28. Vanessa
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
VANESSA
Gentle nudging on my shoulder stirs me from my sleep. I turn in bed, finding Marlene hovering over me. Light is peeking through the bottom of the curtains near the floor, alerting me it’s morning. Cupid is not in the bed with me, meaning he never came home last night.
My heart sinks like a rock in a pond. Where the hell is he?
I sit upright, rubbing the sleep away from my eyes. “Marlene? What is it? Is something wrong? Where’s Cupid?”
“Nothing’s wrong. The guys are still out. I didn’t want you waking and wondering where I went.”
“Where are you going?”
“My shift in the kitchen starts soon. I and some of the other ladies in the club make breakfast for the crew most mornings. If you’re hungry, come downstairs to Whiskey Wheelers to grab a bite.”
“Oh, okay. Thank you. What time is it?”
“Not quite six,” Marlene says, heading for the bedroom door. “It’s early yet. If you want, sleep for a while longer before coming downstairs to eat. In the meantime, if you need anything, Cookie is right outside the front door.”
Cookie? What kind of club name is Cookie? Must be another ole lady or a club bunny.
Before I can ask more questions, Marlene is out the door and off to work.
Ugh. Work. I should do the same thing.
Rent may no longer be an issue living with Cupid. Still, I have bills to pay. Not to mention studying. I need to get back to my coursework as soon as Scalpel clears me.
Sinking back against the pillow, I look at Cupid’s empty side of the bed with a frown.
What have you been up to all night, my biker?
Marlene said to rest some more, but my mind is running wild with where he might be and whom he may be with. Sleep will not happen until I see Cupid, and he better be ready to answer all my questions.
Sighing, I climb out of bed and dress in silence.
After being in bed all day yesterday, I want some normalcy, opting to dress in my regular torn jeans, sporting my signature untamed wavy hair, and wearing my favorite shade of cherry red lipstick.
I sigh, checking myself over in the mirror above the dresser and feeling more like myself again, aside from the fading, purplish contusion on my forehead.
At least the swelling has nearly disappeared.
My head is still hurting, but staying cooped up inside the apartment while Cupid is away will only make my brain hurt more with all my wild theories running amok.
Opening the front door, I’m startled when I see a tall man in a Royal Bastards leather cut, no older than me, leaning against the wall standing guard. He’s almost too handsome to be a biker with a chiseled jawline, well-groomed hair, and a clean-shaven face.
The biker stands upright once he sees me, nodding hello. “Morning, Psyche. Are you ready to head down to breakfast?”
“Morning?” I say, confused. I peek around him, but don’t see the woman I was expecting to find outside the door. “Um, I’m sorry. Who are you?”
“I’m Cookie,” he says, pointing at the name patch on his cut, along with the prospect patch underneath it. “I’ll be keeping guard and escorting you to where you need to go when Prez is busy.”
Everything he says is odd. One, I didn’t realize I’d have a bodyguard within the club itself. And two… I raise an eyebrow. “Your name is Cookie?”
He nods, unfazed.
“Cookie is a…well, it’s a different club name,” I say, trying not to sound condemnatory. “Why are you called Cookie?”
“I like cookies,” he says matter-of-factly.
Fair enough. I can inhale a sleeve of Thin Mints any day.
“I also like eating pussy,” he adds deadpan, like it’s common knowledge in these parts. “The name has a double meaning, but more the latter.”
The urge to roll my eyes is strong, but I suppress it. It’s my fault for asking.
Cookie grins, almost as if he knows this is ruffling my feathers. “Want to hear the story of how I got it?”
“Nope. Sharing time is over. Let’s head to breakfast.”
He stops me at the top of the stairs. “Hold up. Where’s your cut?”
“My cut?” I look down at my outfit, sans my property vest, and ponder why it’s necessary. Confused, I meet his eyes. “Why do I need to wear it to breakfast? Are there going to be bikers from another club present?”
“You’ll be meeting most of the crew for the first time. They’re expecting the president’s ole lady representing our club.”
Resigned, I grab my leather vest from the dining table where I left it the night before and don it. All these rules that I never thought I would become part of my life are sinking in.
The club is now a fundamental part of my life. I had better adjust quickly.
When Cookie and I enter the bar downstairs, I pause at the entrance to the dining hall.
The space is filled with leather-clad and rugged bikers, eating and chatting over coffee.
Conversations and laughter float through the room, and the smell of bacon sizzling on the griddle permeates the air with a rich aroma.
My stomach growls, ready to feast.
“Hey, I think that’s Cupid’s woman,” someone says in the group.
A wave of unease washes over me, not because the crew is intimidating—they certainly are—but because all eyes in the room turn to stare at me.
Being the center of attention is not something I’m used to or enjoy.
I’m half tempted to hide behind Cookie, but decide it’s best to stand my ground.
They expect Cupid’s woman to hold her own, and I don’t want any of these club bunnies mixed in with the crowd to think I’m a pushover.
Hopefully, my cut will work as a shield for anyone who may be tempted to test me.
Right. Like a cut is going to stop anyone from testing me?
Anxious about my appearance, I turn my back on the crowded room and face Cookie. “Be honest. Do I look okay?”
He raises a thick eyebrow. “Huh?”
“Do I look presentable?”
He shrugs, uninterested. “Sure, I guess.”
My lips pucker in disapproval. “Not helpful, Cookie. For being named a pussy eater, you sure know squat about women.”
“Oh, come on,” he whines, slighted. “I’m not a mind reader. Spell it out for me, will you?”
“Do I look like I fit the bill for being the club’s president’s ole lady?”
“And what the hell is that supposed to look like?”
“I don’t know. Tough, maybe? Like I can handle myself? Someone worthy of being on Cupid’s arm?”
Cookie steps back, looking me over, not in a sexual or creepy way, but in a way that lets me know he’s taking my question seriously.
After assessing me, Cookie meets my eyes. “Yeah, you’ve got that whole punk thing going on with the band t-shirt and vibrant lipstick.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Is that a good thing? Or is it going to piss off some club members?”
Flustered, Cookie throws his hands in the air. “Jesus, woman. You’re fine. You’ll fit right in.”
“Oh, good,” I say, pleased, my nerves settling somewhat.
Cookie smirks, pointing at my face. “You’re perfect, minus the unicorn horn protruding from your forehead. That shit is terrifying.”
I slug him in the bicep, making him laugh. “Asshole. Leave my horn out of this. It’s nearly gone.”
Cookie takes me by the shoulders, turns me around and guides me into the restaurant. “Come on. No one is going to start shit with you. You’re Cupid’s woman. They all know what happened to the last bastard who messed with you, and they want none of it. They prefer to keep all their parts attached.”
My feet falter. There’s no way I heard him correctly. “Excuse me?”
“Hmm? Oh, um, that came out wrong,” Cookie says with a nervous laugh, guiding me forward again. “Smile. Everyone is looking at you.”
Swallowing down my nerves, I square my shoulders and address the crew members with polite hellos as I make my way to an open table with Cookie trailing behind me. “Morning, everyone. Don’t let me stop you from enjoying your meal.”
A few of the bikers nod in greeting or wave hello as I pass them. Taking a seat at the open table, I do my best to school my features into looking unbothered. Yet, it’s hard not to feel self-conscious when most of the crew continues to watch me like I’m some sort of curiosity.
Cookie takes the seat next to me, cool as a cucumber. “The kitchen ladies make a mean biscuits and gravy. You should try it.”
“Sounds delicious.”
Cookie waves over one of the wait staff and places our order.
Marlene winks at me with a big smile when she exits the kitchen to bring a club member his food.
I wave back to her, happy to know one familiar face.
I scan the room, looking for Cupid in the mix of bodies, and smiling politely at anyone I inadvertently make eye contact with.
My biker is nowhere to be found, as well as Oaks.
Guessing the two are probably still together working, I relax a tad.
If Marlene seems chill with her man’s absence, I should be too.
The VP’s ole lady doesn’t seem like the type of woman to tolerate her man stepping out on her, at least not without her running him through a brick wall first.
As far as what the two bikers are up to is still a mystery.
The chair across from me scrapes against the wood floor as it’s pulled out.
A man nearly as big as Oaks plops into it.
As big as he is, that’s not what catches my attention, nor is it his hair covering his eyes in deep shadows or the head-to-toe black clothing.
It’s the skull and corpse tattoos covering his arms that are startling graphic in their macabre state, giving him a very unsettling vibe.
The scary-looking biker barely makes eye contact with me before saying, “Hi, Vanessa. I mean, I should probably call you Psyche, unless you like Vanessa more.”
As intimidating as he appears, the biker seems okay enough, if not a little awkward in his communication. I get the impression he’s not used to talking with people.
“Hi. Either is fine…” I squint to get a better look at the name patch on his cut, “…Crypt.” Fitting name for a man covered in death, but I’m definitely not asking how he earned his club name. Learned my lesson with Cookie.
“You probably don’t remember, but I met you the night we moved you in with Prez.”