Wild Pickle (Wicked Pickles #3)

1. Greta

GRETA

The neon sign to the Leaky Skull biker bar lets off a faint hum as Bailey and I crunch over bits of glass to head to the front door.

A streak of something red and shiny gleams on a broken piece, illuminated by the light overhead. “Is that blood?” I ask Bailey.

She pauses, peering down at it, her dark hair swinging forward to hide her face. I wish it hadn’t, as I’m curious to figure out from her reaction if this is a normal occurrence at my brothers’ bar.

It’s why I’m here. To find out exactly how illegal and dangerous Diesel and Merrick have allowed their lives to get since they got swallowed up by this biker bar. Merrick actually joined a motorcycle club that does raids on other clubs. It’s horrible!

“I think it’s lipstick, actually,” Bailey says. “Probably some girl was deep throating the bottle to show off her skills.” She laughs. “But truly, it could go either way.”

“No wonder Uncle Sherman is freaking out.” It’s all anybody talked about over Christmas. Dad and Sherman actually came down here a few months ago to see things for themselves. Sherman secretly bought the place when my dunderheaded brothers got their butts arrested and it was shut down.

According to him, he returned the deed to them with some suggestions for making it a more profitable venture.

“Sherman is always freaking out,” Bailey says. She kicks the glass closer to the base of the light pole so no one will step on it. “I can’t believe he sent you to spy, and you agreed.”

We start walking toward the door again. “You’re not worried? This place is rough!”

“Diesel and Merrick can handle themselves,” Bailey says.

“But the raid! You were the one who asked Uncle Sherman to help.”

Her silver top shimmers in the neon as she reaches for the door handle. “That was different. The raids were dangerous. But the Leaky Skull is…” She opens the door. “Just a business.”

I draw in a deep breath. It’s always something to walk in this place. I’ve been here before when I visited Miami to see my brothers. I’m from Jersey.

But now I’m here to gather information. Report to the family. Sherman is determined to get my brothers back into the Pickle fold. And the number of altercations those two have gotten into have exponentiated since they bought this bar and Merrick joined the motorcycle club.

What were they called? The Wild Bears? Wild something.

The noise assaults us as we step inside. Some awful band thrashes around on the stage, smashing drums and screaming vocals.

The smell is worse. Beer and cheap cologne and sweat. I see now why women used to spray perfume on a scarf and hold it close to their nose.

“Come on,” Bailey says. “Let’s have a good time. Then you can tell Sherman that everything is fine and move on with your life.”

Could I, though? Bailey might not worry about Diesel and Merrick, but I do. Late nights. Drunken brawls. Motorcycle raids. We’ve barely gotten them back after they took off for a decade in the Army.

I’m not going to lose them now. Not when the Pickles can do something. My brothers helped me when my worthless husband Jude wouldn’t leave my house after our split.

I’m here to help them right back, whether they think they need it or not.

I spot Merrick behind the bar as we weave through tables. It’s awfully busy for a Thursday night. I guess outlaws don’t have a normal work week.

“Greta! Bailey!” he calls over the noise. “Can I make you ladies something?”

“I want one of those black Manhattans you do so well,” Bailey says. “With three cherries.”

“You got it,” Merrick says. “Greta?”

“Just a light beer.” I will sip it slowly. I have to keep my wits about me if I’m going to make a decent report.

“Seriously?” Bailey says. “A light beer?” She turns to Merrick. “Make her a Manhattan.”

I guess I need to blend in. “All right,” I say. I can sip it slowly.

“Marietta!” Bailey calls, jumping from her stool when she spots the woman I assume will be my sister-in-law at some point. I haven’t had much time to get to know her, since my brothers and their girlfriends never come to family events.

Bailey hugs her tall, slender friend. “I’ve missed you! It’s so weird not going to classes together anymore! How is your thesis going?”

Marietta has long, dark hair to her waist, and is dressed in what could be best described as stripper chic.

Sparkly black fabric crisscrosses over her chest, tied in the back with a bow.

Her black skirt is slung low, revealing miles of skin, and super short over the loose diamond weave of fishnet stockings.

Chunky black boots add a couple inches to her already impressive height.

Marietta slides onto a stool next to us, her eye on me.

Maybe she’s nervous about joining the Pickle family, not that it means much given how little my brothers participate in it.

“I’m still writing the paper and documentation.

The interviews are done.” She leans forward.

“Hi, Greta! I see you have come to spy!”

My gaze snaps to Bailey. “What did you tell her?”

Bailey laughs. “Nothing. You’re just…obvious, coming down here right after the great Christmas worry-fest.”

“Who else knows?”

“Everybody,” Marietta says. “I think your brother Diesel is staging a fight for your benefit.”

And as if on cue, a crash sounds to our right. We turn in time to see a man with long, gray braids kick a knocked-over chair. “You messing with me?” he yells over the band.

Diesel leans toward him menacingly. “You trying to get yourself kicked out of my bar? Because I will throw you out on your ass.”

The man picks up another chair, lifting it high. The leather of his black vest crinkles. It’s got a logo on the back, a skull and roses with patches that read “Wild Hair.” That’s the name of the motorcycle club. I remember now.

Diesel’s gaze flashes to me to see if I’m watching.

Yeah, staged.

I spin on my stool and face away.

Merrick sets the drinks in front of us. “You should at least watch. They practiced for, like, five minutes.”

I forget I’m supposed to sip and take a deep drink. It’s strong. Truth be told, I like my booze with heft. I just don’t do it often. It doesn’t suit the image of me as a marketing executive for the Pickle franchise. Uncle Sherman is all about appearances.

“Come on,” Bailey says, spinning my chair so I’m facing the “fight” again. “Have fun with it.”

Now that I’m back in position to see the action, the skirmish resumes. The man with braids throws the chair at Diesel. He catches it easily and breaks it over his knee. Something surprises him, though, and his eyebrows lift, then his face crumples in pain.

His girlfriend Symphony rushes for him. “Diesel? You okay?”

The man in the braids also drops his angry act. “Did you hit your balls? It looked like it hit your balls.” He takes the chair pieces away. They were clearly unglued or something to break easily, as they came apart at the joints.

I sigh. This figures. Diesel tries to put on a show and hurts himself in the process.

He claps his hands over his crotch.

“Poor baby!” Symphony cries and helps him walk. I don’t think any of this is part of the skit. I spent a fair amount of time with Symphony a few months ago when I was trying to find my brothers, and this concern is real.

Even so, it’s only his balls. And the way he’s acting, they deserved some bruising.

As they pass by, I kick out a leg to stop him. “Brain damage?”

Merrick snorts a laugh from behind me.

“Welcome back, li’l sis,” Diesel says, his face red and shiny. But he seems to be recovering already, no longer bent over.

He avoids my leg to walk behind the bar and disappear through a door to the kitchen.

I whirl around to face Merrick. “Any other entertainment for the night?”

He fills a silver shaker with ice. “Not that I know of. Although we hired the band for your benefit. Normally we pipe in music on a Thursday.” He tilts his head toward the stage.

“Great.” I pick up my drink and take another swig, surprised to see I’ve finished it. “Another, please.” Bailey is driving. Might as well.

Merrick nods. “Will do.” He takes the glass away.

“Sorry,” Bailey says. “I didn’t realize they’d go to so much trouble to tweak Uncle Sherman. You’re caught in the middle.”

“It’s fine.”

The band finishes their set and takes a break. It’s a blessed relief not to contend with the noise.

Symphony returns to the bar and wiggles her way onto a stool next to Marietta.

“How’s the patient?” Bailey asks.

“He’s fine. Just icing it. Thanks, Jake,” she says to one of the bartenders, a young guy, who has set a drink in front of her.

Merrick slides another Manhattan my way. “Here you go.”

I pick it up, wondering why I’m here. If everyone knows I’m taking notes for the Pickles, there’s no point.

Another crash sounds near the stage.

I thunk my heavy glass on the bar. “You can stop it now,” I tell Merrick. “The jig is up. I don’t need any more fake fights.”

But Merrick is already racing for the end of the bar.

“Oh, shit,” Symphony says. “That’s the Kin.”

“Motherfuckers,” Marietta says. And she’s gone.

“What’s happening?” I ask Bailey. There’s a cluster of people standing around whatever’s going on, so I can’t see.

But the sick sound of flesh hitting flesh makes my stomach turn over. I slide off the stool and head for the crowd.

Merrick pushes people out of his way. “Move it. Come on. Let me through.”

I skirt the group and head to the stage so I can see. Once I’m up the few stairs, I’m above everyone else.

Two men are fighting on the floor. One I recognize from my last visit. We spoke briefly in a booth here at the bar. He’s outrageously muscled, shirtless beneath the same black leather vest the gray-haired man wore. His blond hair is cut in long layers.

He pins the other man against the wood slats, his knee on his chest. That man also wears a vest, but the patch on his reads “Lucifer’s Kin.”

That’s the name of the club the Wild Hair raided a couple of months ago, back when Bailey called Uncle Sherman. He must have come for revenge, or something.