I closed the distance to the table and set the tray down, unloading it and gathering the empties to take away and be cleaned.
“Thanks, Kitty-Kat.” The man speaking to me was Snake, a man my father’s age who I had known most of my life. He was eyeing me like I was a piece of meat, and I felt my skin crawl. I knew damn well that he had a wife at home.
“You’re welcome,” I said through tight lips.
“Don’t be a downer, Katherine,” my dad chimed in, and I could see that the alcohol was starting to affect him. His words were slightly slurring, and the whites around his eyes were red.
“Yeah, Kitty-Kat,” Snake said, and I couldn’t help comparing his creepy nickname to the way that Blade called me Kitten. No comparison. “Give us a smile.”
I wouldn’t. Maybe it would encourage them to tip me, but his demand annoyed me too much to comply.
“Winger will be back with more beer when you need it,” I said to the table at large, refusing to address Snake directly.
As I turned and started to walk away, my tray now loaded up with their empty pitchers. I had only walked one step when I heard Snake speak again. This time he was addressing my father.
“That daughter of yours is a real stuck up bitch.”
I froze, anger coursing through me as I waited to hear how my dad would respond. Instead of the righteous indignation I expected, he simply chuckled.
Stupid, irritating tears threatened to make an appearance, but I blinked a few times, willing them away. Going back into the tiny kitchen behind the bar, I put the pitchers into a rack with a bunch of glasses that needed to be cleaned and ran it all through the dishwasher. I grabbed a stick of gum from my purse before walking back out and resuming my position behind the bar.
“I’m not going back over there,” I told Winger firmly. He frowned, but I didn’t care. I wasn’t trying to join the club—not that they accepted women as members—so it didn’t matter if I made a good impression, anyway.
Winger had just finished making two drinks, a draft of beer, and a screwdriver, and handed them over to the customer that was waiting. As the guy picked up the drink, I saw that he dropped a small white tablet into the screwdriver, which dissolved almost immediately.
“No fucking way,” I snapped, turning away from Winger to grab the screwdriver out of the man’s hand. He resisted, and the fruity drink ended up spilling all over the bar between us, also splashing my shirt and his.
“You stupid bitch,” he snarled, but I wasn’t going to back down. The guy wasn’t a member of Las Balas, so I didn’t have to worry about going up against the whole club. Besides, I hoped that the club would never allow a member to do such a thing, not that I’d ever seen the rule book. It was strictly off-limits to non-members.
“Out,” I said, pointing to the door. I could feel the eyes of the people around me, staring at us. “You won’t be served here. So, leave now.”
The man scoffed. “Who the hell are you to kick me out? Just some whore bartender.”
“That’s enough,” said a voice from behind the jerk that was staring daggers at me. He turned, and I saw the president of Las Balas, Mad Dog Diaz, standing there. I didn’t know if the man recognized him as the president of the club or if he simply picked up on the heavy aggression emanating from Mad Dog, but either way, he shrank back. Mad Dog made eye contact with two Las Balas patches nearby, jerking his head toward the door. They surged forward, taking hold of the man by the arms and pulling him out the door, ignoring his protests about having opened a tab. A woman shot out of her seat near the door.
“Luke!” she cried out, pushing her way through the crowd to follow.
“No, don’t go after him,” I called out, starting to make my way to the edge of the bar to stop her. Mad Dog blocked my path. “He tried to roofie her,” I told him angrily.
“Not our problem. You stopped him, and I kicked him out. If she wants to follow a guy like that around, she’s a pathetic lost cause, anyway.”
“It’s not her fault that he’s a dick,” I argued, but the woman was already out the door.
“And it’s not our business. Las Balas worry about ourselves instead of interfering with others.”
“I’m not La Balas.”
He shrugged, looking over at my dad, who was in the middle of hitting on some woman in a tube top. “Maybe not, but you’re family. Consider yourself lucky in that.”
I wasn’t sure what to think about that. I knew that the club was probably involved in things that I didn’t want to know about, and some of its members could be pretty rough around the edges, but Mad Dog was right. I’d always been family because my dad was a member.
“Now,” Mad Dog turned to Winger. “Was that true about his opening a tab? You have his debit card?”
“Yeah,” Winger said.
“Then, the next round’s on him!” Mad Dog shouted, and the bar went wild. We were slammed after that, and I even treated myself to a shot of tequila from the guy. I probably should have felt guilty about that, but I figured anyone that called me a bitch owed me a drink.
The next few hours were uneventful, and when last call arrived at three, I had a pocket full of bills and was ready to get off my feet. I fired off a text to Jason, letting him know that he owed me big-time, and headed out the door.
