Chapter 5
Tempest Miller
Iarrive at 11 am sharp the next day, wearing a pair of cut-off jeans and a black high-neck singlet top. My heart pounds in my chest as I approach the entrance, knowing full well that going inside means facing my fears head-on. The thought of men getting too close makes me shudder, and I hold myself tight as if trying to shield my body from their unwanted advances.
”Alright, deep breaths,” I mutter under my breath, steeling my resolve. ”You got this.”
The familiar scent of leather and whiskey hits me as I push open the heavy door, my heart pounding in my chest. I grip my bag tightly to my side, trying to keep a safe distance from any men who might be lurking too close.
”Good morning, Miss Miller,” a deep voice calls out, causing me to jump. I glance up to see the same man who”s been guarding the door the last two times I”ve been here. Today, though, he acknowledges me with a nod and a warm smile that reaches his bright blue eyes.
”Uh, hi,” I stammered, taken aback by his sudden friendliness. He”s tall, maybe over six feet, with messy blonde hair and a goofy grin that somehow draws me in despite my reservations around men. ”What”s your name?”
”Killer,” he replies, chuckling when I raise a sceptical eyebrow. ”Nah, it”s just a nickname. My real name”s Killian. Everyone calls me Killer, though.”
”Nice to meet you, Killer,” I say, forcing a small smile as I turn and walk inside the bar. His presence at the door is both reassuring and unnerving; part of me feels safer knowing he”s there to keep an eye on things, while another part can”t shake the fear that comes with being around a man nicknamed ”Killer.”
As I step into the dimly lit room and I make my way over to where Amanda is, behind the bar.
”Hey,” I call out, trying to sound more confident than I feel. ”How do I get back there?”
“Tempest,” Amanda says, with a grin, revealing a row of pearly white teeth in sharp contrast to her dark lipstick. ”There”s a spot at the end that lifts up. Lemme show you.”
I follow her down the length of the wooden bar, taking in the bottles lining the shelves, each one holding the promise of liquid courage or temporary escape. When we reach the end, Amanda effortlessly lifts a section, creating an opening for me to slip through.
”Thanks,” I mumble, feeling self-conscious under her watchful gaze. She hands me a worn apron, which I hastily tie around my hips. It feels like armour, even though I know it won”t protect me from everything.
”Your bag can go on this hook back here,” Amanda says, pointing to a small hook hidden beneath the counter.
The polished wooden bar stretches before me like a shield, and I feel a strange sense of safety behind it. The room is empty for now, but soon the patrons will start to trickle in, and I need to be prepared.
”Alright, Tempest,” Amanda begins her tone all business. ”Here”s where we keep the alcohol.” She gestures to rows of bottles neatly lined up on shelves behind the counter. ”We got everything from cheap beer to top-shelf bourbon.”
”Got it,” I say, taking mental notes as she rattles off the names of different brands and types of spirits.
”Over here”s the glass washer,” Amanda continues, pointing to a machine tucked under the counter. ”Just make sure you rinse the glasses first, then load ”em in. It”s pretty simple. And if we run out of anything, just grab a new keg from the back.”
”Alright,” I nod, my hands curling into fists at my sides. I can do this – it”s just pouring drinks and keeping everything clean. Nothing I haven”t done before. But still, the fear lingers, like an unwanted shadow.
”Come on, I”ll show you the stockroom,” Amanda says, leading me through a door at the back of the bar. The smell of stale beer and old wood hits me as she flicks on the light. Shelves brimming with bottles of bourbon, whiskey, vodka, and tequila line the walls, their glass reflecting the dim light from above.
”Shit,” I mutter under my breath, taking in the vast array of liquor. ”You guys are stocked up.”
”Yeah, we don”t mess around,” Amanda grins, crossing her arms over her chest. ”You”ll get used to it. Just remember where everything is, and you”ll be fine.”
”Right,” I say, swallowing hard.
”Listen, Tempest,” Amanda says suddenly, her voice serious. ”I know this place can be intimidating, but the men who come here live under a code, and they are actually just all big teddy bears.”
”Thanks,” I reply, forcing a smile onto my face. I want to believe her, but trust doesn”t come easy anymore. Not after everything I”ve been through.
”Alright, let”s get back out there,” Amanda says. The bar is still empty, but it won”t stay that way for long. I take one last deep breath, steeling myself for what”s to come.
The bar begins to fill up with men, each one tattooed and intimidating in their own way, yet they all keep a respectful distance. I can”t help but be impressed as I pour drinks, managing their orders with ease. Even the chatter among them remains light and casual – no crude comments or wandering hands like I”d experienced back home in Australia.
”Another bourbon, please,” one of the men says, his voice deep and gravelly. I nod, quickly grabbing the bottle and pouring the liquid into a glass. As I hand it to him, our eyes meet briefly, and he gives me a polite nod before walking away.
”Can”t believe this shit,” I mutter to myself, shaking my head. This was the last place I expected to find chivalry. Maybe these guys aren”t as bad as I thought.
”Hey, Tempest,” Amanda calls out from the other end of the bar. ”You”re doing great! Keep it up!”
”Thanks,” I reply, feeling a small sense of pride at being able to handle my new job without any issues.
”Alright, time for your break,” Amanda says, waving me off. I wipe my hands on my apron and slip behind the bar, grabbing my phone from my bag. As I check the screen, I notice a missed call from an unfamiliar number. My heart skips a beat, wondering if it could be the real estate agent with news about my house.
”Fuck it,” I think, deciding to call the number back. After a few rings, a cheerful voice answers. ”Hello, this is Sarah from Greenfield Real Estate. How can I help you?”
”Hi, Sarah, it’s Tempest here,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady even as my hands tremble with anticipation. ”I saw that I missed a call from this number. Is there any news on my house?”
”Ah, yes! I”m happy to inform you that everything has been cleared and approved. You can pick up your keys on the 21st!” Sarah exclaims.
”Shit, that”s fantastic!” I reply, unable to contain my excitement. ”Thank you so much!”
”You”re welcome, Tempest. Have a great day!”
”Thanks, you too.” I hang up and let out a deep breath, relief washing over me. In just 2 weeks, I”ll have a place of my own – a small sanctuary away from the chaos of the world outside. And for the first time in ages, I allowed myself to feel a little bit hopeful.
A grin splits my face as the realisation sinks in – only two more weeks of sleeping in my beat-up car before I can finally have a place to call my own. Two fucking weeks. That”s nothing compared to the months I”ve already spent, curled up in the backseat, trying to block out the world.
I think about the car park I”ve been calling home – the one tucked away nearly out of town, mostly forgotten by everyone else. It ain”t much, but it”s quiet and safe, which suits me just fine. And in two short weeks, I”ll be trading it in for a cold, hard floor – but at least it”ll be mine.
”Break”s over!” Amanda shouts, pulling me back to reality. ”You good to go?”
”Sure am,” I answer, determination settling in my chest. This job might not be perfect, and the people around me might take some getting used to, but it”s a stepping stone – a way to survive until I can finally stand on my own two feet.
———————————————————————————
The afternoon sun bled through the bar”s hazy windows, casting long shadows on the worn floorboards. My first shift had gone surprisingly smoothly, considering I was in a new city and working in an MC-owned bar. The buzz of conversations filled the air as patrons laughed and drank their fill. Most were friendly enough, not giving me too much trouble - definitely better than the rowdy lot I used to deal with back home.
As the crowd thinned out, Killer, the doorman who”d been keeping a watchful eye on the entrance, ambled over to me. Up close, his tattoos seemed even more intricate, like stories etched into his skin. He leaned against the bar, knocking back a shot of whiskey he”d poured for himself.
”Hey, Tempest, how”s your first day treating you?” he asked, his deep voice inviting.
”Better than I expected, actually,” I replied, wiping down the counter with a damp cloth. ”Everyone”s been pretty nice so far. Wasn”t sure what to expect, but they”re definitely better behaved than the assholes back in Australia.”
Killer”s laughter boomed through the bar. ”Yeah, well, Corvus runs a tight ship here,” he said, still chuckling. ”Makes sure no one is treated badly. Plus, if anyone touched you, he”d probably put a bullet between their eyes.”
My brow furrowed at his words, and I couldn”t help but ask, ”Why?” Killer just shrugged, a mysterious glint in his eyes. ”Just because,” he replied, leaving it at that.
”Alright then,” I muttered, curiosity piqued. I took a closer look at Killer”s vest, noticing the Devil”s Cut MC patch on the back and the word ”Prospect” emblazoned across the front. ”So what”s the deal with your vest? You”ve got the club”s patch, but you”re a prospect?”
”Ah, yeah,” Killer said, rubbing the back of his neck. ”When you first join, you gotta prove yourself before they patch you in. Then they give you your name, and you”re good to go.”
”Prove yourself how?” I asked, trying to wrap my head around the rough hierarchy of the gang. Was it like a trial period where they tested your loyalty? Or was it more physical, like showing off your strength and endurance?
”Depends,” Killer answered, taking another swig from his glass. ”Could be anything from running errands for the club to some… other stuff.” He left the implication hanging in the air, and I felt a chill run down my spine. Whatever ”Other stuff” meant, it couldn”t be good.
”Alright, so what if you”re born into the MC?” I asked Killer, my voice dripping with curiosity. ”Do you still have to start at the bottom?”
”Doesn”t matter,” Killer said. ”Everyone starts at the bottom.”
”Even Corvus?”
”Especially Corvus.” Killer leaned in closer, his intense gaze locking onto mine. ”See, his dad”s the president, but he”s locked up right now. Should be out in a couple of years, though. So even though Corvus is VP, he”s acting prez at the same time. But he still follows his old man”s orders.”
”Shit,” I muttered under my breath, trying to process all this information. The MC was more complex than I”d ever imagined, and the way they ran things... it was fascinating and terrifying all at once.
”Corvus grew up in the clubhouse, y”know,” Killer continued, the corners of his mouth turning upward in a twisted smirk. ”His mom”s the old lady, but even he had to patch in just like everybody else.”
”Really?” My eyebrows shot up, surprised that not even being born into the life granted any special privileges.
”Yep,” Killer confirmed. ”The rules are the rules. No exceptions.”
I couldn”t help but admire that level of commitment. These people lived and breathed their loyalty to the club, no matter their birthright. It was a stark contrast to the world I”d left behind in Australia, where blood ties and money bought power and status without question.
”So,” I said, leaning against the bar, ”what age can you patch in?”
”Well, you can sign up properly from about sixteen onwards, but you can”t be patched till after you turn eighteen.” He pointed at himself with a grin. ”I signed up at sixteen. My old man was a member, but he was killed when I was twelve, hence to my patched cut, this was my dad’s, it’s why I’m allowed to wear the patch on the back. I”m nineteen this year and hoping to patch in soon.”
His eyes sparkled with excitement, and I couldn”t help but smile back at him.
”Damn, that”s young to be signing up,” I said, shaking my head. ”But I guess it makes sense if it”s all you”ve ever known.”
”Yep,” Killer agreed. ”It ain”t an easy life, but it”s the only one we got. Might as well embrace it, right?”
”Right,” I echoed, feeling an odd sense of belonging wash over me. It was as if I was meant to be here, among these bikers who lived by their own rules and didn”t give a damn what anyone else thought.
”Anyway,” Killer continued, ”you”ll get the hang of things around here soon enough. Just remember: respect earns respect. You keep your head down and do your job, and you”ll fit right in.”
”Thanks, Killer,” I responded genuinely, taking his words to heart. ”I appreciate you talking to me like this.”
”Anytime, Tempest,” he said, smiling broadly before turning back to his door job. ”Anytime.”
Amanda”s laughter reached us from across the bar, her eyes sparkling as she watched Killer and me. ”Your shift finished ten minutes ago, Tempest,” she called out, leaning against the polished wooden counter. ”You can go if you want, or jump the other side of the bar for a drink?”
I glanced at the clock hanging above the shelves of liquor, realising that time had flown by while I was engrossed in conversation with Killer. The temptation to stay and learn more about this world I”d stumbled into was strong, but my exhaustion was stronger.
Brushing a strand of hair from my face, I smiled at Amanda and said, ”Oh no, I”ll head out, but thank you though.”
I grabbed my things from behind the bar, untying my apron and hanging it up on a nearby hook.
”Get some rest, girl,” Amanda advised, her voice cutting through my thoughts like a knife. ”You”ve earned it.”
”Thanks, Amanda,” I murmured, pushing the door open and stepping out into the afternoon air.
”Have a nice night, Miss Miller,” Killer called from behind me, his voice cutting through the silence like a knife.
”Call me Tempest,” I replied without breaking stride, my words leaving a trail of mist in the chilly air. The weight of my new name filled me with a strange mixture of pride and unease.
”Alright then, Tempest. See you ”round.” His laughter echoed after me, a dark promise that sent shivers down my spine.
I fumbled for my keys, the cold metal biting into my skin as I unlocked my car. A battered old thing it was, but it had gotten me this far, and for now, it was home. As I slid into the driver”s seat, I allowed myself a moment to just breathe, before I started the engine and took off for the park.