Torched (9 page)

“Goddamn. Is he fucking retarded?”

Torch chuckled, “Like I said, I don’t have all the information. What do you want me to do?”

“Stay there, keep digging. Find out what’s up and if the entire chapter’s in on it. Keep me posted. We’ll head out in the morning and be there in a couple days.”

“You got it,” Torch agreed.

“Son—”

“Yeah?”

“You making any progress?”

“I just told you—”

“You know what I mean.”

Right. The other reason he was thirteen miles from home. “Yeah. Getting there.”

“Good. We all miss you. Hurry the fuck up, dickhead.”

Torch smiled, he fucking missed them too. “Will do, man. I’ll be in touch.”

: 6 :

I’d been at the Barrel for two months. Way longer than intended, but it had been the best few weeks of my life. Granted, the bar had been set pretty low, but now that I knew how sweet freedom could taste, there was no going back. Not that it was even an option.

Lexi and Neil kept in touch, checking in every couple of days and offering any kind of help I needed. Fortunately, I was pulling in great money from bartending. I’d paid Neil back the grand he’d lent me and was sending him weekly payments for the car. I was just one of those people who hated having debts.

Mitch was still in jail, awaiting trial on charges of manslaughter in the death of his brother. The case wasn’t exactly a slam dunk for prosecutors, but Mitch was helping by refusing to talk, even to his own lawyer. With Vince’s blood on his hands, his blood on Vince, and me being written off as a scared victim, they were pressing ahead with what they had, probably just to keep him locked up while they kept digging. Or maybe they actually believed the tale and were hoping to out-spin his attorney, who Neil’s contact claimed was on the verge of dropping the case due to a lack of cooperation.

Snoop took me in as promised, letting me sleep and heal for the entire first week there. He’d actually turned out to be a total sweetheart, but I wouldn’t have emasculated the man by telling him that.

He liked reliving the glory days of being part of a 1%er motorcycle club, which he explained were the outlaws of the biker world. Well, a lot of MC’s were outlaws to a certain degree, but the 1%ers gave about that amount of a shit when it came to the law. He’d retired in good standing, still had the ink to prove it, but I wasn’t sure how many of those stories he should have been telling me. Not that he’d gone into all the gory details, but he did enlighten me to the realities of the biker world. For some reason, he trusted me enough to share, and I wasn’t about to turn down an education.

Besides, along with a small minority of truckers and drifters, bikers made up most of his business. If I was going to be serving them food and drinks in the bar, I needed to know how to deal with that crowd.

I wasn’t sure if it was because I felt guilty about being a total bitch to Torch and wanted to understand why he was so pushy, or if I was just curious about the one corner of the criminal underworld that even Mitch wouldn’t crawl in bed with, but it all fascinated me. Snoop didn’t say much about the biker who I still couldn’t get off my mind—I didn’t specifically ask—but he enlightened me about the general rules and how they could vary between clubs.

Who knew they had so many? Bylaws, he called them, part of a club’s constitution. They even had officers with specific posts and responsibilities. I couldn’t get past the thought of some burly biker being called a “Secretary” without laughing, but apparently it was serious business. Voting was another big thing, they called their meetings “Church” and only the officers were allowed a vote in important matters. Their cuts and colors were sacred, so hard to earn that men would rather bleed than let them go.

It sounded like a shit ton of rules, which didn’t quite align with their lawless rebel image. But Snoop explained that if they didn’t want to be policed by the man, they had to police themselves. They had structure, leadership, and ways of internally resolving conflict that were always in the interest of a greater good. Every decision had to be made with the entire club in mind, not just one member or another, otherwise it would be chaos. And chaos brought trouble down on everyone, whether legally or in the court of public opinion. Despite their hardcore reputations, MC’s didn’t want trouble with the public. They kept their shit to themselves, took care of their own problems, and rarely did anything that endangered people outside of the life.

So much for that whole
gang
angle Mitch had tried to convince me of. They didn’t sound like the gangbangers I was used to.

They didn’t go out of their way to start shit, but if you fucked with one brother—or sister, in the case of old ladies—you fucked with them all.

Over post-shift drinks, Snoop would detail the roles of women, specifically old ladies and club whores, which in reality wasn’t all that different from my old world. I guess I could have been considered the whore of Mitch and Vince’s club, though not a willing one. From what Snoop described, old ladies were respected in most clubs, and not all of their men were cheating bastards. A lot of them were though, no question.

But what particularly struck a chord with me was the way clubs considered themselves a family. Despite the whole officers and voting thing, no one was above anybody else. If one was in trouble, everybody else was expected to pitch in and help. For clubs that had more than one chapter, the same applied across all of them. A member from Reno could stop by their Sacramento chapter and have a place to sleep. And an entire group of loyal men at his back.

The whole concept was so fucking foreign to me, I couldn’t even really digest it. Mitch and Vince had a lot of business partners, but they’d still had to watch for knives coming at their backs.

I ate up Snoop’s stories and knowledge, almost as hungrily as I gorged on his food. Surprisingly, he did a lot of the cooking in the bar, along with a grumpy chef named Felix, and made a mean burger. Since starting, I’d probably eaten a whole cow worth of his patties and steaks, they were that good. It hadn’t taken long for my appetite to come back, the only downside being that I could barely squeeze my newfound curves into the teeny-tiny outfits Lexi had sent me off with.

True to his word, Snoopy didn’t let any of the drunks screw with me. He made sure I always had an escort whenever I went between the bar and his apartment. Even going out for some fresh air required a babysitter. I couldn’t complain though, I felt safer than I had in years. And honestly, the customers weren’t that bad. They were mostly harmless and padded my pockets in exchange for some light flirting.

I’d made enough in tips after my first week of shifts that I could have gone shopping for a whole new wardrobe. But I wanted to save every penny, and frankly, the male clientele seemed to appreciate skimpy clothes.

The slutty groupies, not so much, but who gave a shit about them? I didn’t know what the average cocktail waitress made, the only tipping I’d been exposed to was at strip clubs, but I was regularly pulling in over fifty percent and working every single day.

Between the way Snoop’s customers guzzled liquor and the summer uptick in business, I’d managed to pull in almost ten grand. More than enough to get settled somewhere. My injuries were long healed and I was feeling great—strong and ready to take on the world—so it was almost time to go. If I could’ve stayed forever I would have, but alas, danger still lurked and I couldn’t expect to be provided with bodyguards indefinitely.

Snoop had finally found some more help in one of the girls who regularly bedded customers, but who also didn’t drink much, so he’d agreed that I could take off whenever I wanted. I hadn’t given him notice, but had decided to work this one last weekend and be on my way.

With it being a Friday night, the place was packed. Every room was booked and the bar had been bustling since noon. There was a good mix of people, and thankfully the standard biker and trucker fare were happily coexisting with wayward retirees. Weekends tended to get pretty rowdy, so I was just hoping that everyone would behave themselves until closing time.

Jenny—the girl Snoop had hired—was working her fourth shift and finally starting to get the hang of things without having to come to me for help every two minutes. She was growing on me. With the exception of being willing to drop her pants for any bad boy looking to get laid, she was a sweet girl. Unlike some of the other regulars, Jenny didn’t give me any shit. Torch’s skank, Lacey, still showed up and did her best to get under my skin, in a pathetic kind of way. It really didn’t bother me though. She was already there on this particular Friday, jumping from one lap to another, but luckily Jenny was running drinks while I stayed segregated behind the bar making them.

Snoop’s clientele weren’t into fruity crap or complicated concoctions, so I’d slipped into the bartender role easily. It didn’t take a genius to pour a beer or straight whiskey on the rocks. The girls kept it simple too—vodka and cranberry, wine, that kind of shit. The most challenging part was turning down free shots. It seemed like every horny customer figured that buying me one would give them a chance. I didn’t know whether to be flattered or offended.

Snoop didn’t care if I drank on the job but I didn’t want to get sloppy, so I always limited myself to two or three drinks on any given night. But I didn’t want to piss off anyone who offered to buy me one, so I had a special vodka bottle filled with water that I would pour my shots from. They were none the wiser. Of course, I still charged them for an actual serving of booze, which delighted my boss to no end.

“Four shots of tequila for table nine,” I yelled to Jenny over the music, sliding shot glasses across the bar.

“Thanks, love,” she winked at me. “You look really hot tonight.”

Yeah, definitely growing on me. “Ditto, lady,” I replied. “Now get out there and keep the orders coming. You and me are gonna make some serious cash tonight.”

Jenny giggled and sauntered away, hips swaying. If I were a lesbian, I totally would’ve hit that. The girl had game. She’d be just fine after I left.

“Hey, sugar,” Billy cooed as he pulled up a seat in front of me. “Let me get a Bud.” Billy was another regular, a fifty-something truck driver who frequently came through Ohio.

“Coming right up. Long drive ahead?”

“Nah, Kansas City this time. Shouldn’t be too bad. I couldn’t go without stopping by and seeing my favorite girl though.”

I gave him a smile while pouring. “Glad you did, honey. I missed your face.”

He turned bright red.

It should be noted that lying and ass kissing was an important part of the hospitality industry. Even if you were talking to a greasy man with tobacco-stained teeth—like Billy—your priority was looking past that and saying whatever gave them an ego boost. Billy wasn’t stupid, he knew he didn’t have a shot, but he ate it up. I could expect at least a forty dollar tip whenever he came in. For that, I could definitely lay on some serious charm.

“Jenny!” Felix hollered from the kitchen window. “Get these goddamn burgers out!”

I looked around and saw that my girl was busy making rounds, so I grabbed the food. “You need a hug, old man? Chill the fuck out.”

He scowled at me like he was pissed, but I knew better. He liked getting called out on his shit, especially by me it seemed. Snoop said it was because I reminded Felix of his dead wife. A ball-busting, dark-haired singer named Lola.

My theory was that he was just a grumpy fuck who liked to bicker back and forth. And the more he bitched, the more I talked back.

It worked for us.

I dropped off the burgers and grabbed as many empty glasses as I could on the way back. Jenny was already waiting with a dozen more drink orders, and looking around, I noticed a few at the bar needed refills too. Just like that, in the weeds, but I loved it. The nights went by a lot faster when we got slammed, and the customers were generally pretty cool about it. I hadn’t gotten any complaints yet.

I got the customers at the bar first since they were all just drinking beer, then started on Jenny’s orders. “How’s the vibe out there?” I asked.

She knew I wasn’t talking about the actual vibe, but the patrons. We’d come up with code phrases so she could let me know when someone was getting too rowdy and making her uncomfortable. Despite only being there for a few weeks, I had no problems taking those tables from her. I wanted to believe that it was all me, that I was a bit of a badass myself, but more likely word had just gotten around that whoever fucked with me would face the wrath of Snoop.

“Pretty good. Table six needs some ice,” she said.

Needing ice meant that someone was getting a little too heated, belligerent, or touchy, and that I should keep an eye out. If I needed to get involved, Jenny would tell me that the table was sticky and needed to be wiped down. I would go do exactly that and then take over. In a bar full of mostly men, we had to talk like that to avoid one of them overhearing and trying to get all chivalrous. That
just led to testosterone-fueled brawls, which none of us needed.

I glanced over her shoulder and saw three young, yuppie-looking guys sitting around table six. I’d seen them come in a couple hours earlier. They’d just ordered their first round of shots, but had been chugging beer like champs, so they had to have had a pretty good buzz going by now.