Outcast (Southern Rebels MC Book 2)

by Kristin Coley

  I stopped at the foot of the tiny grave, its size already telling me it was a child, but the name carved in the stone, Baby Girl Hayes, caused me to swallow hard as did the inscription, “You are loved.” There was no date, no indication of her birth or death to tell me how long he’d mourned, carrying the weight of her loss.

  The grave next to the baby girl caught my attention and I read the inscription. “Cash Hayes, Beloved Father and Brother, Ride Free.” I calculated the dates. “You weren’t that old, were you? Only thirty-five.” I assumed he was Cord’s father based on the dates and another glance at the baby’s grave made me wonder if that was Cord’s sister.

  “Hey, what are you doing?” A gruff shout had me spinning into a crouch and I blinked when I realized it was the teenage kid. “There’s nothing to steal and you better not be messing with those stones,” he threatened and I held up my empty hands.

  “Paying my respects, that’s all.” I kept my tone neutral, seeing he was practically vibrating with rage. “I’ll leave.”

  “You knew my dad?”

  His puzzled question had me pausing and then it clicked. He was Cord’s brother. The grave I was standing at was their father. “No,” I answered belatedly, realizing I’d been standing silently longer than polite. “I never met your father.”

  “Then why are you paying respects?” He questioned suspiciously. “Are you one of the club girls?” He sighed irritably, his distaste clear, and I arched a single eyebrow.

  “Do I look like a club girl?” I questioned silkily and he blanched.

  “N-No,” he stammered, suddenly looking younger. He got ahold of himself quickly though and shook his head. “You don’t,” he admitted quietly, glancing at the graves.

  “Your sister?” I questioned, fishing for information.

  He shook his head no. “My niece,” he answered, his eyes faraway. “She was stillborn.” Rage flashed across his face as he clenched his fists. “Her fucking mom did drugs while she was pregnant and overdosed.”

  I swallowed hard as I grasped just how deeply Cord despised me and everything I represented to him. It wasn’t just his body that was wounded and my presence in his life could only irritate a festering wound.

  “I’m sorry,” I said automatically, the words heartfelt. His bitter anger radiated from him and I knew it wasn’t just Cord who had unresolved feelings. “Her mom died,” I stated, not seeing another grave.

  “No,” he answered sharply. “She died.” He recognized my confusion because he jerked his thumb behind him. “She’s buried over there. Creed wouldn’t allow the baby to be buried with her.”

  “Oh,” I replied, growing more confused by the second. “I thought the baby was Cord’s daughter.”

  “She is,” the kid answered, eyeballing me. “Who are you?”

  “Tori,” I introduced myself, holding out my hand and he took it, his grip firm, but not crushing. “I met Cord a few days ago.” I shot him a rueful smile. “I wouldn’t exactly say we’re friends.”

  He chuckled dryly, tucking his thumbs in the pockets of his jeans. “That’s Cord for you.” He gaze flickered toward me again. “He’s my brother and I’m not sure we’re friends.”

  “No, you’re family,” I commented, exhaling as I stared at the little grave marker. “Far more complicated.”

  He gave a soft grunt of agreement. “Sounds like you know the feeling.”

  “Unfortunately,” I agreed, studiously avoiding any thought of my own past. “I’m gonna,” I waved my hand, edging back, and he nodded, a small smile playing on his lips as he watched me.

  “You let me know when you and Cord are friends, a’ight?” He called after me, his expression saying he knew something I didn’t. “I’m Crew, by the way.”

  His words stalled my hasty exodus and I placed my hands on my hips. “What’s with all the C names?”

  He shrugged, “That was our Dad. Guess he had his reasons.”

  “At least it’s not J,” I mumbled under my breath as I headed back to the road. The Crazy Horse was a couple miles walk and I wanted to make sure I checked the place out before Cord got there.

  ***

  “You need tits for this job,” the manager barked, dismissing me with one quick glance.

  “No shit, Sherlock,” I retorted, smiling sarcastically when his head whipped up. “I’m not here to spin around a pole. And I’ll spare you my version of a lap dance since I actually do want a job.” His mouth dropped open and once I knew I had his attention, I continued. “You need shot girls right?” He chewed on his lip but finally nodded. “Well, I’ve got muscles and a real gift for inspiring men to drink.” I spread my arms wide. “What more could you ask for?”

  “Tits.”

  I bit my lip to stop the insult begging to be said, and tapped the side of my leg since I’d thought ahead and stashed the crowbar before coming inside. “Well, you get leather instead.”

  His mouth twisted, but he gave me a grudging nod. “There’s some that like the dike look.” My jaw worked, but I kept my cool, promising myself I’d deck him as soon as I was done poking around. “Go check with Norah, she handles the costumes,” he gave me a dubious stare, “I doubt we have anything in giant but she’s your girl.”

  “By girl, I hope you mean woman, as in legally allowed to work in a strip club.”

  His forehead wrinkled as he tried to work out what I meant and I rolled my eyes, deciding to leave before I got fired my first hour. He didn’t seem like the brightest bulb in the building anyway. I exited the little office, glancing both ways down the long hall before deciding to go right. I passed a girl with pasties and a G-string, and asked, “Norah?”

  She pointed the same way I was headed and said, “Dressing room.” I felt her stare after me as I continued on and chuckled softly to myself. I could only imagine what she thought of my heavy boots, leather jacket and pants, lack of makeup or boobs, and long stride. I was the anthem of feminine in a place that objectified it.

  It didn’t take me long to find a door labeled, Dressing Room with a sign under it that said, No Boys Allowed. “Nice, I wonder if boys has the same meaning as girls around here,” I muttered, turning the doorknob.

  I eased inside, surprised when I didn’t stop anyone. “Well, that makes this easier,” I whispered, heading straight for the first dressing area. I rifled through the scattered makeup and hair paraphernalia, but nothing stood out. The matchbook burned a hole in my pocket, but I hadn’t been able to make out all the numbers written on it, so calling the phone number hadn’t been an option, if that was even what it was.

  “Can I help you?”

  I jumped, startled by the quiet voice, and turned around to see a small woman with the most beautiful honey colored hair standing there, staring at me curiously. “Norah?” I questioned, trying to calm my racing heart so she didn’t get suspicious. She nodded lightly. “Dickwad,” I winced, getting the feeling this woman wouldn’t approve of my choice of names and corrected myself, “I mean, Gary, told me to find you.”

  She cast me an amused smile. “You had it right the first time,” she informed me, gesturing for me to follow her as she turned and I snorted in amusement. “If he sent you to me that means you need a costume.” She glanced back at me for confirmation and I nodded, refocusing my attention on her instead of scanning the room. “What position do you have?” I stared at her blankly for a second already having forgot I was supposed to actually work here. “Are you a dancer,” she grinned, giving me an arch glance as she continued, “Or a bouncer?”

  “I can tell you which one I’d prefer,” I replied ruefully. “But shot girl would be the correct answer.”

  “Okay,” she said, already sorting through a pile of underwear. “The shot girls where shorts and halter tops.” She held up a pair of what I assumed were underwear.

  “I’m good with my own panties, thanks,” I told her and she laughed.

  After a few minutes, she caught her breath and ruined my day. “These are the shorts,”
she replied, her eyes gleaming as she waved them at me.

  My eyebrow shot up as I looked at them in disbelief. “No way,” I retorted, shaking my head as I crossed my arms. “I’ve literally got underwear bigger than those.”

  She raised one shoulder lightly, studying the shiny red shorts. “I admit they’re short on the regular girls so they might actually be underwear on you,” she said, tossing them toward me and I instinctively caught them. “Still, they’re the uniform.”

  I glanced at the bottoms dangling from the tip of my finger as I told her glumly, “I’m gonna need a bigger pair.” She nodded, kindly not glancing down at my hips or butt as she went back to digging in the pile.

  She finally straightened with a groan, rubbing her lower back. “Nothing,” she said, frustrated. “Maybe,” she murmured as she moved to one of the dressing stations. “Aha,” she held up another pain triumphantly. “This is the best I’ve got.”

  I studied them, heaving out a sigh. “At least I don’t think I’ll bust the seam on them,” I grunted and she shot me an encouraging smile.

  “That’s the spirit! Of course, I’ll just stitch them up if you do.”

  “Great, there goes that plan,” I muttered and she mock frowned at me. “Joking,” I said hastily, taking the shorts. “For now.”

  “Let me get you a top,” she said, bustling off and I took the opportunity to glance through a couple more dressing stations. None of them screamed drug addict or dealer to me, and I suppressed a frustrated sigh. I knew someone here was involved somehow with the drugs moving through Friendly. Whether they were buying them or selling them, they knew something and I was determined to find out what it was.

  “Here you go,” she called, coming back and I straightened quickly. “The top shouldn’t be an issue,” she said, barely refraining from smiling and I smirked.

  “What? Is my chest smaller than most of the girls that work here?” I mocked, causing her smile to break loose.

  She pinched her fingers apart barely an inch. “Just a smidge.” She tossed me the shirt. “I feel your pain though.”

  “Trust me, I haven’t prayed to God for bigger boobs in a long time,” I answered and gave her chest a pointed glance. “Not that you seem to be slacking. I’m surprised Dickhole doesn’t have you out there.”

  She glanced at her own chest ruefully. “These are milk boobies,” she replied. “I’m breastfeeding my son, otherwise these babies are mosquito bites.”

  “Oh, how old is he?” I asked, liking this chick and her no-nonsense methods. I ducked behind a curtain to change, not wanting her to see me struggle with the scraps of clothing.

  “Four months,” she answered, her voice beaming. “He’s my reason for living,” I popped my head around the partition as she said, “Want to see a picture?” I nodded and she eagerly held up her phone. The little boy had her honey colored hair, but the lightest mocha skin.

  “He’s the cutest baby I’ve ever seen,” I admired, being completely honest. “Seriously, I bet his Daddy is a stud muffin too.”

  Norah smiled, her expression pained, and I had the feeling I’d just put my foot in my mouth. “He was,” she answered, pressing her lips together as her eyes watered. “He was the best.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said awkwardly, reaching out to pat her shoulder. She nodded, blinking back the tears that threatened as she accepted my condolences. Her gaze swept over me and I knew the second she spotted my scars. I hastily pulled my arm back, but she caught it in a tight grip, twisting my arm back and forth, so the silvery scars gleamed in the light. “I don’t –”

  “They’re old,” she stated matter of fact. “But you need to cover them up when you’re out there, okay?” I nodded mutely, surprised by her easy acceptance. “This place is owned by the Southern Rebels and they don’t tolerate drugs,” she informed me, releasing my arm. “I think a person deserves a second chance. Innocent until proven guilty, right?”

  “Right,” I agreed faintly, my response barely audible. “You recognized them immediately.”

  “Not the first time I’ve seen them.” She motioned to me. “Hurry up, let’s see if they fit.” I went back behind the curtain, my breath a little shaky as I hurried to wiggle in the clothes. After I got them on, I stared at myself in the mirror. “Come on, let’s see,” she called and I took a fortifying breath and stepped out from the safety of the curtain.

  She stared for a second, her lips compressed, before finally saying, “I think maybe we should leave the boots off.”

  I glanced down at the clunky steel toed boots and grimaced. I felt naked without them even without half my butt cheek flashing the world in the red micro shorts. “I like my boots,” I informed her. “I want to keep them.” There may have been a hint of a whine in my voice cause she shook her head in exasperation.

  “I’ve got extra heels around here,” she suggested instead, looking around.

  “No,” I said flatly, my quick veto garnering her attention. “I’m already six foot. We don’t need to add any additional height. Plus I can’t run worth a damn in heels.”

  “And you assume there will be running?” She questioned, lifting an eyebrow.

  “Always assume there will be running,” I advised, tapping my nose. “Life tip, right there.”

  “Okay, fair enough,” she replied, nodding in acceptance. “But you still can’t wear the boots.”

  “But why?” I flat out whined.

  “Because you’re less likely to kick the shit out of someone if you’re not wearing them,” she answered mildly. “What size are you?”

  “Nine,” I replied morosely. “It’s almost like you know me.”

  She laughed, lifting some clothes. “Maybe not you, but people just like you. Deacon,” she paused, clearing her throat, “My husband, was a Rebel and a group of more kick ass, take no prisoners, stand up for the underdog men I’ve yet to meet.” She glanced over at me with a perceptive smile. “You’d fit right in.”

  I shifted uncomfortably, not sure if it was the compliment she intended it to be. Something poked against my butt cheek and I ran my hand over the material of the shorts. My finger snagged on an opening and I said incredulously, “These have pockets?”

  “Well, yeah,” Norah answered. “You have to have somewhere to tuck the dollar bills.”

  “Better be more than just dollar bills,” I muttered and she snorted, handing me a pair of red and white canvas shoes.

  “This is the best option I’ve got,” she informed me and I took them gingerly. “I think you can run in these.”

  “Like the wind.” I glanced at her gratefully. “Thank you.”

  She tilted her head, tapping her chin, as she considered me. “I think I like you.”

  “Thank God,” I said, widening my eyes dramatically. “I’d hate to see how you treat someone you don’t like.”

  “I’ve been known to leave pins in the clothes,” she said, nodding sagely. “You don’t want to get on my bad side.”

  “No,” I agreed respectfully, feeling an unexpected protectiveness toward her. It had been a long time since I’d had someone I would consider a friend, and while I wasn’t ready to sign on the dotted line, she had potential. The thought caused my chest to tighten, as the ever present fear that I would disappoint another person I cared about reared its ugly head.

  “I have a feeling we’ll get along just fine,” she told me as I dug into the little pocket sown into the shorts I had on. “Now –”

  I didn’t hear what else she said as I stared at the little plastic packet in my hand, a very familiar logo printed on it. The Southern Rebel logo wouldn’t be out of place in a business they owned, but as I opened the little baggie I already knew what I’d find.

  “Tori!” I instinctively hid the drug pouch in my palm as my head came up at Norah’s insistent shout. “Where you listening?”

  “No,” I answered honestly, not hearing a word she’d said. “I have to go,” I said abruptly, ducking behind the curtain as I hastily strip
ped.

  “You just got here,” she cried. “Aren’t you supposed to work?”

  I popped my head around the curtain. “Tomorrow,” I answered, not actually having any clue, but it sounded good. “Just the outfit today.”

  “Okay,” she drawled slowly. “I can put your stuff to the side so none of the other girls grab it.”

  I yanked my shirt down over my head as I came back out, her words sparking my curiosity. “The girls trade clothes a lot?”

  “Not really,” she answered, shaking her head. “Depends.”

  “You got my shorts from….” I let the question dangle, hoping she’d offer some information.

  “They came from Felisha,” she said readily. “She’s off today and tomorrow and I figured they’d fit you.”

  “You’ve got a good eye,” I commented, unable to believe my luck. This was the first tangible link I’d found tying drugs to the Rebels and I intended to pursue it.

  I hurried out of the strip club, blinking at the bright afternoon sun after the dim light inside, and made a beeline to where I’d stashed my crowbar. I had a feeling I was going to need it.

  I dialed the phone number I’d lifted from the records at the tattoo shop, unsurprised when I heard a curt, “Cord Hayes,” followed by a beep.

  “There’s something you need to see,” I said, not bothering to introduce myself. “Call me back. I don’t text,” I continued, pausing before I added grimly, “I will hunt you down if you don’t call me. You need to see this.” I flipped the phone closed, debating if I should call the only other number saved in the cheap flip phone’s memory. I tapped the phone against my leg and finally decided against involving Noah. I’d let Cord and the Rebels explain themselves first.

  Chapter Eleven

  Cord

  I pulled into the gravel lot, a sharp pang hitting my chest at the sight of the bikes backed in. I’d left my bike behind and now there was zero chance I’d ever be able to ride her again.