Chapter 2
MERRICK
I’ve just passed a beer to Iron Jack when there’s a commotion near the old outhouse.
What the hell now?
A circle has formed, and everyone is looking at the floor.
By God, can’t we have an opening night without some sort of fuckery?
I brace my hand on the counter and leap over the bar. I land between stools on the other side and hurry toward the group.
There’s no way to hear what is happening over the wild thrashing of Dead Moon Rising on the stage.
Two-Shit steps aside so I can see what’s going on.
Goddamn it. It’s Marietta, the best friend of my brother Diesel’s woman. She’s on the floor.
Another of her friends, I can’t remember her name, sort of flashy with two-toned hair, kneels next to her, flapping a piece of paper at Marietta’s face. “Marietta, come on. Wake up.”
Chain sniffs. “What did she take? Crank? Perc? Blow?”
The friend sends a murderous glare at our sergeant-at-arms. “She doesn’t do drugs, asshole.”
The city girl sending up an insult makes everyone laugh.
I kneel next to them. “What happened?”
“I don’t know. We went into the revamped bathroom.” She waves toward the outhouse. “Then we came out here. She saw your vest.”
“His cut,” Chain corrects. “It’s called a cut.”
“Your vest. Your cut. Whatever. She realized you were in a club. And she passed clean out.”
Damn. Marietta’s a fragile thing if something as simple as me joining the Wild Hair set her off. I look up to find a woman from the club to help and spot Low Joe’s ol’ lady Betz. “Have Jake bring some water,” I tell her.
Betz takes off.
“Did she hurt herself falling?” I slide a hand under her head, feeling for lumps or blood.
“No, I caught her, more or less, and eased her down. Shouldn’t she come right back around?”
“It might take a splash of water.” There’s nothing wrong with her head at least.
Her dark hair fans out on the floor. Her face is pale, the pink of her makeup standing out starkly. Long lashes rest on her cheeks.
Betz returns with a glass. “You gonna pour it on her?” she asks.
I take the glass. “No.” I lift Marietta’s head and slide the glass against her mouth. The edge goes red from her lipstick. I pour a little. It dribbles out, but something about the action makes her stir.
Yup. Water on the lips works on swooning women as well as alcoholic deadbeats.
Her eyes flutter open. “Ohhhh.” It’s more of a groan than anything.
“Drink some water,” I say.
Her lips part. I tip the glass, and more goes in.
She nods and pulls away. “I’m all right.”
I rock back on my heels to give her space.
She pushes her hair off her forehead. She seems steady enough.
“Okay, show’s over.” I stand and pass the glass to Betz. “Come on, Marietta. Let’s get you in a chair.”
I grasp her hand and pull, using my arm to lift her by the back. She stands easily, unfolding like a jackknife.
“This is embarrassing,” she says, walking along as I lead her to an empty table.
I kick the chair out. “It doesn’t matter as long as you’re all right. Can I get you anything?”
She shakes her head. “I guess I won’t be drinking tonight.”
“Maybe not.”
Symphony and Diesel approach. “What’s going on?”
The friend who was with Marietta turns to face them. “Marietta saw Merrick in that vest—that cut—and passed clean out.”
Diesel rubs the back of his head. “I thought I told you all he’d patched in as a prospect.”
Symphony smacks his chest. “You most certainly did not. I would have told her!”
I take a step back. I’m not comfortable with this entire line of talk. There shouldn’t be anything I do that affects Marietta that much. I barely know her. “I should get back to the bar.”
“Oh, hell, no,” Symphony says. “You’re going to sit right here and talk to her. Jenna, you go find Bailey. Actually, we’ll go with you. Merrick, sit.”
I glance over at Marietta as I drop into a chair next to her.
I’m not one to do much of anything I’m told, but I don’t want to upset her either.
We came damn close to hooking up mid-summer when she acted like she was going to throw her cherry under the member of one of the pissant bands that come through.
I wasn’t down with letting that happen. But then she disappeared off the face of the earth, and we shut down the bar for the remodel.
Now she’s here, going plumb unconscious over my decision to join the Wild Hair. She’s the one who was hanging on Low Joe and Chain the first time she came. I remember that well, this fresh young city girl in between two sixty-year-old bikers.
They still talk about her after she flashed the whole lot of them one night at the bar.
My eyes stray to her sweater. Marietta is not a fan of bras, and those headlights like to turn on. And sure enough, the minute I look at them, those nipples go hard and sharp under the strain of the silvery fabric.
“Are you looking at my boobs?” The color has returned to her cheeks, that’s for sure.
I try to intimidate her with a stare, but she gives it right back. Hell, now I’m wondering if the whole fainting bit was an act. Except she was total jelly on the floor. That’s hard to fake.
“They’re good boobs,” I say. “And I seem to recall you like showing them off. If you’re all right, I’ll get back to the bar.” I scoot the chair back.
Her hand shoots out. “No, wait. I need to ask you something.”
There’s an upset note in her voice that makes me pause. “All right.”
“You joined the Wild Hair?”
“I did.”
“Why?” Her expression is all twisted, like she can’t believe it.
“It’s a good club. Two-Shit and some of the boys did a lot of the bar remodel. I got to know them.”
“They do … construction?” This surprises her.
“Yeah. Lots of clubs have operations like that.”
“They don’t run guns through it? Or drugs?”
I sigh. “Sons of Anarchy fan?”
Her face turns pink again. “Maybe.”
“Look, the clubs that do big crimes are called one percenters for a reason. It’s one percent of bikers. The Wild Hair —they’re protectors.”
“Protectors?”
“Heavies. Bodyguards. Security. That sort of thing, when they can get it. And for steady work, they do construction.”
“Nothing illegal?”
I hesitate. Sure, the Wild Hair will get somewhat convincing at times when an asshole they’ve been hired to get rid of doesn’t get the message. But I say, “All on the up and up. Hell, most of them are building contractors. Protection is more of a side gig.”
Her shoulders relax. “And what about the rest? The ol’ ladies? And what about the girls who get passed around the club?”
How do I answer that? Converting a woman who hired the Wild Hair into a club bunny is everyone’s favorite pastime. “What’s with all the questions?”
“Just curious about the dynamics in the club. The other bikers seem so old.” She glances around at the tables. It’s true. Lots of gray hair tops the Wild Hair emblems.
“The president, Iron Jack, is only forty. There are some others in their thirties. The older ones tend to hang out here. The young ones work more.”
She nods. “I see.”
I stand up, making sure there’s some distance between us. The club is watching. So is my brother. “We good?”
“One more thing.” She draws in a breath, and there’s a look about her that sets me on guard. It’s the one she had when she hung on bikers the first time she came. And right before she climbed onto the bar to flash everyone.
I brace myself. “What’s that?”
She rises slowly from the chair and steps close to me, pressing her hips against mine. She’s tall, face not too far below mine. I get a good whiff of something floral.
So much for me keeping my distance.
I can tell she’s nervous as hell because her hand shakes when it grasps my bicep. “Merrick, does the Wild Hair have girls who … have sex with people?”
I’m not sure I like where this is going. She’s fixated on the topic of the women and the club. “We have some pass arounds. We call them club bunnies.”
“And that’s their job? To have sex with you?”
“They’re not prostitutes. They just like a little fun.”
“Do you … have fun with them?”
Jesus. “I’m a prospect. I don’t have any clout.”
“But are you allowed?”
“Sure. If a bunny approaches me, I can—Why are we talking about this?”
She draws a shaky breath. I almost know what is coming, but it’s still a shock when she says it, knowing what I know about her.
She lifts her chin. “Merrick, I want to be a club bunny for the Wild Hair.”