“I thought he had a different name,” I said casually.
“Oh, no, he had an old club name when he was with the Black Reapers, but now he’s a Gray Reaper.”
Black Reapers, Gray Reapers. Are the White Reapers coming next? Maybe the Red Reapers?
Long as it’s not a Fallen Saint Reaper.
But I just nodded like I knew exactly what was going on. Engaged but distant; curious but detached. That was the life of a bartender, and I just stayed above the drama.
I had an idea of what was going on by this point. Maybe Roger Carter had split the club into two and given one chapter to Cole and one to Lane. Maybe the brothers had split the club apart, whether by mutual decision or by violent force. Maybe Cole just took some members of the Black Reapers for himself?
I had to admit, my curiosity went far beyond what I showed, not the least because Pink Raven, or rather, Phoenix, had captured my curiosity and empathy. But unless something truly ridiculous happened, like me hooking up with Phoenix or one of the other club members, I’d have to content myself with just making up the details of the story in my head.
And of all the truly ridiculous things that could happen, the idea of me, a bartender, hooking up with one of my male customers was pretty high on the list of the unlikely.
“Anyway, I’ll let you get back to work,” Cole said, raising his Blue Moon to me. “I appreciate you taking care of us today.”
He pushed a twenty-dollar bill forward before turning on his heel and walking back to the rest of the club. And that was why I liked Cole and why I didn’tlikeCole—he was so nice and so sweet, but I wasn’t really sure that he was as tough or daunting as a guy like Phoenix.
But that didn’t mean I was going to pass up a twenty-dollar tip.
* * *
The hours passed, and despite the reputation of MCs coming in, getting drunk, destroying everything in sight, and then hightailing it out of town, the Gray Reapers remained in control. They definitely drank their worth, but I never worried about one of my pool sticks shattering or a table breaking in half or any other nonsense like that. I worried about one of them getting into a drunken wreck on the way home, but in a town like Ashton, the sheriff probably had a deal of some sort set up with them.
Such a setup wouldn’t have surprised me. Cole may have been a little too nice, but applied properly, that charm could get a lot of things done in his favor. And realistically, the streets were hardly ever full enough to have swerving drivers present serious risks.
The only person who still seemed sullen and withdrawn was Phoenix. It wasn’t like he was Eeyore, always moping and low-energy, but whenever my eyes caught him, he seemed to be gazing to the ceiling, to the ground, or with a thousand-yard stare, not really present. Who could blame him?
But he didn’t approach me again for the time that many of the Gray Reapers were there, even when his drink ran low, leaving me scant on details. He’d simply have one of the other club members fetch him a drink. Maybe he just didn’t want to engage in heavy dialogue.
I understood. When I was at Brewskis, it was how all but a handful of my customers preferred to operate. Get a drink, sit in silence, watch a game on TV, and leave after paying an hour or two later.
As the crowd thinned and only a few bikers remained, though, I noticed his eyes drifting in my direction, even when he had an unfinished bottle in front of him. I smiled the first time he looked my way, but when he quickly turned away, like a middle schooler caught in the act, I stopped reacting to him looking at me.
Finally, when Cole left and it was just him and two other guys, he excused himself and approached the bar.
“Hey, Jess,” he said, his voice sounding weary and heavy.
“Hey, Pink... I mean, Phoenix, sorry, sorry.”
I felt mortified. Calling him by a name he probably hoped to leave behind forever was about as bad a sin as I could commit to a biker. But, fortunately, Phoenix just let out a stilted laugh and waved his hand.
“You’re fine,” he said. “I wouldn’t expect someone outside of the club to get it.”
I just nodded, taking a look at his drink. It was still three-quarters full. He hadn’t come to get a drink for himself. I looked over his shoulder at the other two club members. They were standing up and getting ready to leave.He’s just looking to talk. Doesn’t mean anything more.
“You changed your hair color.”
I looked back at Phoenix in surprise. Yes, my hair was a lot more “normal” than when I had worked at Brewskis, but I never, ever, ever, ever would have guessed that one of the bikers would have noticed it, much less a guy that wasn’t a regular patron of the bar.
And I decided to take a risk.
“And you changed your club color.”
Much to my enormous relief, Phoenix laughed. It was not a fully engaged laugh, although I didn’t think that Phoenix could emit such a laugh today.
“Yeah, I had my reasons,” he said. “I take it you had yours?”
