Handful (Venom Riders MC #4)

Chapter 1

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— Austen —

I built the Old Fashioned while Jamie, my barback, worked the other end of the bar. Sugar cube, a few dashes of Angostura, a splash of water—muddled right in the glass. Two ounces of Bulleit, one fat ice cube, a slow stir. Orange peel expressed over the top, extra cherry dropped in after.

I glanced over at table seven: four women, every cell out, one of them tilting her glass toward the overhead light for a better angle. I’d clocked them the moment they sat down. “Tell them we’re saving the last bottle for someone who won’t Instagram it.”

“I can’t tell them that.”

“Fine. Tell them we’re temporarily out. Which we are, because I’m hiding it in the back.”

She grinned and disappeared back into the crowd.

The Velvet Hour was packed tonight — real estate agents networking, a cluster of art crowd types, the usual Friday night aspirational influencers photographing drinks they’d ordered for the aesthetic.

And in the corner booth, a birthday group getting progressively louder.

My domain. My kingdom. Or at least the kingdom I managed on behalf of the owners, who were smart enough to stay out of my way.

I finished the Manhattan, slid it across the bar to the waiting server, and turned to pour the Macallan. The bottle caught the light as I tilted it — amber and gold, smooth as silk. Forty dollars a dram, and worth every cent.

This was my life. The one I’d planned for, not the one my parents had mapped out.

They’d wanted academic careers and literary futures for their children; I’d wanted a bar.

The business degree had been our compromise — it gave me the numbers, the logistics, the language for talking to investors — but the real education had happened nights and weekends behind bars that were nothing like this one.

Three years ago I’d finally landed the job I’d been training for my whole life. The Velvet Hour was upscale without being pretentious, busy without being overwhelming. The tips were excellent, the hours were reasonable, and the clientele mostly kept their hands to themselves.

Mostly.

“Austen.” Derek, my floor manager, appeared at my elbow. “Two guys just walked in. Bikers, from the look of them. They’re asking to sit at the bar.”

I didn’t look up from the vodka soda I was building. “So seat them.”

“They’re… not exactly our usual clientele.”

“Are they paying?”

“Presumably.”

“Then seat them.” I added a lime wheel to the glass, inspected my work, and finally met Derek’s worried eyes. “We don’t discriminate based on wardrobe choices.”

“I know, but—”

“Seat them, Derek.”

He sighed and retreated. I allowed myself a small smile.

Derek was a good floor manager — kept the room moving, knew when to cut someone off, could clear a table of lingering drinkers without making a scene — but he had a tendency to judge books by their covers.

Bikers in an upscale cocktail lounge weren’t his preferred demographic.

But money was money, and The Velvet Hour hadn’t become one of the top-rated bars in the Millfield by turning away customers who dressed differently.

I finished up the round of drinks, sent them off with the server, and turned to greet my new arrivals.

And stopped.

Because I recognized that face.

That grin. That infuriating grin.

And the tattoos. I remembered them too - pin-up girls down both arms, cartoonish, retro. Exactly what you’d expect.

It had been about a year since the birthday party at the Venom Riders clubhouse. I’d only gone because Rachel — my best friend from college, who’d somehow ended up dating a prospect — had dragged me along. “It’ll be fun,” she’d said. “They’re actually really nice once you get to know them.”

The party had been fine. But then he had appeared.

Sandy brown hair, mischievous brown eyes, the kind of boyish grin that probably worked on about ninety-nine percent of the female population. He’d sidled up to me while I was getting a beer, said something mildly charming, made me laugh despite myself.

And then he’d spent the next twenty minutes talking to my chest. Not even trying to hide it. Every sentence aimed about eight inches below my face. I’d told him his conversation skills would improve if he made eye contact, and he’d grinned at me like I’d paid him a compliment.

And it wasn’t even the first time. Almost a year before the birthday party, he’d cornered me at Dutch and Indira’s wedding — I’d been there as a plus-one to a guy from Indira’s office who hadn’t wanted to go to a biker wedding on his own — and hit on me so relentlessly that I’d given him a fake name just to end the conversation.

And now he was here. In my bar. Settling onto a barstool like he owned it. Another brother dropped onto the stool beside him. That easy grin swept the room and landed on me the way it probably landed on every woman in his vicinity. Appreciative. Unhurried.

Zero recognition.

Two encounters. Two shutdowns. And he was looking at me like I was a fresh start.

Interchangeable. That was what I was to him — just a woman he’d hit on and moved past, twice, without a second thought. I could have been anyone. I probably had been anyone, to him, a dozen times over.

Something about that was so much worse than if he’d swaggered in knowing exactly who I was.

“Hey there.” His voice was a lazy, confident drawl. He leaned on the bar. “You look like the best thing I’ve seen all week.”

I kept my face neutral. Bartender-professional. Gave him nothing. “What can I get you?” I asked.

“What do you recommend?”

“For you? Hemlock.”

His companion snorted. He just kept grinning, apparently immune to insults. “I’m serious. What’s good here?”

“Everything’s good here. This is a cocktail bar, not a biker dive. We don’t serve warm Budweiser and broken dreams.”

“Ouch.” He pressed a hand to his chest. “The claws on this one.”

“My name is Austen. Not ‘this one.’”

“Austen.” He repeated my name, slower. “Like Jane?”

I blinked. That was not the response I’d expected. “Yes. My parents are literature professors.”

“Huh.” He tilted his head, studying me with an expression that was annoyingly difficult to read. “So they named you after a woman famous for writing about toxic men and the women who put up with them?”

“Or, they named me after a woman famous for brilliant social commentary and biting wit.”

“Same thing.”

I let that one go. “What are you drinking?”

“An Old Fashioned,” he said. “Make it good. I’m trying to impress somebody.”

I glanced at the brother with him, who was inspecting a bar stool pretending not to listen. “Your friend?”

“No. You.”

I stared at him. He stared back, that grin never wavering.

“One Old Fashioned,” I said finally. “And for you?” I turned to the other brother — Target, according to the name on his cut.

“Uh. Beer? Whatever you have on tap is fine.”

“We have twelve options on tap. I’ll get you a menu.

” I turned away before Handful could say anything else, grateful for the excuse to put distance between us.

My hands were steady as I pulled the tap menu from under the bar — years of practice had taught me to keep my cool under pressure — but my heart was beating faster than I liked.

Remembering names was a professional skill — use someone’s name, remember their drink, tips go up by a third.

His was right there on his cut, which helped.

Three years behind a bar had given me a complete enough education in men to know exactly what he was: charming, persistent, and entirely certain it would work eventually.

I’d dated, when the timing suited. Casually, carefully, never in a way that competed with what I was building.

I hadn’t met anyone who made me want to do otherwise.

And yet.

There was something in the way this guy had looked at me. Not just the obvious appreciation — I was used to that, had learned to tune it out years ago — but something sharper. Curiosity, maybe. Interest that went beyond the physical.

Don’t, I told myself firmly. Do not go there.

I set the menu in front of Target. He scanned it, looking faintly overwhelmed by the options, then slid it back across the bar. “You pick.”

I grabbed a tulip glass and poured the best IPA we had, then turned back to build the Old Fashioned.

The movements were automatic but I took extra care with each step.

Not because I wanted to impress Handful.

Because I wanted to prove that I could make a perfect cocktail while completely ignoring his existence.

“So,” he said, leaning on the bar. “Austen. Like the author. Parents are professors. Let me guess, you majored in English too?”

“I’m not playing twenty questions with you.”

He grinned. “Just trying to make conversation.”

“Try harder.”

He laughed. Actually laughed, like I’d said something delightful instead of dismissive. “God, you’re mean. I love it.”

“I’m not mean. I’m efficient.” I strained the cocktail into a rocks glass and set it in front of him. “That’ll be twenty four dollars.”

He pulled out thirty dollars in cash and slid it across the bar. “Keep the change.”

I tucked the bills into my apron without comment. Six dollars on twenty-four wasn’t going to buy my friendliness either.

He took a sip of the Old Fashioned and his eyebrows rose. “Holy shit.”

“Problem?”

“This is incredible.”

I felt a small flush of pride despite myself. “It’s my job.”

“No, seriously.” He took another sip, slower this time, savoring it. “This is the best Old Fashioned I’ve ever had. And I’ve had a lot of Old Fashioneds.”

“I believe you.”

He cocked his head. “That wasn’t a compliment about my drinking habits.”

“Wasn’t it?”

Target returned from the bathroom — I hadn’t even noticed him leave — and picked up his beer. “This place is nice, Handful. Way nicer than the usual dives you go to.”

“I’m trying to expand my horizons,” Handful said, still looking at me. “See how the other half lives.” He raised his glass in a mock toast. “The drinks are excellent. The company is… challenging.”

“I’m not company. I’m your bartender.”

“For now.”

I opened my mouth to respond but a wave of new customers descended on the bar, demanding my attention. By the time I’d worked through the rush, Handful and Target had moved to a corner booth.

An hour passed. Then two. The Friday night crowd ebbed and flowed, keeping me busy enough that I could almost forget about the two bikers in the corner booth.

Almost.

Every time I glanced in their direction, Handful was watching me. Not in a creepy, stalker-ish way. He’d look away when I caught him, turn back to his conversation, but the awareness was there. Constant.

I didn’t like it. I also didn’t entirely hate it.

Stop, I told myself firmly. You know better than this.

When their server — Megan, a new hire, still learning the ropes — returned to the bar looking flustered, I felt my stomach sink. “Everything okay?”

“Table twelve,” she said. “The bikers. One of them is getting a little… rude.”

Of course he was. I wiped my hands on my apron and stepped out from behind the bar. “Which one?”

“The sandy-haired one. He keeps making comments about…” She gestured vaguely at her chest.

“Got it.” I crossed the floor with purpose, weaving through the other patrons until I reached their booth. Handful looked up as I approached, that familiar grin already in place.

“Austen! Couldn’t stay away?”

“We need to talk.”

His grin faltered slightly. “Is there a problem?”

“You’re making my staff uncomfortable.”

“I was just—”

“I don’t care what you were ‘just.’ I won’t have it.” I kept my voice low but firm, aware of the other patrons within earshot. “You have two choices. You can apologize to Megan, keep your comments to yourself, and finish your drinks like civilized human beings. Or you can leave.”

He looked at me for a long moment, the grin gone. I crossed my arms. “Clock’s ticking. Apologize or leave.”

He turned to Target and said, “We should probably go.”

“Handful—”

“No, she’s right.” He pulled out his wallet and dropped several bills on the table. “I was being an asshole.” He looked at me. “I’m sorry.”

The apology was unexpected enough that I felt my hostility waver. “Tell Megan, not me.”

“I will.” He slid out of the booth and stood, closer to me than strictly necessary. “For what it’s worth, I wasn’t rating her because I was interested. I was just talking. It’s what I do.”

“That’s not the defense you think it is.”

“No. Probably not.” He glanced back at Target, who was already on his feet, leaving another stack of bills on the table.

Handful was already walking toward the door. Not defeated, exactly, but chastened. It was a good look on him, I thought viciously.

Then he stopped. Turned back. Walked up to Megan, who was restocking napkins at a side station and clearly trying not to look.

I couldn’t hear what he said. But I saw Megan’s expression shift from apprehension to surprise to amusement. She nodded. He nodded back. Then he was gone, the door swinging shut behind him.

“What did he say?” I asked when I reached her.

Megan shrugged. “He apologized. Said he was raised by wolves and didn’t know any better. Then he tipped me a hundred dollars and asked if you were single.”

I felt my eye twitch. “And you said?”

“I said I didn’t know. He said he’d find out himself.” She grinned. “He’s cute, Austen. Kind of an asshole, but cute.”

“Those two things aren’t mutually exclusive. Unfortunately.”

“Are you single?”

“That’s not the point.”

“So yes.”

“I’m going back to the bar now.” I retreated before she could ask any more questions. He’d apologized. Genuinely apologized, not the bullshit non-apology men usually gave when they got caught. He’d even admitted he was wrong.

It didn’t excuse his behavior. Didn’t make up for the comments or the general air of entitled douchebaggery. But it was… something.

Don’t go there, I reminded myself. And went back to making drinks.