1. Greta #2
I don’t know why they’d send someone like him. He’s decently sized, but nothing like the monster on his chest.
“Who the fuck sent you?” the blond man asks.
“I came myself,” the man on the floor says. His face is red from the blows. “You done run off all the Kin from Miami. Torched our club.”
The blond man grips the other man’s vest. The knuckles on one hand read W-I-L-D and the other is H-A-I-R. “You don’t belong here. And if I see you again, I’ll bury you in the fucking marsh.”
That line gets me. It’s movie dialogue. Nobody says things like that in real life.
This is another skit. Another shitty fake scene to make me look stupid when I report back to the Pickles.
“Stop it,” I call out. “Stop it now. I get it. Show’s over. Good grief.”
All faces turn to me.
I hold up my hands. “You got me. Silly city girl stepping where she doesn’t belong, trying to protect her brothers, make sure they’re okay. You don’t need to pretend anymore.”
There’s a general murmuring in the crowd. Geez, how many of them were in on it?
“I know, I know. It was dumb of me to come back.” I glance down at the pair of men. “You might want to let him go. You’re going to crack his ribs.”
And the big blond man does, standing up and away from the one on his back, who leaps up and runs for the door. The crowd parts to let him escape.
“It was a good show.” I clap my hands together, slow and loud. “You didn’t fool me. But I saw it. I’ll report that you all thought our attempts at helping Diesel and Merrick were ridiculous.”
The blond man stares up from the base of the stage, arms crossed over his chest, amusement playing across his rugged features.
Damn, but he’s good looking. Dark, heavy eyebrows contrast with the wheat hair. Thick stubble covers his jaw. But it’s his eyes. They are intense and deep brown, boring into me like he can read my every thought.
A tough, gray-haired woman in a black vest elbows him. “What are you going to do with her?” she asks. “She just fucked with club business.”
I’m taken aback. “No need to do anything else. I’ve seen enough. I’m sure you are all a bunch of low-scale hoodlums and drunks, but I’m okay with that. You go about your business.” I take a step toward the stairs.
But my vision whirls as I’m picked up and thrown over the blond man’s shoulder.
A whoop goes up. “You take her, Iron Jack!” someone calls.
“You show her what happens when you mess with the Wild Hair!”
“Go fuck some sense into her!”
Faces go by as I’m carried through the crowd.
I pummel the man’s back. Iron Jack. I remember that name now. He’s the club president.
He’s not getting away with this. “Put me down, you Neanderthal!”
I feel the rumble of his laugh.
He plunks my butt on the bar, spreading my legs so he can drag me up against his thick chest. I’m glad I’m in jeans.
My face is inches from his. “This has gone far enough!” I shout. “You got me! We’re done here!”
I turn my head to see Merrick and Marietta, Diesel and Symphony. My brothers. Family. Friends.
“What are you going to do about this?” I call out.
Diesel, to his credit, steps forward, a bag of ice held against his crotch. “Iron Jack,” he says. “Our sister is clueless. A total idiot. Just let her go.”
What? I snap my head around to him. “I am not!”
“Fuck her up!” someone shouts. “Teach her a lesson, Iron Jack!”
And that’s when I realize this last part wasn’t a prank. He really was angry at the man on the ground for showing up at the bar.
Iron Jack’s hand seizes my chin and turns my face to his.
Oh, shit.
“You’ve interfered,” he growls. “Now it’s time for you to learn your place.”
My breathing speeds up. I’ve never felt quite this alive. It’s dangerous, maddening. Like I’ve stepped back a hundred years in women’s lib, for sure. But so primal. I’m out of my league. I see it now. I don’t know anything about what just happened.
His grip is firm, but gentle. He’s got me, but he’s not going to leave a mark.
Unlike the rest of the bar, he smells good, like whiskey and leather and danger.
“What are you going to do?” I ask him. Surely, it won’t be something too terrible. It’s still a crime to kidnap. To force himself on me.
Does he actually bury people in the marsh?
“I’m open to suggestions,” he says.
I work very hard to seem unaffected, even though I’m scared shitless. “Is there a list of choices? This feels like one of those moments where you’re asking my salary requirements so that I’ll lowball what you might offer.”
Everyone laughs. “What a city girl!” someone shouts.
Iron Jack lingers, his hand still on my chin, our faces terribly close. Then he says, “I like you.”
“I’m not sure I can say the feeling is mutual.”
He grins. “Shall we test that theory?”
Before I can get out another protest, his lips are on mine. It’s a movie screen kiss, full-French, open mouths, tongues tangling, my arms clutching at his body.
Oh my God. What kind of kiss is this?
I’ve never had one like it.
He’s possessing me, erasing my entire history of kisses. I’m not sure I remember my own name.
And we keep on doing it, right here at my brothers’ outlaw bar, in front of God and fucking everybody.