impossible, I thought. She's got a Chad waiting for her somewhere, or a Dennis who works at the Board of Trade. She probably just came in here on a dare, and in a few minutes, she'll go back to her comfort zone and trade jokes and eye-rolls with her besties about what a hellhole this place is and how it doesn't serve mojitos.
Holy fuck, what is this? I'm a goddamn outlaw, a War Reaper! I get any girls I want, whenever I want! Since when do I have thoughts—doubts—like these?
What the hell is wrong with me?
Right then, I knew that I would do anything to have her, even for only one night. With a deep and sudden ache like a knife wound, I understood instinctually that she was the only thing in the world that would take away the pain of losing Kong and the fear of losing my MC.
I wasn't usually much for flirting. As a Reaper, I usually didn't need to. There were always plenty of inked-up, scantily-clad party girls around, turned on by the whole big bad biker thing and ready to do whatever, whenever. But for this girl, I was ready to be charming, amiable—whatever it took to make her want me.
Before I could finish my drink and walk over to her, she smiled and walked over to me, leaning in so close that I could smell her perfume—something light and fresh-smelling, but flowery, too. As she leaned forward, her cleavage hovered tantalizingly close to my head, and it took every ounce of willpower for me to keep my eyes away from her tits.
She laughed, putting her hand over mine and stroking it softly. “You can go ahead and stare if you want to. But first, how about buying me a drink?”
Chapter Four
Lauren
As I stepped through the door of the Devil's Nest, the first thing I noticed was the combination of smells in the air. The dense musk of sweat and testosterone mingled with the yeasty aroma of cheap beer. The acrid tang of cigarette smoke hung above it all, and for a moment, I was thrown off by it. Smoking hadn't been legal in Chicago bars for over a decade. But then, I realized that in a place like this, with men like these, those kinds of laws didn't mean a thing, and anyone who walked in to enforce them probably wouldn't walk out again.
The bar was an ocean of worn and grimy denim vests, all of them embroidered with leering skulls in helmets. The men who wore them were like nothing I'd ever seen before. They seemed impossibly massive and brutish, like special effects CGI trolls designed for a fantasy movie. Some sported long, greasy hair, while others had bald, lumpy heads. Every inch of skin I saw was covered in faded blue tattoos, jagged scars, old burns, and thick body hair.
Based on the lettering on their vests, clearly, these were the War Reapers.
And the moment I walked in, every single one of them seemed to immediately stop what they were doing to stare at me, like tigers in a zoo at feeding time.
More like the War Rapers. Jesus, Lauren, what the hell are you doing here? Fine, you don't want to do Christmas this year, but this is the only thing you can think of? Dressing like some kind of femme fatale and walking into a room full of criminals and maniacs? Fine, you lost Jared, and you lost the chance to be in some stupid coffee commercial, boo hoo. Do you really want to lose your life tonight, too?
I could feel their eyes pressing into my skin like heated wires, and I heard several of them wolf-whistle. One of them called out, “Hey, baby, come sit on daddy's lap!” This prompted a few others to laugh and clap.
My rational mind knew that I could still walk out of there, no harm, no foul. I could just calmly pretend I'd walked into the wrong place—Oh, good heavens, I appear to have mistaken this for Margarita Mike's, so I'd best be going!—and leave, and everything would be fine. No one would follow or harass me. They'd just have a good laugh about the dumb chick who got lost, and go back to their beers. I could go home, curl up in bed with a blanket around my shoulders and a nice, thick, non-Christmas-themed book in my hand, and forget this whole ridiculous outing.
But another part of my mind—one I rarely heard from—insisted that I stay. How many real risks had I ever taken in my life? How many times had I played it safe, avoided any danger or uncertainty in favor of what was secure and easy?
I could have taken a chance on any number of boys in college, many of whom were edgy, artistic, a little complicated or moody. Instead, I chose Jared—someone rational and boring, who I thought I could always understand and predict.
And where had that gotten me?
Well, apparently it's gotten me here, so fuck it. I may as well see this through.
Suddenly, I noticed a man sitting at the bar. My heart fluttered in my chest like a deck of cards being shuffled. Other than his vest, he seemed like he was a completely different species from the other bikers here. Instead of sporting bulging and veiny muscles, he was thin and rangy, with medium-length black hair that was clean and shiny. The olive skin on his exposed arms was largely devoid of tattoos or scars, and his face was clean-shaven. A boyish, dimpled grin played at the corners of his lips as he watched me, his clear blue eyes locked on mine. The longing I saw there was so deep it was almost haunting, and the air between us seemed to hum and quiver with magnetism. The heinous noise of heavy metal playing on the jukebox receded, replaced with the seashell sound of my own blood rushing in my ears.
Never in my life had I been so utterly certain that I could reach out and possess someone. In that moment, I knew with every cell in my body that this man was mine for the taking, and the thrilling knowledge of that power was almost dizzying. I knew with equal surety that I would give myself to him, utterly and without hesitation, if only he would ask.
Next to him, an older man in glasses whispered something to him. He answered, but he was still staring at me, smiling gently, as though wordlessly daring me to make the first move. Instinctively, I knew that boldness was the price I had to pay to demonstrate that I belonged here. I wasn't some helpless mouse who'd carelessly wandered into a snake pit. I was in control.
I walked over to the bar, forcing a rolling swagger into my hips, my eyes never leaving his. The bespectacled man nodded to himself as though he could read our thoughts, and smoothly slid off his bar stool, retreating to a seat in the corner.
I leaned close to the man at the bar, and my eyes darted to the small patch clinging to the front of his vest. It said “Nic,” and below that, “Sgt. at Arms.” I felt a strange thrill creep up my spine, realizing how little I actually knew about biker gangs and the world he came from. Sergeant at Arms? What does that mean? Some arcane rank or title? Is he one of their leaders?
And if so, how tough does that make him, in a room full of guys who look like this?
The silence between us seemed to stretch out indefinitely, and I felt like if I didn't say something soon, I'd be lost in his eyes forever. I knew that my cleavage—carefully arranged before I'd left my apartment so it was guaranteed to be eye-catching—was tempting his gaze, and I felt deliciously vindicated in my choice of outfit tonight. I took a deep breath, and said the most seductive, hard-boiled thing I could think of.
“You can go ahead and stare if you want to. But first, how about buying me a drink?”
Ugh, really? Wow. Smooth, Lauren. Great line. Not cheesy at all. By the way, Lana Turner called, and she wants her everything back.
But the grin on Nic's lips widened, and he nodded slightly, as though acknowledging how brave I was to make the first move. “Sure thing. What's your poison, darlin'?”
I almost ordered my standard drink—a dirty martini with extra olives—and then remembered the colorful stories I'd heard about how the bartenders he
re behaved whenever would-be patrons ordered the “wrong drinks.” Based on the way Nic was looking at me, I was 99% certain that he wouldn't let them throw me out for such a minor transgression, but one of my mother's favorite old sayings floated to the surface of my mind—“Remember, 99% is not 100%.”
“I'll have whatever you're having.”
He chuckled, and in that moment, I was certain that the rumors I'd heard were true. “Fair enough.” He raised a hand, gesturing to the man behind the bar. “Growler, shot of whiskey for the lady.”
The monster called “Growler,” his battered and misshapen face looking like something from a horror movie, smacked a greasy-looking shot glass down on the bar in front of me and produced an unmarked bottle of caramel-colored liquor, sloshing it in. He filled Nic's glass, too, and we sat with the shots in our hands, continuing to gaze into each other's eyes.
“So,” Nic said, and some horrible part of my brain was certain he'd follow it up with “Buttons!” and ruin the whole thing. Instead, he asked, “What's your name, and what are we drinking to?”