Chapter Nine #2
“No. When I left John’s, I ran into Julie.” Rags exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
“Fuck. How was it?”
“Strange … okay … hell, I don’t know.” He raked a hand through his hair. “She wanted to get together for a drink or something.”
“Did you shut that down?”
Rags nodded. “Yeah.”
Throttle leaned forward. “Then what’s the problem?”
Rags’s head snapped up. “I didn’t say there was one. It’s just that her mom’s not in a good way.”
“That sucks. I always liked Glenda.”
“Me too.” Rags stood. “How many orders we got for Christmas lights?”
“Too damn many. Pedro and Willy will be on overtime ’til we’re caught up.”
“They must be stoked.” Rags stretched. “If you don’t need me, I’m taking off.”
Throttle shut the laptop. “I’m done with this shit. I’ll see if Hawk can go over this program with me tomorrow.”
“Let me know what time. Both of us should learn it.”
“Will do.” Throttle grinned. “Go have a few Jacks, hook up with one of the club girls, and maybe hustle Tank outta some cash.”
Rags laughed. “He’s still pissed about the games he lost at Blue’s Belly. But yeah… I could use some Jack.” And my arms wrapped around Casey.
“Later, bro,” Throttle said.
Rags gave a chin lift and walked out.
The sun was sinking behind the ridge when Rags rode up to the clubhouse. Puck, Klutch, and Tank stood out front taking drags from their joints, thin wisps of smoke curling above them. A few of the club girls lingered on benches, soaking in the last bit of light before darkness set in.
“Hiya, Rags,” Melanie said, sashaying over. “You’ve been a stranger.” She ran a red-tipped nail down his forearm.
“Been busy.”
He stepped back, regret stabbing him when her face fell.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to bother you.”
Rags caught her arm gently and turned her back toward him. “Don’t mind me. I’m being an asshole. I got a lot of shit on my mind.” He lifted her chin with one finger. “It’s not you, okay?”
Her smile returned. “Okay. I just miss you, that’s all.”
“Another time, all right?”
Nodding, she walked toward Nina and Rosie, who sat on the benches, scrolling their phones.
“What’s up, bro?” Tank said, bumping fists.
“Not much. You guys heading out?”
“Dream House,” Klutch said. “Emma hired two new dancers. Bones said they’re hot as fuck.”
“I’ll catch them next time I pull a shift there,” Rags said.
Dream House was the Insurgents’ gentlemen’s club. A few members worked at the club full-time, but other members were expected to cover shifts and help when needed. Personal relationships with the dancers were off-limits. The rules kept any drama to a minimum.
Inside, the clubhouse smelled of whiskey, tobacco, weed, and sex. Rags made his way to the wraparound bar. Rusty, a prospect, slid a shot of Jack toward him. Rags held up two fingers. Rusty poured another and set it down.
With one boot hooked on the stool’s footrail, Rags tossed back the first shot, then the second. The burn slid down his throat, heavy and familiar.
He looked around the main room. It buzzed with noise and laughter.
A couple of brothers were tangled up with club girls on the worn couches.
Others played pool or disappeared down the hallway with their arms around club girls.
Buffalo and Itchy sat at their usual table, arguing over something no one cared about.
The scenario around him played out pretty much the same scene every weekday night, then the loud, wild, anything-goes parties dominated the weekends.
For the first time, Rags wondered if this was it—the life he’d carved out for himself. Nights that all blurred together. Women whose names he never remembered. Brothers filled the noise but never the quiet.
He dragged a hand through his hair and ordered another round. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hawk crossing the room, his youngest daughter tucked against his chest, his son’s small hand clutched in his own. Hawk gave him a nod on the way out, and for a moment, Rags couldn’t move.
A stab of something sharp and unfamiliar hit him square in the gut. Loneliness. Longing.
Was this how it was going to end for him? Old, wrinkled, still chasing firm young women who only cared about the patch and the wild stories that came with it?
He threw back another shot. Then another. The whiskey burned, but not enough.
“Gimme the rest of the bottle,” he said to Rusty.
Shoving off the stool, bottle in hand, he stumbled toward the stairs, the noise of the clubhouse closing in behind him.
Upstairs, the sound of laughter and bass thudded through the floor, dull and distant.
Rags dropped onto the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, the bottle still clutched in his hand. The room smelled of leather and whiskey. His jacket hung over the back of a chair, the one-percenter patch catching the faint light from the window.
He took another swig straight from the bottle, the burn hitting hard. His head felt heavy, but his thoughts wouldn’t quit.
Casey.
Her lips, her scent, the way she’d looked at him before pulling away—it all came rushing back. Then Julie. Her voice. Her damn timing. It all tangled together until he couldn’t tell one ache from the other.
He rubbed a hand over his face, staring at the wall. “What the hell’s wrong with me?” he muttered.
The whiskey didn’t answer. Nothing did.
Outside, a bike fired up, the sound echoing through the compound before fading into the distance.
He leaned back on the bed, eyes closing against the spin of the room. For a man surrounded by brothers, he’d never felt more alone.
He took another pull from the bottle, whiskey spilling down his chin. The room tilted once, then steadied. He let the bottle slip from his hand and closed his eyes, the hum of the clubhouse fading until there was nothing left but the dark.