Chapter One #3
Smile. Hustle. Listen. It had been her mantra since her first job in a bar.
Peggy looked to be somewhere in her forties.
She had a no-nonsense attitude that had to come in handy in a place as rough as this.
“House rules. Keep the regulars’ drinks full and staff are not allowed to talk politics.
Or religion. People don’t want to think about religion when they’re drinking and partying, you know?
The jukebox plays when it fucking wants to, so no beating it or kicking it.
If Ned’s here and he sees you do it, he’ll lose his mind. ”
“Who’s Ned?” Dylan asked.
“The other co-owner,” Peggy replied. “Try not to piss him off, even if you are Eli’s family.”
“Understood,” Dylan said.
“Now, if a fight breaks out and there’s usually one each fucking week,” Peggy explained, “don’t be a hero.
Just try and get clear and wave down one of the bouncers.
We usually have at least two of them scheduled each night.
It’s not a bad idea to check the schedule.
It’s on the whiteboard with the lockers.
See who’s on duty each night so you know who you’re looking for.
” She jerked her chin in the direction of the far end of the bar.
Dylan followed her gaze to the two huge guys leaning against the back wall near the hallway, perfectly still and silent.
One of them was built like a refrigerator with tattoos creeping up both sides of his neck.
The other looked mean even though he wasn’t actively trying to at that moment.
He was leaner with an angular face and a body you could only get from hours each week in the gym.
The gym rats were hit-or-miss as bouncers.
Dylan would be willing to bet money that the fridge was the one to flag down in a fight.
“They don’t talk much, but they move fast, let me tell you. If some shit goes down, make eye contact, give a nod, and then get out of the way. Got it?”
“Got it,” Dylan said, scanning the room as Peggy handed her an apron and a notepad. “Is there a panic button or something? I’ve worked in other places that had them.”
Peggy snorted. “This ain’t Applebee’s, sweetheart. You see something coming, you move. Fast.”
It wasn’t the serious lack of formal safety protocols that raised Dylan’s eyebrows.
It was the way Peggy said it, like fights weren’t just a possibility, they were expected.
Like there was a rhythm to them and they were allowed.
She nodded and kept listening, but something about that rubbed her wrong.
“Most of our business is on the weekends, of course, but the VIPs come in all during the week,” Peggy went on, already moving back to the bar to stock napkins in old-fashioned metal boxes. “You’ll know them when you see them. They don’t tip, but don’t piss them off. Eli likes to keep them happy.”
Dylan paused, notebook in hand. “VIPs?”
“Locals. Out-of-towners. Some are from his MC. Doesn’t matter,” Peggy said, without looking up. “You serve what they order and stay out of their conversations. That’s not me being rude. That’s me keeping you employed.”
The words hit her like a warning. Something about all of it, the emphasis, the look in Peggy’s eyes, the way she didn’t offer names made Dylan’s stomach tighten as she kept listening, wondering what else she was going to hear. Nodding, she filed it all away and forced a smile.
“Thanks for showing me the ropes,” Dylan said. “I appreciate it.”
Peggy finally looked at her, a long, assessing stare. Then she shrugged. “You’ve got the eyes for this place. You watch everything. That’s good. Just make sure you don’t watch too closely, yeah?”
Dylan didn’t answer. But she was definitely paying attention.
“One last thing.” Peggy spoke quietly. “You’re one of the owner’s family members which probably means you’d have to really fuck up to get fired. But just keep in mind, you’re still expendable.”
“I’ll do my best to remember that.”
The evening crowd was light, just as Peggy explained it would be.
It was Thursday night, and Ned’s Sundown Lounge always did look better at night.
The dim lighting and the fact that the sun had already set, covered the bar’s many imperfections better than paint ever could.
The jukebox was working tonight, playing songs that were moody and lazy, and they filled the space without drawing attention.
The regulars were easy to spot, planted on barstools like fixtures, beers in front of them. Some of them talked to each other in low voices, some were there on their own. Dylan had just finished clearing one of her tables when the cool night air blew a newcomer through the front doors.
Dylan glanced up and paused.
The newest patron was tall and built. She didn’t think she’d seen him before. That didn’t necessarily mean anything. She was just back in town after having been gone several years.
The man who just walked in didn’t look like a local.
Six-four, easy, with broad shoulders under a worn jean jacket and a dark hoodie that had definitely seen better days.
His long dark hair was pulled back low at the neck, and a beat-up baseball cap shadowed most of his face.
Not that it helped much. He was fine and pretty hard to miss.
Dark eyes scanned the room once, slow and deliberate.
He didn’t come across as cocky, just aware.
Like he was used to being in places where trouble could find him in a hurry.
When his gaze finally landed on her, it lingered for half a second longer than it needed to. Not creepy or flirty. Maybe interested.
Dylan straightened and stepped behind the bar, already reaching for a clean glass. But the new guy didn’t sit at the bar like most of them. No, he picked out a booth near the back, one that gave him the best line of sight on both the bar’s exits.
Shit, they really must have fights often here.
Dylan clocked that and noticed how relaxed his movements were. Like someone trained not to draw attention but fully capable of handling it if he had to.
She walked over with a notepad in hand, smiling when his gaze met hers. “You look like a bourbon guy,” she said by way of greeting.
“It depends on who’s pouring,” he said, voice deep and gravel smooth.
She raised an eyebrow. “So, you’re one of those.”
He smirked. “One of what?”
“One of those mysterious types with a tragic backstory and specific taste in whiskey.”
That smirk turned into a smile and when he turned it on her, well, it froze her to the spot. “Would I be less exciting if I say beer?”
“Beer’s not as exciting,” she replied, scribbling his order. “But you seem like anything but a boring guy.”
That earned her a look. Something warmer flickered behind those dark eyes before it faded.
“Do you have a beer preference?”
“Whatever you have on draft,” he told her.
Nodding, she walked off to grab his drink, curiosity crawling under her skin.
There was something about tall, dark, and handsome back there.
He just didn’t seem like he was local. He was too quiet, observant.
He just seemed like the kind of man who had a story written all over him in scars he didn’t show.
And if she was being honest? Whatever that story was, she wanted to hear it.
When she returned with his beer, she caught him giving her the once-over, the hint of a grin playing about his lips. She had a feeling he just might be her next favorite mistake. Setting down a coaster then the beer mug, she smiled. “Can I get you anything else? Some chips or nachos?”
He tilted his head at that. “You have nachos? I think you’re the first waitress that ever offered me that.”
“They might suck,” she said with a laugh. “It’s my first shift here so…”
“Yeah, well let me try ‘em,” he said, eyes still on her. “I’ll give you a review.”
“Deal,” she said.
As she headed back to give her order to the kitchen, she saw a group of bikers walking into the bar.
They came in loud, laughing too hard, and walking like they owned the place.
From a certain point of view, she guessed they did.
The snakes on their patches told her they were Cottonmouths, probably from her uncle’s club.
Well, this should be interesting.
At the kitchen window, a short, pudgy guy with a great smile introduced himself to her as Bart.
He explained that he’d been at the bar for a decade, he was practically a manager there.
Yeah, right. And if she had any questions to let him know.
It was all she could do to get away from him to get back to her table.
And the bikers had, of course, found a booth in her section.
And her mystery man? He fucking left. At first, she thought he stiffed her, but she spotted a note on the table laid over cash.
Dylan headed for the bikers. They smelled like road dust, booze, and arrogance.
The youngest one was the loud one, probably three drinks deep from wherever they’d been before.
Mid-twenties, shaggy dark hair, arms covered in faded ink and cigarette burns.
He sprawled in the booth, legs spread wide, arm thrown over the backrest like he was already getting comfortable.
Next to him was a beefy biker with gun-metal gray hair and eyes nearly the same color.
If he’d been drinking, she couldn’t tell.
She assumed he was a higher-up in the club based on his demeanor.
The biker across from him was tall and wiry with a crooked nose that looked like it had been broken at least twice and never reset properly.
He scanned the bar like he was looking for a fight, twitchy hands tapping a beat against the table.
Next to him in the aisle seat was the biggest of the bunch, built like a semi-truck with his leather vest stretched tight across his chest and deep scowl etched into his face.
He had nothing to say. He didn’t even acknowledge she was there.
But the gray-haired biker did, acknowledging her with a toothy grin that made her feel like she needed a shower.
“Well, hello there,” he said, voice oily-smooth. “What’s your name, sweet thing?”
Dylan didn’t flinch. She set her notepad on the table, pen poised and gave him a flat look. “Eli’s niece.”
The table erupted at that, with the other three bikers laughing and the one who spoke to her loving the attention. Then he leaned back, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Didn’t realize royalty was working tonight.”
“You gonna order,” she said calmly, “or should I come back?”
That earned a low chuckle from the younger guy. But the way they looked at her changed. Not with less interest but more caution.
“We’ll order,” the gray-haired biker said. “I’m Trucker. This little shithead next to me is Nate because he’s not cool enough for a biker name. Over there is Grudge.” He pointed to the thin, dirty one. “And Creep.”
Since they were in her uncle’s club, it wasn’t in her best interest to be rude. Now they knew who she was, they’d leave her alone. “Dylan,” she told them.
“Dylan,” Trucker snapped. “We need a bottle of Jack and clean glasses.”
“You’ve got it.”
She’d met her first VIPs. She walked back to the table tall, dark, and handsome abandoned, wondering what happened there. He’d left her a twenty and a note on the back of a paper receipt from somewhere else.
Sorry, I got called back to work. If this isn’t enough, text me.
A phone number was written at the bottom.