Smokey

Chapter Two

Dixon

“Brothers, we’ve fucked around long enough. This is a discussion we should’ve had a long time ago, but I’ve let all your lazy asses have too much of an influence over me. That ends now.”

Rook’s disdainful look washes over each of us at the table — Striker, Bullet, Thunder, Moose, and me. Of all of us at the table, Moose is the only one who looks unperturbed. Rook’s words aren’t meant for him; he’s not an official member of the MC — he hauls our cargo, and he’s Rook’s closest friend; Rook would just as soon smile as he would yell at Moose.

“What crawled up your ass and died?” Thunder says.

Moose leans back in his chair, and it creaks from the weight. “Sure ain’t a ferret, trust me — I’ve seen it happen. I know all the symptoms.”

“Dignity. That’s what,” Rook snaps.

“Dignity? Is that someone’s stage name?” Thunder says. “Do I need to call Eliza?”

“Maybe that’s their nom de strap-on,” Striker says.

“Don’t talk French to me, you jarhead jerkoff,” Rook says. “We can’t just be some collection of fuckheads anymore. We need a command structure.”

“We can’t be a collection of fuckheads? Didn’t Shakespeare say you have to be true to yourself?” Thunder says.

“He did,” Striker adds.

“Well, that settles it. Because Shakespeare was way smarter than you, Rook.” Thunder leans back in his chair and crosses his hands behind his head. “So, unless you want to create some of the greatest art in history…”

“Rook’s right,” Bullet says. “Like always, he’s being an enormous asshole about it, but he’s right. We need to formalize the MC. We need officers, structure, organizational goals, just like those guys up north.”

I roll my eyes toward Striker and see him doing exactly the same in my direction. Not that I don’t agree with Bullet — he’s a smart guy, determined, and had the ambition to fight through all the bullshit to get the Steel Reapers started in the first place — but right now he sounds like he’s been given a reading list from Madison or one of her coworkers about effective, no, dynamic leadership. Probably with some 20-something white guy on the cover who got his job because his daddy owns the company.

“Something funny?” Rook says, looking right at me.

I shrug. The asshole is way too observant for his own good. “You just want to be our general, don’t you?”

“And be even more responsible for your dumb ass? If the Marines and all their billions of dollars and commanding officers couldn’t straighten you out, I know I’ve got no chance in hell.”

“Then what the fuck do you want?”

“Command structure. Defined duties. I’m tired of being the only goddamn voice of authority.”

“Sounds like someone needs a nap,” Thunder says.

“Fucking right I do. A nap sounds like heaven. Don’t you want a nap?” Rook says. We all nod. Because no one can deny that a good nap now and then is a thing of beauty.

“Fine, I see your point. Some structure, all that, it could make things run smoother. And there’s nothing wrong with having a chain of command when shit hits the fan,” I say. My eyes drift away from Rook. Not that I don’t agree with him, it’s just that there’s something about Rook’s attitude, and entire existence, that makes me want to hammer his face.

Then my eyes land on the bartender.

And stay on the bartender, as blue-gray eyes captivate me from a cloud of softly curling dark hair, and the edges of her cherry lips curl in a smile that locks me up as tight as a pair of handcuffs.

I blink, surprised for a second.

All I’ve said to her tonight are the five words it took to order the beer in front of me, yet she’s looking at me like she’s got her mind made up about showing me something I’d sure as hell like to see.

“Go get me another beer,” Striker says.

“Am I your server?”

“No, but I see how the bartender’s looking at you.”

“So what?” Doesn’t matter how much she’s looking, or how good she looks, there’s something intense in her eyes that says getting close to her would be a bad idea; she’s looking at me like she wants more than just a night, and I sure as hell can’t drag a woman like her into a dangerous life like this. I’ve seen firsthand what this life can do to decent people, and I won’t let that happen to her. One face haunting me in the flames is enough.

Moose leans over, drops his voice to a whisper. “He’s implying that the attractive woman behind the bar wants to fuck you.”

“You think?” I retort.

“Yes, that’s why I said it. I wouldn’t lie to you, Smokey. You’re a good guy, I like you, and you haven’t given any hints that you’ve got a lying or deception kink, so, yeah, I’m telling you the truth. Now, if you want to have a little fun, assume some fake names, break out some costumes, maybe you be a daring, rule-breaking FBI agent and I’m the naughty criminal you’ve just captured and are determined to make talk through whatever nefarious means necessary, well, I’m game.”

“I’m shocked.”

“You going to go up there? Or do I have to drag you there myself?” Striker says. “At the very least, you could flirt a little and get us some free beers.”

“Yeah. At least go dangle the prospect and get us some beers,” Moose adds.

“‘Dangle the prospect’? Are you calling my cock ‘the prospect’ now?”

“Well, if it’s useless, pointless, and ain’t doing nothing, yeah,” Striker says. “So put that little guy to work and get us some beers.”

“You want to know how I put my prospect to use? Go call your mother.”

“My mom’s in a home, man.”

Moose pats Striker on the shoulder, a comforting look on his face.

“Just because she’s older doesn’t mean she doesn’t have needs. Hell, the closer you get to the end, the more aware of those needs you become. Time gets shorter, so you get more determined to savor every moment. Why, there was this one time, I was down in Pensacola — on account of the fact that I had just seen Top Gun and I was in the mood for some airtime with some Navy fly boys — when I ran into this older man at a bar there. And when I say older, I mean experienced at the retirement home game. We got to drinking, drinking led to chatting, chatting led to flirting, but then I stopped. You want to know why?”

Striker and I both nod at the same time. “Why?”

“I knew, deep in my soul, that I couldn’t satisfy this man. The things he was telling me that went on at the retirement home he was living in, well, it was like having the wool pulled from my eyes. If Buddhism was sex, this guy had hit Nirvana.”

Striker raises an eyebrow. “So, what are you saying?”

“I’m saying your mom probably fucks, and fucks a lot,” Moose says. “Like, more than you want to know.”

“How much do you think?” I say, loving just how much Striker is squirming right now. “You think she’s had two guys at once?”

“Oh, at least. Probably three, if not more,” Moose says. “I’ll bet she’s ravenous. I’ll bet she’s fucked most of the men in her retirement home.”

Rook slams his empty beer glass on the table and then pushes it toward me. “Stop talking about how much cock Striker’s mom can take and go get us some more beers. And put it on your tab.”

“My tab? What the fuck, Rook?”

“For making me have to think about Striker’s mom taking three cocks at once,” he retorts.

“At least,” Moose adds.

Rook has a look in his eyes like he’ll cut my head off, so I go to the bar.

The bartender’s still watching me with those blue-gray eyes and that smile that pulls me the same way a magnet pulls iron.

“Another round for me and my table. On my tab.”

“Usually, people are in a good mood when they pick up a round for their friends, but you look like you just announced your own memorial service.” Her lips quirk into something like a smile. For a second, I look at her and feel a sense of déjà vu, yet shake it off almost right away; even someone half as sexy would’ve been tattooed on my memory.

“Feels like I’ll be announcing it if I don’t,” I say.

“Some friends, huh?” She sets out a tray and begins filling glasses. “Listen, I know what it’s like to have a bad day. I can’t give you free beers all night, because I like my job and also need my job, but maybe this first round won’t find its way onto your tab, OK?”

I blink. “You serious?”

“Call it paying it forward, call it kindness, or maybe call it the fact that, when you were talking to that huge guy at your table, I saw you smile and I liked it,” she says, and she sets all the beers on the tray, full. “But whatever you call this free round, you can call me ‘Alex’ or ‘Alexandra’, if you prefer. I go by either.”

She then winks, waves for the server, and gestures for them to take it over to the club’s table.

I take my beer from the tray, and I stay. “I’m Dixon.”

“You declaring which side of the line you’re on?” She says.

“What?”

“I’m talking about the Mason-Dixon line, and the whole references to ‘Dixie’ being the south and…” Alexandra pauses, then shakes her head. “I know it’s a bad joke. Cartography always is, yet I still find myself going back to it. I wish there was some sort of roadmap to a good joke. Anyway, I get that bad joke habit from my dad. Also, in my defense, I’ve been on my feet pouring alcohol into the gaping mouths of dudes for, like, ten hours.”

My eyes drift back to the table, where the others are drinking and talking so loud I can catch much of their conversations — Rook is defending structure, Thunder is ironically defending structure, and Moose is telling Striker some story that’ll traumatize him.

Then my eyes go back to Alexandra. They’re happier for it.

“I don’t know how you could take ten hours of this.”

“For minimum wage, plus tips.”

“That’s it?”

“The tips are good. Drunk people, especially drunk guys, see a woman who is serving them drinks, and they think a few extra bills her way might get them something more than just a beer. Don’t tell anyone, but it’s all an act when we smile at customers. We just want your money.” She taps her nose.

“Is that what you’re working on me for? You just want the tip?”

“Assuming things go well, I’d like more than just the tip.”

I empty my glass and look at her. Really look. Not just at her softly toned body or those eyes that keep me rooted to my stool, but at what’s behind them. There’s something burning there — a heat I want to get closer to. Yet something that surprises me in how direct it is.

“You don’t mess around.”

“When you deal with drunk people all day, you learn the best way to talk to someone is to say exactly what you mean. So, yeah, I don’t mess around.”

“Sounds like you have it all figured out.”

“I know what I want. And I know what I definitely do not want.” She stops for a moment to fill a different customer’s order, then she gives me a long look. It’s a piercing, mind-reading stare that would make a therapist envious. “There’s something really heavy on your mind.” Alexandra pours a shot for herself, then one for me, and she refills my beer. “Want to talk about it?”

The shot goes down easy, and gets refilled the moment I set the empty glass down, and her eyes continue to look into me as if they’re ready to drink up my regrets. I think about telling her, for just a moment, about how killing the wrong man has left me spending the rest of my life wanting to kill myself, and then I shake my head. There aren’t enough whiskey shots in the world to make me think that’s a good idea.

“Life’s been hard.”

“Everyone’s life is hard. Welcome to being alive. What’s wrong?”

Another shot, another tug at my conscience. “My life isn’t always easy. Sometimes, it’s really fucking dangerous. And sometimes, you do things you regret, but you do them because the consequences otherwise would be… well, I’ll leave that to your imagination.”

“Someone die?”

“Yes.”

“I get it. I lost my brother when I was younger. He was my hero. But the way he died… It was tragic, unexpected, and there isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t think about him.”

I raise my glass to her. There’s a sad smile on my face. “To the ones we’ve lost.”

She taps her glass to mine.

A tap at my shoulder makes me turn.

Striker’s there, grinning. “You good?”

I raise an eyebrow at him. It’s pretty damn clear I am. “I’m good.”

“What can I get you?” Alexandra says, suddenly professional. At that moment, I resent Striker for being there.

“Another round, also on my friend’s tab. And one appletini,” Striker says. Before I can even ask, Striker adds, “The appletini is for Moose. Also, this is our last round. We’re adjourning until church, which will be in a few days.”

“I’ll have those right up,” Alexandra says. Seconds later, the full tray slides across the bar and Striker picks it up.

“Thanks, Smokey,” he says. “You going to join us, or you good here?”

I look from the table with the rest of the MC and to Alexandra, who seems disinterestedly interested, a mirthful twinkle in the corner of her blue-gray eyes.

“I’m good here.”

He leaves, and I turn back to my beer and Alexandra. I finish one while thinking about the other, and she refills my glass just as soon as I put it down. Not long after, I hear the guys behind me wrapping up and it isn’t much later that the bar gets empty.

Next thing I know, Alexandra’s calling out, “Fifteen minutes to closing time. Get your last orders in now or stow your complaints until I see you all tomorrow.”

Drink orders come in, Alexandra’s a whirl of activity filling the last thirsty demands of the other customers. I’m content to sit in my seat, watching her ass move in her jeans as she fills glasses. When the last order is filled, she turns to me with a twisted, tantalizing grin on her face.

“Fancy a nightcap before we round things out? Something special to set the mood for later?”

It’s so damn easy, so damn refreshing. Exactly the distraction I need.

“I could take a drink.”

The twisted smile on her face turns into a full-blown Cheshire grin, and she pulls a few bottles down from the shelves and a small bottle of something else from beneath the bar. Her hands are a flurry of activity as she pours the liquids into a cocktail shaker and shakes it with an exaggerated flourish that makes her tits bounce, then pours the contents into two glasses, and slides one to me.

“This one’s my own recipe. I call it ‘Closing time fun.’ I’ll be back for mine once I get these assholes to settle up their tabs.”

She disappears for a second, waving and calling for the remaining customers to settle up. I grab my glass and take a sip and a smoky burn crosses my tongue and fills my belly. In moments, my cheeks are tingling and my world feels pleasantly numb. This drink tastes like it’s part rocket fuel. Things get hazy as the last customer pays his tab, and behind me, I hear the bouncer stack the chairs on the tables. Then he wishes Alexandra and me a good night.

I want to answer, but my tongue feels like it’s glued to the roof of my mouth.

I blink, and it takes monumental effort to re-open my eyelids.

What the fuck is happening?

The door slams as the bouncer leaves and Alexandra comes around the bar to stand in front of me. Casually, she picks up her glass and pours the contents down the sink.

Then she slaps my face.

I don’t feel a thing.

Though I’m frozen, my heart is going a million miles a minute while Alexandra looks at me with a triumphant smile on her face.

“You’re probably confused about what’s happening. Don’t be. Like I said before, I believe in straightforward communication: I’ve drugged you, Dixon Green. I’ve drugged you, and I’m going to kill you.”