CHAPTER 9 GRETA
GRETA
We don’t stay out in the Everglades much longer after spotting the alligator. My pants dry out enough that I can get on the bike.
I try not to smear mud on Iron Jack’s black sweatshirt. Thankfully, he’s not wearing his president cut, or I would have been a lot more stressed about messing it up.
By the time I’ve showered and put on clean clothes, my muddy jeans soaking in a sink in the laundry room, I’m not sure what to do. I need information about the club for Uncle Sherman, but my resolve to get it from Iron Jack always seems to dissolve in his brown eyes.
I wander the hall to the living room, but nobody’s anywhere. Some of the men’s doors are open, so I get an eyeful of unmade beds, cigarette packs, beer bottles, and plenty of posters of half-naked women.
It’s like a frat house with leather.
I turn to the kitchen. Christina is there, poking potatoes.
“Need some help?” I ask.
“Sure.” She pushes a bag toward me with her elbow. “Wash and stab.”
I open the twist tie. “Early dinner?”
“Yeah, most of the men will be at that wedding tonight. And the ones who stay behind will be on watch in case there’s a retaliation.”
The potatoes tumble into the sink. I wait for them to settle before asking, “Retaliation?”
Christina pulls a mile of aluminum foil from an industrial-sized box and begins wrapping the potatoes. “It’s unlikely since it’s not our conflict, but if the brother’s club takes issue with us keeping them out, it could escalate.”
I glance at the windows. “And this place is fortified for an attack?”
She shrugs. “Haven’t seen one since I’ve been here. I know there’s spots on the roof for them to keep watch.”
That’s not comforting. Maybe I should go to a hotel until this blows over.
I scrub the potatoes, occasionally looking out the window to the back porch. The forest is close. We could have hostile bikers on the front side, gators in the back.
Uncle Sherman was right to be worried. Dad has never tried to intervene on the boys. He’s the kinder, gentler, worrier compared to the human tank that is Sherman.
I wonder if I should tell him about this before tonight. He sent cops to the last raid.
“I reckon it’s pretty clean now,” Christina says.
I glance down. I’ve scrubbed the potato in my hand nearly white. “Oh, sorry.”
She passes me a fork. “You’ve got a lot on your mind, I see. I wouldn’t doubt it, having someone like Iron Jack sniffing about your feet.”
“Oh, I’m fine,” I tell her.
Betz enters the kitchen. “Fine about what?”
Christina piles the foiled potatoes on a metal cookie sheet. “Oh, Merrick’s sister here is all concerned about a retaliation after the wedding.”
Betz’s gaze bores into her. “You told her about that?”
“No,” I say quickly. “Iron Jack did. That’s why I’m here. To learn.”
“Oh, right. You think you’re a big spy.” She sorts through the potatoes. “These are pretty wimpy. Plan for two each.” Then she heads to the fridge and pulls out a beer.
I return to the work, picking up a fork to pierce the ones I’ve washed.
Betz leans against the center island, alternating sips of beer and puffs on her cigarette. “You slept in your own room.” Her tone is accusing.
I pass the potatoes to Christina to wrap. “That’s none of your business.”
Betz laughs. “Iron Jack’s business is club business.”
I dry my hands on a towel and face her. “You scared I’ll be the ol’ lady in charge of the club and might tell you to fix your attitude?”
Christina goes still, her mouth dropping open.
Betz takes a casual drag on the cigarette. “Girl, you’re not going to last the weekend. I’ve got nothing to worry about.”
“Then why are you in here sniffing at my feet?” I steal the phrase Christina used, even though I’m not sure I completely understood what it meant.
But it works. Betz nods, like she finally approves of me. “I like that you have some moxie. Makes me less worried about Iron Jack’s frame of mind for dogging after you.”
“He’s not—”
Betz cuts me off. “He is. I don’t know what he’s driving at, maybe he’s got some grand plan. But you keeping yourself out of his room might not be the worst thing.”
I turn away at that and take my time rinsing out the sink. Everyone seems to think that my appearance is part of some big scheme. It’s really not. I came here to check on my brothers and figure out if my uncle should intervene more than he already has.
It’s clear he should. Merrick shouldn’t be part of an outfit that burns down other clubs and gets in the middle of wedding disputes.
That’s not the Pickle way, not that he ever was a part of it.
He and Diesel, who was Dean Sawyer back then, took off for the Army rather than get sucked into the Pickle deli chain.
Nobody blamed them, really. Several Pickles have bolted. Our cousins Court and Nadia both left the family business. Sunny married a literal prince.
Only Sherman’s sons Jason, Max, and Anthony own actual delis. And Grammy Alma, of course. Her little Brooklyn restaurant is the OG. The rest of us settled into the ancillary companies Sherman started because he wants every Pickle to find their place.
I picture Grammy meeting Iron Jack and have to smile. She’d think he is the bee’s knees.
“What you grinnin’ about?” Betz asks.
Okay, fuck her. “Throwing you out on your cigarette-smoking ass when I marry Iron Jack.”
For some reason, this makes both Betz and Christina snicker.
“Shows what you know,” Betz says.
I’m not feeling sure enough of myself to push, so I open another bag of potatoes.
Betz heads for the back door, smoke trailing her short, wiry frame in jeans and a gray Henley beneath her ol’ lady cut.
I think she’s going to let her remark be the last word, but as she passes through the screen door, she tosses back, “Don’t go buying a white dress.
” She laughs harder as the door bangs shut.
I scrub another potato into oblivion. She’s trying to make sure I won’t last the week. I get it. Iron Jack is acting out of character and throwing her off.
I box breathe quietly. Stay chill, Greta. Get your information and get out.
Christina looks over when she runs out of potatoes to wrap. “Betz is tough. She’s had to be.”
I shrug. “We all do.” I stab the potatoes with gusto. It helps.
“True.” She rips off another length of foil. “But you can’t be expected to understand how clubs work after one day.”
I pass her a potato. “So what did I say wrong about marriage?”
“Club members don’t get married.”
“But isn’t everyone working a club wedding tonight?” This is exasperating.
“Yeah. It happens, for sure. I think Stoney and Carol got officially hitched. It was before my time. But clubs aren’t much for government paperwork or cager traditions.”
“Cager?”
“Oh, yeah, non-bikers. They’re called cagers.”
“Because they’re in cages? Like, societally?” No wonder they don’t want to get married.
“I don’t know what that means. But non-bikers are called cagers because bikers think of cars as cages. You know, you’re not free. You’re trapped inside.”
“Oh. That’s actually kind of poetic.”
“Sure.” She looks like she’s about to say something else when she suddenly pops back into place and focuses hard on the foil.
I’m about to ask her what’s wrong when I hear footsteps. Heavy, thundering, like a herd approaching.
I turn to the door to the hall just as the whole crew of tricked out Wild Hair arrives.
Iron Jack is in front, and I take them all in like a slow-motion scene from an action movie. Iron Jack’s arm muscles bulge as he walks with purpose, his blond hair flowing away from his chiseled face.
Behind him are some of the members I met last night. Hoss, built like a bull with an expression to match. Chain, his gray braids bouncing. The prospect, Adam, young and friendly compared to the others.
Then more I haven’t met yet. One has a patch that reads “VP.” This must be Carol’s man. Another smirks at me with an expression so like Betz that this has to be either her man or her brother. I’m not going to ask which.
Iron Jack gives me a nod, then turns to Christina. “How long until Hoss needs to put on the steaks?”
“Half an hour, I’d say.”
Hoss steps forward. “I’ll season them. Betz turns them into salt bricks.”
Christina waves toward the back door. “They’re in the meat fridge. I took them out of the freezer last night.”
“Good woman,” Hoss says, and one of the men thumps his back.
Interesting. I watch his eyes as he passes through. They dart to Christina twice.
Is something happening there?
Iron Jack hangs back when the others leave. “You doing all right?”
“I’m fine, given that we could have a retaliation come down on my head after this wedding you’re doing.”
“It’ll be all right.” He stands a hair too close, and the fitness watch I put on after our Everglades trek buzzes my wrist. We both look down at the face, which proclaims, “Heart rate elevated.”
Oh, shit. I yank my arm behind my back, but I’m still holding the fork I was using to poke the potatoes. My sudden movement makes it catch on the decorative distressed patch on my jeans, and the fork lodges in the threads.
The fork turns inward and stabs my own thigh. I fail to suppress my yelp of surprise, my gaze snapping to Iron Jack to see how much of this he’s noticed.
He brushes his thumb across his lips, trying to hide his smile.
All of it. He saw all of it.
I sense Christina watching us from behind. Oh, God. This is the worst.
He leans down and takes the fork from my hand. “Might want to hold off on the weapons until your pulse goes back down.” He sets the fork on the counter and gives me a wink. He lifts my wrist to peer at the display. The heart warning is gone.
“I like this,” he says and leans in close to my ear. “I wonder what your heart rate will be when I bite the inside of your thigh.”
And goddamn if the stupid heart rate warning doesn’t go off again.