Chapter 3 – Gabby
Chapter Three
Gabby
My sister Averie does not like the looks of this bar. She’s one of those bougie girl-boss types of people that rates every establishment based on its social media popularity. If it doesn’t have a five-star espresso martini on Yelp, it’s “boring” or “dead”.
As if on cue, she gives her review, like I can’t read the disturbed expression on her face. “I’ve never seen any Boston influencers here.”
“Isn’t that a good thing?”
“I don’t know, Gabby. These men look… scary.”
“Which men?”
Averie gestures with her lips to the five men seated at the bar, all wearing leather jackets with symbols on them and the phrase Rebel Barbarians Motorcycle Club.
I mean… It’s just men in a biker club. Is that really such a big deal?
Those aren’t exactly foreign on the East Coast, even if most of my personal knowledge comes from Sons of Anarchy rather than real life.
“They’re minding their business.”
“They’re literally in a gang,” Averie whispers to me. “Why else would they have the matching fits?”
“It’s called a cut,” I whisper. “And they’re minding their business. Let’s mind ours. I don’t want to go anywhere I can run into my sick ex-boyfriend and his weird ass sister.”
Maybe a biker bar is a little extreme, but it’s not like there’s a crime wave or anything. At this point, I would trust these bikers more than I would trust a cop or anyone claiming to represent our government.
“You’re right. It’s your heartbreak. Do whatever you want,” my sister relents, glancing nervously back down at her phone, probably firing off a spicy tweet about my taste in bars.
Averie is too bougie for her own good. We walk over to the serving area, unwilling to give up before trying something on tap, and look over my shoulder once I get there, half-convinced my sister would have made an escape attempt.
To my surprise, she’s followed me over to the bartender working the bar
“Do you think they serve espresso martinis here?”
“I think they serve Coor’s Light.”
“Hi, can I get you anything?” the bartender asks us, her dark brown eyes and spider-leg eyelashes fluttering between me and my sister.
“I’ll have a plain seltzer,” my sister says. “I’m driving.”
“I’ll have a shot of vodka and a half-pint of whatever’s on tap.”
“Pumpkin Sam Adams okay?”
It sounds awful. But not more awful than finding out my boyfriend cheated on me.
With his sister. And he barely seems to think that it’s wrong.
I always found their relationship weirdly close, and she would often wake him up in the middle of the night to talk but…
I just thought I didn’t get it because I didn’t have a brother.
But of course I didn’t get it.
“Yes. That sounds delicious,” I say. Because anything that will get me monumentally fucked up sounds better than ruminating about what he did to me.
“It does not sound delicious,” Averie mutters. I hope the bartender doesn’t hear her. It doesn’t seem to matter because the shot and the half-pint come sliding my way within seconds. Averie snatches her seltzer off the bar like the bottom of the glass risks contracting cooties.
“There’s a guy staring at you, by the way.”
“Great.”
I throw back the shot. I’m not here to meet anyone tonight except maybe the little green fairy that appears when you drink too much. Or was that only absinthe?
“He would be cute if he wasn’t part of a gang.”
“Where?” I mutter, careful not to look around too dramatically as we find a booth in the corner of the bar somewhere, safely away from the bikers so I don’t have to hear Averie complain about it anymore.
“He’s at the bar, second seat from the left. He’s not looking now.”
“Can I look?”
“Ew, no! Don’t encourage them.”
I don’t point out that they haven’t even done anything except mind their business.
I look over my shoulder at the guy Averie claims was staring at me, but I can only see his back and the words printed on his cut.
There’s a giant skull with a knife and a tomahawk going through its mouth and a large snake wrapped around the entire design.
Maybe Averie’s right to get all freaked out over it.
The script reads Rebel Barbarians Motorcycle Club in a large arch on the back of the leather and then there’s a single word: GHOST
Maybe he got that name because of his skin color, because he’s surprisingly pale compared to the rest of the bikers and I only even think about it because of the name.
I turn away quickly, still concerned with the dangerously basic beer flavor I just set down.
Averie and I slip into our seats and I quickly skim some frothy beer off the top.
“He’s huge.”
“Yeah, he probably has warrants out.”
Nobody impresses Averie. She doesn’t seem to mind being single though. Seriously. She never complains, never seems unhappy without a man. I feel jealous because I’m the total opposite of a nonchalant woman “okay” with not dating.
“Averie? I already have enough reasons to hate my life right now. Can I enjoy a man looking at me for five seconds?”
“You’re right. I’m sorry. He’s probably the male lead in a Hallmark movie with all those tattoos and all that leather.”
She’s a fire sign, in case you were wondering why she’s like this. And she has eldest daughter syndrome like you wouldn’t believe.
“Averie…”
“Okay. I’m done,” she says in a more earnest tone than I expected.
I double check anyway. “Are you?”
“I promise. In fact, if you want to prove he’s so innocent, go ask him for his phone number.”
I glance over at the biker from the booth again. I meant it when I said he was huge. He’s taller than the tallest guy I dated, who was six-foot-two – not short at all. Ghost, the biker, is at least a head taller than that.
“I can’t,” I mutter, sipping on my pumpkin beer and hoping my sister changes her mind about challenging me like this. Why are older siblings like this? She still thinks I was born for her to run experiments on.
Averie gets smug and takes a big, happy sip. “I dare you to get his phone number. Now you have to do it.”
“Are we five years old?”
“I triple dog dare you.”
“That’s not even a thing.”
“I quadruple dog dare you.”
The biker glances over at our table and I get a good look at his face for the first time. I look away before he catches me looking back.
“People don’t trade phone numbers anymore.”
His jawline is sharp. I can’t deny that he’s pretty good looking. He might be a little old for me though. Can I even afford to think like that?
“You think he posts on Instagram?” Averie says, sticking to her dare.
It’s like she wants to stress me out. Or get my mind so agitated about this biker that I forget about my ex-boyfriend.
That would be a lot easier if he hadn’t cheated with his sister.
My stomach bubbles nervously – and it’s not the beer.
“I thought you said he was probably a criminal.”
“You’re getting his number, not going back to his demon lair.”
“He looks forty. I hope he has at least an apartment.”
“He looks like he would give you his number. Go get the ego boost and fuck Derek. He’s a weird, immature asshole who fucked his sister. Could you really trust a man like that around kids?”
My sister has a way of making me feel worse when she’s trying to make me feel better.
“Okay, fine. I’ll get his number. But please, we have to be done talking about Derek and focus on binge drinking.”
“Okay, nerd,” she says with a wink. “Go get him. If he touches your ass, I’ll break his arm.”
She is definitely not capable of that, but I don’t doubt that Averie has pepper spray on her in case anybody comes at her sideways.
I leave my beer at our table and slowly walk over to the biker.
This is crazy. This is crazy. He turns around and looks at me.
He can tell I’m coming towards him, which just makes it worse.
His eyes drop to my feet and slowly travel all the way up to my chest, where they linger before our eyes meet.
Regret floods me. This man is visibly dangerous.
Covered in tattoos. He was probably drunk before I even walked in the door and it’s not even that late.
He grins at me and there’s a nervous flutter in my chest that’s most likely my drunken conscience telling me to run before it’s too late.
My voice gets stuck in my throat. If a good guy like Derek who played Magic The Gathering and ran fifteen miles a week could cheat on me, what chance do I stand with a taller, more muscular, more dangerous man who probably views women as objects solely for his pleasure and has slept with the entire city just this weekend.
I shatter my nerves.
“H-hi.”
He chuckles. “Hello.”
“What’s your name?”
“Ghost to you, unless you let me buy you a drink.”
WHAT? Okay, this isn’t what I planned at all.
I can’t let this guy buy me a drink when I’m supposed to get his number and run.
He looks over my shoulder when he catches me glancing back at Averie, who doesn’t even give a shit.
She’s on her phone, most likely messaging back one of her more needy clients.
“I can’t.”
“Why not? You have a boyfriend?”
I can tell this man has already had a few drinks in him, but he isn’t ugly. Far from it. Most of the bikers I’ve seen are way older and greasier. He looks like a muscular giant with a gentle and handsome face that contrasts his more terrifying physique.
“No. I don’t.”
I’m not used to saying that yet.
“Well, I’m not looking for trouble with you,” he says. “My personal life is a mess. I just want to buy a pretty lady a drink. Stop thinking about my shit for a while.”
Wow. I can relate to that.
“One drink. But then I’m going back to my sister, okay?”