3. Greta
GRETA
Things happen fast after I agree to a week at the Wild Hair clubhouse. I text Uncle Sherman to tell him I’m in. He says he will personally handle any important meetings I have at Pickle Enterprises.
Then I message Jude to confirm he’s okay for the week with Caden. It’s a couple of days longer than I expected to leave my eight-year-old with his dad, even though he gets custody during the Christmas break.
Jude: This is your uncle’s doing, I assume.
Me: Something like that.
Jude: Fine.
Me: Thanks, Jude. I appreciate it.
Jude: Whatever. I’ll have fun with our kid.
Passive-aggressive as usual. But I need him, so I simply set the phone down. Marietta is waiting near my chair.
“I’ll take you,” she says. “I can get you settled at the club.”
I’m relieved it’s not the gray-haired woman who made the deal. I was in over my head with her.
I’m also glad Iron Jack retreats to a booth to drink with other members of his club. His piercing gaze from across the bar is about all I can manage with everything else happening.
“I’d down another one of these before you go,” Merrick says, passing me a third Manhattan as Marietta and I prepare to leave.
“Slam it,” Marietta says. “You’ll need it to be chill. The minute you step into the clubhouse, you’re going to get accosted by every member. The polite ones are here.”
I glance around at the black-vested customers. One man has just kicked the chair out from under another, sending him sprawling. That looks like another fight about to happen.
Another one is dry humping — at least I hope it’s dry humping — a Marilyn Monroe styled blonde in the corner by the stage.
These are the polite ones?
As my gaze passes over the couple, the man turns around and zips his pants.
Nope, not dry at all. The woman shimmies her tight skirt into place.
Did that really happen right here in the bar?
I gulp my Manhattan.
“That’s my sis,” Merrick says. “Get that liquor down.”
I lean over the counter. “You let people have sex right here in the bar?”
“Are you interested?” he asks. “Because Iron Jack—”
“No!” I hiss. “Good grief. I mean that couple over there?” I follow the man and his date with my gaze as they approach the counter down by Diesel.
Merrick sees them. “Yo, Too Fast Freddy, did you poke Celia right here in the bar?”
The man nods. “She’s ovulating. We’re trying to knock her up.”
Oh my God.
Celia leans forward, her red lipstick smudged. “You have to catch that egg. You only have like a day.”
“Hook-up spot next time,” he says. “My sister doesn’t want to see your kid get conceived.”
I let out a gasp of protest. “Me! What about everybody else?”
“You’re the one who bitched about it.”
“Merrick!”
“All right, all right,” Celia says. “But it makes a better story if we’re by the band. It could be our baby’s song.” She leans her head on Too Fast Freddy’s shoulder. “We could sing him to sleep with it.”
The drummer smashes his cymbals, and the lead singer picks that moment to shout the only comprehendible lyric of the night. “Shove the blades into my balls before you fucking say goodbye!”
Yeah. Pure baby magic.
Marietta grabs my arm. “Come on. Let’s get to the club before that third drink kicks in.”
Bailey gives me a quick side hug. “Good luck. Call me if you need a break. Jenna and I have not succumbed to the wild ways of the club. I can send Rhett to fetch you, if you need a male escort.”
Merrick laughs. “I don’t think our corporate cousin would be much help, but you know Diesel and I will come get you if you need out.”
“Hey,” Bailey says. “You saying I married a weakling? We survived getting abandoned on a deserted island, you know.”
“With a margarita machine,” Merrick says with a snort. “Face it, you married the lightweight Pickle of the bunch.”
“Would it be a bunch of pickles, or a bushel?” Bailey asks. “Or a barrel? Just a jar?”
“The door to your pickle brain is ajar.” Merrick laughs at the joke, one of Uncle Sherman’s favorites from our childhood, then moves down the bar to take a drink order.
“Come on,” Marietta says. “I came on Merrick’s bike, but we can get Chain to drive us in his truck.”
I’m not sure about that. “My stuff is back at the hotel.”
“We’ll get it tomorrow. It’s too far to go all the way to Miami and back tonight.”
What have I agreed to? I’m feeling less sure by the minute, but I say, “Okay.”
Marietta leads us to Iron Jack’s table. “Chain, we need a ride to the club so we can get Greta settled. She came out here with Bailey.”
Chain turns out to be the man with the gray braids who fake-fought with Diesel.
“Sure, darling,” he says.
But Iron Jack speaks up. “I’ll take her.”
“Oh no,” I say. “I’m going with Marietta.”
Iron Jack stares Marietta down. There’s a lot of menace in that look.
She takes a step back. “Sorry, I have to do what Iron Jack says. He’s the president.”
Seriously? I whip around to find Bailey. I’m going to the hotel. We can sort this tomorrow when it’s not the middle of the night, and I haven’t had three Manhattans with more booze than frat party Kool-Aid.
But Bailey has already gone. She’s the only person who isn’t beholden to Iron Jack, other than maybe Diesel, who has to work his bar.
“You know, I’ll call a ride to my hotel,” I say. “We can start tomorrow.”
But Iron Jack has slid out from his spot in the booth. “You’re coming with me.” He frowns at my feet. “Marietta, are you and Greta about the same shoe size?”
She glances down. “Roughly. Close enough. You want me to give her my boots for the ride?”
He nods.
I step back. “I am not switching shoes. I am not riding your bike. I’m going back to my hotel!” I pull out my phone and whirl to face the door.
And once again, my feet leave the ground, and I’m thrown over Iron Jack’s shoulder.
Good fucking grief. “Iron Jack! Put me down!”
“Change her shoes,” he says.
I can’t see what’s happening, but I feel the heels slide off. Then the heavy boots go on.
“I’ve got other shoes in the bar office,” Marietta says. “Don’t worry about me.”
Then we’re striding through the bar to a chorus of hoots and cheers.
“You have a good time with that one!” someone calls.
“Show her what the Wild Hair are made of!”
“Spank that cute ass!”
Oh my God. This is humiliating. I look up to see Diesel and Merrick behind the bar with their heads close together, looking at me and talking.
Good. They better come and save me from this lug.
But they end up nodding in some sort of agreement and resume making drinks.
I’m going to kill them.
We pass through the front entrance of the bar and out into the night. As the door slams shut, nobody else even looks our way.
I’m on my own with this infuriating, red-flag waving, outrageously hot, muscled president of an outlaw motorcycle club.
But if I was being honest with myself, which of course I’m not, I’m already thinking about the next damn kiss.