by Mackenzy Fox
She’s slightly obsessed with drinking tea, testing bubbly Moscato, watching home decorating shows and has a black belt in origami. She strives to live a quiet and introverted life in Western Australia’s North West with her hubby, twin sister and her dogs.
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Also by Mackenzy Fox
Steel: Bracken Ridge Rebels M.C. Book #1
Steel: Chapter One Excerpt
Sienna
I haven’t been in Bracken Ridge Arizona for very long, but I’ve been around long enough to know that nice girls don’t belong in this bar.
The Stone Crow. It’s an eclectic mixture of all the pitfalls of society dregs.
Some are here for a good time, some for a wild time, but mainly they’re all drunks. There’s of course the usual suspects that you’d expect in any hard liquor serving establishment; the regulars with their own seat at the bar, creepers who came to hook up with random strangers and chat up anything that moved, and the after-work 9-5’ers escaping for a while before they got home to the wife and kids. Predominantly however, it’s filled with all the men your mother warned you about and to stay away from.
Oh, and then there’s the bikers.
I’ve taken this job for the easy money plus it’s not exactly rocket science. Bar tending’s something I’ve done in college, though that was a million years ago now and not exactly something that I thought I’d see myself doing at almost thirty years old, that is until I found myself in Bracken Ridge.
Its not lost on me that this feels like failure, that somehow I am really just hiding out from all of the baggage that I thought I’d left behind in California, left for good along with a whole boat load of painful memories.
The only good thing about a Friday night at the Stone Crow is the time goes fast; you’re too busy to think or question your life’s choices, just keep the drinks flowing, don’t make too much eye contact oh yeah, and stay away from the bikers. Hence the reason I’m here.
The Bracken Ridge Rebels MC.
A motorcycle club who own half of this place as well as a lot of the businesses across town. They hang out here sometimes and I’m sure that’s just to scare some of the unruly patrons away.
I’ve been here two weeks, six hours and counting. My estranged Father Max passed away suddenly and left me in his will. That would be sad if I’d known him or even liked him, but I didn’t, and now he’s left me everything he owns.
He’d lived in this dreary little blue collar town for more than half my life. My parents divorced when I was small, he’d always been a big drinker and a bad gambler, he also wasn’t very forthcoming with child support or any kind of support for that matter. I’m only here now to clean up his mess.
I’m aware he has a string of bad debts, unpaid loans and an even worse reputation of being a first class A-hole.
So this is where I find myself, in this strange little town run by bikers with even stranger people I don’t know, in a bar that smells like stale beer and fish fry.
I live in the apartment upstairs; the co-owner Stef doesn’t use it and she’s taken a liking to me, plus the rents cheap and no-frills. I’d prefer that than having to rent a house I can’t afford or worse share with a stranger.
Despite my complaints it’s been a good thing to get away from Cali and all the bad memories there including a psycho ex-boyfriend and a restraining order. I never thought I’d be one of those women but sadly I’d put up with way too much, and when things turned physical I was lucky to get out when I did.
Now this is where I exile myself, a zillion miles from anywhere.
My main goal; to sort Max’s affairs before the nasty lawyers and bank foreclosure step in to do it for me. Once I clear it all up there may be some cash at the end of it, if I’m lucky, and then I can escape this god forsaken place and start afresh somewhere new.
Dear old dad owns a farmhouse in the country, a couple of shops in the main street that are leased, and the bikers clubhouse out of town.
I try not to shudder at the thought.
The motorcycle club own the building to their headquarters but not the land, they’d been leasing it from Max for years. Subsequently they now want to buy it, and while it’s a cut and dry transaction, I don’t exactly relish the thought of having to go to that meeting.
“Yo beautiful, buy yourself one.” The guy I’ve just laid a couple beers down for yells at me, distracting me from my thoughts. I smile sweetly and put the tip in my jar, which overflows most nights, it’s only because I’m fresh meat and disengaged from reality; a lot like my current surroundings which I try to blot out, still, I move on up the bar without a second glance to the next customer who can’t keep their gaze at my eye level. It’s nothing to brag about; a simple Ramones tank-top and skinny black jeans was all it took to get the guys around here excited, which just goes to show the level of intellect, god help me. I try all night not to roll my eyes at every second person ogling or slurring incoherently like they don’t have a drinking problem. I try in equal measures not to throw in the towel, because this is better than what I could be doing. This is better than my actual reality, one I refuse to go back to.
In all honesty I need this, the anonymity, I can do what I want, I get to be someone else for a while, anybody else, that’s freedom, that’s my source of power. And this ridiculous town called Bracken Ridge is just the place to do it.
We pull up outside the devils lair, although for all intents and purposes the gnarly skull and cross bones sign out the front declares it as the Bracken Ridge MC Headquarters. Subtle.
My attorney Laney Locket isn’t from around here. I figure its best to hire someone out of town who isn’t influenced by this notorious motorcycle club, plus I’ve watched Sons of Anarchy, I kind of know how things work and I’d prefer them to work in my favor. I have to be smart about this.
I’ve done some research and gotten valuations on what property is selling for around here, and while it isn’t a boat load of cash it will still be enough to pay back all of the bad checks Max wrote, plus put a couple of months on the mortgage payment to get ahead. I don’t need the bank foreclosing on me, that would be a disaster. There’s a for sale sign in the front yard being banged in as we speak, it’ll be listed online by the weekend.
I look at the building in front of us and cringe at the thought of going in there; I mean it isn’t exactly welcoming with the skull and crossbones winking menacingly at you. That aside, today should be straight forward, a quick deal; the price is fair and at market value. There’s nothing but a set of stupid iron doors stopping me from going in there signing the papers and walking away less a motorcycle club and a spring in my step.
I can do this. I just have to breathe.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Laney says from the car seat next to me, eyeing the clubhouse with a pained look on her face, that is not reassuring. She’s brought along an assistant whose name I’ve already forgotten, but he isn’t any help, in fact he looks like he couldn’t fight his way out of a paper bag.
This isn’t what I need. I need a ball busting lawyer and her fearless assistant ready to take on the world.
The club president is a notoriously hard man, from what I’ve heard, his name is Richie Hutchinson and he’s been at the helm for over twenty-five years.
“It doesn’t really matter if it’s good or bad, it has to be done.” I remind them, unaware until now that I am apparently the voice of reason. Neither of them however are making any moves to get out of the car.
It’s going to be fine. I tell myself again. Breathe in, breathe out, now is not the time to panic.
Unfortunately, I can’t meditate my way through this meeting; I have to get out of the car.
I bravely make the first move and step out of Laney’s SUV and straighten the loose bow on my blouse and then I flatten out the front of my pants. I’ve decided to
dress as business-like as possible in a sheer grey floaty blouse with built in camisole, the best black pants I own and a pair of patent pumps.
I’ve even gone to the lengths of using one of those donut buns, the thing that keeps your hair in place in a tight knot while doing all kinds of crazy things like windsurfing, horse riding and meeting with a biker club in their notorious clubhouse.
Laney follows suit holding her brief case and a large file stuffed under her arm which her assistant quickly takes from her, he then proceeds to drop it awkwardly on the sidewalk while attempting to tuck his shirt in at the same time. I internally face palm myself; I hope to god they don’t have hidden security cameras out the front watching our clumsy exchange, they’re probably all laughing at us right at this very moment. Seriously, this is all I need.
I also never knew a set of doors could be intimidating, but up close the heavy metal seems even more over the top, it dawns on me for real that we’re not in Kansas anymore. The same skull and cross bones logo is etched into the framework, the kind that reminds you that you’re about to potentially step into hell, you know, just in case you forgot where you were.
Above it was a plaque that read:
Ride or Die – Bracken Ridge Rebels Motorcycle Club.
I sigh a loud, noisy breath and wonder if it’s too late to go get my brown paper bag from the car for breathing purposes. I refrain and pull the doors open with force, amazingly I’m greeted by a large, clean foyer and not what I initially thought; something crossed between a sleazy nightclub and a dungeon.
It’s clean, bright and airy, the floors are polished concrete, good for party clean-up, I can also see now that the tinted windows are two-way, so you can’t see inside from the front but you can see out.
It’s predominantly black and white but has a huge red backsplash set behind the bar which look like it holds every hard liquor known to man, along with black leather couches, a huge projector screen, pool tables, a couple of dart boards, the usual things you would expect a biker club to have minus the stripper poles. The only thing missing was a mud wrestling pit and girls in skimpy bikinis, maybe they only worked the night shift since it was empty and quiet right now.
Before we go anywhere fast a pretty girl with dark hair appears out of nowhere.
“Hi!” She says brightly coming toward us like she’s been expecting our arrival. “I’m Liliana….you must be…” she trails off expectantly.
“Sienna,” I reply shaking her outstretched hand, she couldn’t be older than about twenty-one. Realizing I only know one of my companion’s names I smile awkwardly. “And these are my associates.”
I internally slap myself for not paying attention. This is a very bad start.
“Laney.” She also shakes Liliana’s hand.
“Jarrod,” says Jarrod. Phew. Okay. Jarrod. I have to try and remember that but I’m so bad with names and even worse with inconsequential people.
“Well, the guys are all looking forward to meeting you,” she says brightly, like this is the best thing since sliced bread.
She ushers us forward.
Guys. Guys?
“Umm, aren’t we just meeting with Mr. Hutchinson?” I at least remember his name; I look over my shoulder to Laney in panic.
Liliana’s heels click clack across the shiny floor as we follow behind. She has a short skirt on, a Harley Davidson t shirt knotted at the front and sky-scraper heels. I wonder who she is and what she’s doing here, not that it’s any of my business, but she seems too pretty and sweet to be hanging out here.
“Oh no, all the patched members who hold a position are required to attend a meeting like this,” she tells me as if we’re discussing how lovely the taste of cotton candy is.
I have no idea what ‘patched members who hold positions’ are and I’m afraid to find out.
“Can I get you guys a coffee, tea, water, hard liquor?” She laughs, giving me a wink.
At least she seems to have a sense of humor, that’s strangely comforting.
“Are we going to need hard liquor?” I reply dead-pan.
She laughs again like I’m hilarious but doesn’t answer; instead we stop at some heavy set closed wooden doors and she proceeds to knock, she waits a few moments then pushes one of the doors open.
“Hutch, your guests have arrived,” she announces.
Guests? It sounds like she’s just let the pack of wolves know their dinners ready.
I hide my apprehension as I hear a booming male voice say something and Liliana turns back to us.
“Please go ahead.” She turns to us with a smile, motioning for us to go inside.
“Thanks,” I reply, hoping that the beat in my chest cannot be heard because that’s all I can hear and it’s loud.
“Good luck,” she adds with a wink as we proceed to enter the room, seemingly at our peril, into the depths of hell as the door closes behind us with a thud.
There’s a large wooden table in the center of the room and around it sit six men, each one clad in leather vests and jackets. The one at the head facing me, I can only assume by his authority, is the club President, Richie Hutchinson, he looks kind of important.
There are three men to his left and two to the right, and they are all staring at us.
I’m completely blindsided and I momentarily consider turning back around and running out, back to the safety of the car and you know, daylight. I’m so glad I haven’t come here alone, that would be just a little bit too much right now. I swallow hard and steel myself.
“Mr. Hutchinson?” I start, realizing my trusty counterparts are standing safely behind me and are completely still and mute, fat lot of good these two have been.
He’s an older guy, maybe mid-fifties, with broad shoulders, he’s not bad looking in a rough and tumble kind of way, he has a handsome, unshaven face with greying stubble and is wearing a black bandana wrapped around his forehead in your usual bad-ass biker way, he also has a sleeveless leather jacket on with words “President” stitched to the left breast pocket. The patch is worn and tattered like he’s been wearing it a long time.
He nods from his chair and gestures us to the table before him.
“Miss Morgan,” he says in a deep rumbling voice. I can tell immediately he’s a man of presence just by those few words alone, some people just have that knack and it’s slightly terrifying. “We’ve been expecting you. Please have a seat.”
Polite enough, but why’s it so dark in here? There are only a couple of small windows around the top of the far wall that hardly let any light in. This room definitely needs a woman’s touch and it smells like smoke.
I avoid the other pairs of eyes on us and take a seat at the end of the table where three chairs have been set out. How they knew there would be three of us I don’t want to think about, they’ve probably all been watching us sit in the car for fifteen minutes arguing about who was going to get out first. I’m probably right about the surveillance cameras.
“Thank you,” I reply. “Please call me Sienna, this is my attorney Laney and her assistant…..” Shit, umm….. Jesus H Christ…..“Jarrod,” I finally spit out.
I glance momentarily around the table and see a mixed variation of men. It’s hard to take it all in at first, a lot like when you stare at the sun for too long and start seeing spots.
Tattoos. Bandanas. Chunky jewelry. The smell of leather. The taste of cigarettes. There’s enough testosterone in this room to fill an entire village, it’s almost palpable. Weren’t bikers meant to be old, cruddy, beer-bellied fat guys? These dudes are pretty damn hot and the only old one is Mr. Hutchinson, though he’s not exactly ancient himself.
The others in my posse follow suit and any minute now Laney’s going to launch into lawyer mode and bowl us all over with her smart and witty well thought out plan of attack…..any minute now……
Instead Mr. Hutchinson decides to get the ball rolling by getting the formalities out of the way. He’s eyeing me curiously and has an amused look on his face.
As my eyes fell on each of them, I take them all in one by one.
Gunner looks like the youngest, he’s blonde and blue eyed with floppy hair hanging around past his ears, Rubble has dark hair and tattoos running up his neck, he’s also got more jewelry on his fingers and up his wrists than I’ve ever seen on a guy ever. The one named Bones has a freshly shaved Mohawk and a fairly applaud worthy beard, he grins at me tipping his head, and lastly there’s Steel, he just stares at me with these piercing dark green almost grey eyes and his jaw ticks like he’s clenching his teeth. He’s the biggest out of all of them and has tattoos scattered and completely covering both his arms and hands so you can’t see any actual skin, his fingers are linked together as he assess us at the end of the table, or rather, me. I don’t know what he sees but he doesn’t look happy.
Why was it that all bikers have weird nicknames? Well it’s true when you think about it; their mom’s probably gave them perfectly good, normal names at birth. I’m sure nobody in their right minds would choose to call their new-born bundle of joy Rubble.
The one named Gunner grins at me, ooh he’s cute. My heart rate kicks up a notch as he assesses me head to toe quite obviously with a smirk plastered across his face. He has a baby-face, golden blonde hair and striking light blue eyes, he’s very good looking and he looks like he knows it. As he smirks his eyes twinkle suggestively. Unnerving and slightly awkward.