Chapter one
Elaine
Working as a waitress in a biker bar is rarely boring. It’s fun to watch the drama play out like a soap opera.
But there are other times when shit hits the fan, too. That’s when I keep my head down and I don’t draw attention to myself. I’m a single mom in her early thirties, living on one income, with no family. I can’t afford more trouble than what I’ve already got.
Juniper Creek is a sleepy, cozy little town, nestled in the heart of the mountains. For the most part, it’s quiet here, and folks are happy to lend a hand if I ask for help. Like my neighbor, Shirley—a bustling, middle-aged woman with five children of her own, who offered to look after my boy, Mikey, while I’m at work.
Mikey doesn’t like most people. Thank God he loves Shirley and her kids though. It’s good to see him laughing and getting along with them. He’s only six years old, but he worries about me too much.
“My husband knows a lot of people around town,” Shirley insisted. “He could get you a job somewhere else, Elaine. Anywhere except that biker bar.”
I appreciated the offer. I truly did.
But that biker bar was the best paying gig I’d ever had in my life.
Of course it was dangerous sometimes. Every bar was like that. Mixing alcohol and testosterone tended to be explosive.
The bikers were generous with their tips though. And to my surprise, every single member of the Reckless Order MC kept their hands to themselves.
I was no stranger to harassment—shitty tippers were the worst offenders. They tossed a few coins on the table and felt entitled to pinch my ass because of it. When I applied for the job at the biker bar, I expected that would come with the territory.
Instead, it only happened once. A drunk biker from out of town tried to paw at me. Making crass comments about taking me back to his motel room to keep his bed warm.
Three members of the Reckless Order descended on him. Teeth bared. Growling like dobermans as they hauled him outside. I don’t know what happened in the parking lot. And I didn’t ask. When they came back in, their knuckles were bloodied.
I couldn’t deny that the Reckless Order was a rough bunch with filthy mouths. But they didn’t touch without consent. And for those that did, consequences were swift and ugly.
Honestly though, it was a welcome change of pace from my previous managers who turned a blind eye and did nothing about it. Or worse, they told me to smile and consider it a compliment.
On Christmas Eve, the bar was packed. Over the years of working here, I’d learned that the holiday season was a bittersweet time for folks like this—the misfits, the rejects, therebels. Those who didn’t belong, or those pushed out of society. Some of them had empty homes, while others had no home at all.
In the clubhouse, they could share a drink with friends and brothers, play a game of pool or poker. And find a companion for the night, so they didn’t have to wake up on Christmas morning alone.
“Can we get a refill over here, sweetheart?”
I glanced up to see Reuben “Ironside” Calhoun, Vice President of the club, gesturing to get my attention. In his early fifties, he had an old-fashioned gentleman air about him, mingled with a badass, take-no-shit vibe for a potent mix that commanded respect among his brothers. He was the one I spoke to about the help wanted ad in the newspaper for a job.
I’d developed a fondness for him, like a father figure, or a guardian angel, watching over me. Grabbing the pot of coffee, I headed over to his table where he was seated with three other men, playing cards.
“Is everyone behaving themselves tonight?” he asked as I topped off his coffee.
“They only act up when you’re not around to kick their ass,” I replied lightly.
Ironside grunted as he wrapped his hands around his mug, savoring the warmth. Colorado winters were beautiful and breathtaking, but bitterly cold, too. Even though it was warm in the bar, many of these men continued to ride their bikes all year, regardless of the snow and frigid temperatures. Something about die-hard loyalty to the club and the biker way of life. I didn’t understand it. I loved the heater in my battered minivan.
“I must be losing my touch then,” he mused. “It’s merely thethreatof an ass-kicking that should put the fear of God into them.”
I laughed softly as I deposited a handful of creamers on the table.
“Don’t worry. No one has been giving me any problems lately. Besides, it’s almost Christmas. That usually puts people in a good mood.”
“I bet you’re eager to have a few days off. Spend some time at home with family.”
A faint smile touched my lips. Small talk and flirting was an art form that I’d perfected over the years. Some friendly chitchat had a greater chance of earning more tips, and putting more cash in my pocket at the end of the day to pay my bills.
But I usually avoided any mention of my son. Being a single mom was a tricky topic that landed differently with different people. Some folks got judgy, without knowing anything about me or my situation, which pissed me off. Others looked on me with pity, which I hated even more.
