I will be myself and be happy, however that looks.
I haven’t lost my faith, and I don’t need to draw closer to God. God and I have an understanding. We’re good. I most definitely don’t need people like Roy and Judy to tellmehow to live in order to please God when they’re holding onto countless sins of their own.
For example, Judy is a shit disturber who loves to gossip about anyone and anything at the church. I bet she goes to her women’s meeting this week and tells everyone there how she saw poor Layla Monroe …“And she’s got so many tattoos now and she’s colored her hair. She’s lost her faith. Everyone pray for her.”Then she’ll talk about how I’m working as a server when I was supposed to be a teacher.
I see through her sad existence though. Her false goodness. Because if her faith was truly her cornerstone, it wouldn’t matter toher where I work, how many tattoos I have or that I’ve drifted away from the church. It would only matter that I was a good person, which I am, and she would truly care about me, which she doesn’t.
And it’s not like where I work is a dive bar. The Palm Club is the most upscale boutique restaurant in Harmony, Georgia. It’s the place people come to eat on a first date, or an anniversary. Its cozy atmosphere boasts warm brick interior walls, wrought iron tables with live edge wood tops, and accent lighting. Greenery and twinkle lights cover the ceiling, and the whole place bleeds hip and rustic local hangout.
They also don’t know that teaching was my mother’s dream for me, and that when she died, I figured at that point there was no reason to follow her dreams and instead began to follow my own. Even if that means exhausting myself just to afford this semester’s tuition, and putting up with the judgy glares from people like Judy and the roaming, hungry eyes of her husband.
I bring them their drinks and force another fake smile as the restaurant becomes busier and the sky outside darkens with clouds. It’s a typical evening for Harmony in July. Our town is close to Savannah and the water, which means we don’t go many days without a thunderstorm to cut the humidity in the summer. Today is certainly no exception. It’s a scorching 103 degrees outside, so I barely even flinch when the loud crack of thunder rocks the large pane-glass windows just after six.
“You need to take that break,” my friend and coworker Chantel reminds me. Her full pouty red lips turn up in a grin. She’s got this job down pat after two years here. She’s teaching me all about choosing clothes that are just revealing enough, yet still classy. Chantel calls the look “classy fuckable.” And she’s a master at it, with her long blonde tresses hanging down her back in waves, her black pencil skirt, and the white sleeveless blouse that shows just the right amount of cleavage.
It’s a style I’ve tried to emulate tonight, in my black leatherskirt and off-the-shoulder white bodysuit with a more open and revealing back. My thick, wavy hair is a soft shade of copper. It’s piled into a high ponytail with face-framing bangs and some wisps left out to accentuate my brown eyes, which everyone always tells me are my prettiest feature. My lips are the perfect shade of crimson and my nails are manicured to match, painted by my own hand to save money I just don’t have. A fleeting memory of paying upward of a hundred dollars to get my nails done flashes through my mind, but those days are gone. Now I thrift my looks, and thankfully, Chantel has an incredible collection of heels she lets me borrow to make my legs seem longer than my five-foot-four frame allows.
“I’ll take my break soon. It’s a packed one tonight. I’m alright for now,” I tell her as my drinks order comes up and I grab them with ease.
“Uh-huh,” she mumbles. “You never learn,” she says with a laugh. I’ve only been here since March, when I left the retail job that was making me half the amount in a week as I earn in two shifts here.
“Well, babe, if you aren’t taking yours yet, I’m taking mine. Cover me for a few?” she asks.
I nod, and am just getting ready to deliver table two’s Long Island iced teas when the glass double doors bearing The Palm Club’s logo fly open. The humidity from outside rushes in—warm air and the smell of rain—but a shiver runs through me as three very wet, very ominous-looking bikers take up the entire entrance.
They’re completely out of place among all the after-work businesspeople and the town’s upper crust, and they wear the colors anyone living in Harmony would recognize: the Hounds of Hell Motorcycle Club. Anyone here will see dangerous outlaws, but the moment I glimpse their leather and the ink on their skin, all I can think of is my mother’s face the last time I saw her—and the police sketch that’s lived in my head for almost two years.
CHAPTER TWO
Layla
Chatter slows around me and the music playing through the sound system becomes more prominent. A chill ripples down my spine as I watch the man who is front and center stalking toward me, wearing a black t-shirt under his cut, black jeans and black motorcycle boots. His face is partially covered by a black bandana. The look of him sends my pulse into an unexplainable rush. I swallow, trying to calm it down and ask myselfwhy?All I should feel when I look at him is anger and trauma.
He keeps coming my way and I do nothing but shift from one foot to the other, frozen by his dark and rugged beauty. His head is shaved close, and his vibrant green eyes are fixed ahead—the windows to a demon’s soul—as he walks with an air of authority and his men follow behind. I watch carefully as he pulls his bandana down and the rest of his features come into view. His beard is a deep brown, covering his wide jaw, and his features are straight and masculine. His furrowed brow makes him appear almost angry and stern. I can’t explain the way my knees weaken as he quickly closes the space between us. Those emerald orbs snap unexpectedly to mine, I have no time to look away, and mystomach drops with their violent, deep hold. He reminds me of a fierce gladiator as his jaw flexes and his thick neck pulses. I look away from his stare to take a breath and let my eyes trail over the rest of him. There are dog tags hanging around his neck and, of course, there’s the telltale sign of the life he belongs to.
That fucking cut.
The Hounds of Hell, the biker gang that my small town has been wary of my whole life. We all know their ways, and I remember my mother telling me not to look at them when we heard the deafening sound of their Harleys as they rolled in a solidified group down Main. I was warned not to look at them in town, not to get in their way. We know of the bodies that have turned up outside town that belong to rival clubs. We know how our law enforcement sweeps every illegal thing they do under the proverbial rug. “It’s not in the township’s interest to pursue” is often the statement. We know what that means: they work for the club too.
The Hounds of Hell are the dark underside of Harmony, so I should be afraid of this gladiator and what he’s capable of. His scent washes over me as he gets closer, pulling me from my memories, but instead of the fear or anger I expect, an unstoppable want rocks me to my core. He smells of cedarwood, leather and smoke, and it speaks to my senses, drawing me in … I’m completely entranced.
The biker pauses and looks down at me intentionally, like I warrant his scrutiny simply because I’m standing in his way. I swear I stop breathing as his surprisingly beautiful eyes linger on mine and then trail the planes of my face. My lips, my neck. My heartbeat thunders, and it feels like time pauses before he finally looks away, uninterested. I blink, trying to clear my senses, and eye the patch over his heart:Sergeant at Arms.
The three of them don’t wait to be seated, heading right into Chantel’s section. The one I’m covering while she’s on break.
Snapping out of my stupor, I move quickly to table two, placing their drinks down, telling them their meal won’t be long, and I think about the gladiator’s patch, trying to remember what the rank means. The other two wearEnforcerandTreasurerpatches. I have no idea what those mean either, but it’s obvious the Sergeant is the leader of the three just by the way he walked in front of them. I give my head a shake and ask myself why the hell I’m even still thinking about him as I take another table’s drink order and pray for Chantel to hurry the hell up so she can take the biker table. The storm outside rages on.
I head toward the bar to wait on my next round of drinks. Another hour and I’ll be behind it for the rest of my shift, when the drinking crowd pours in and the restaurant transforms into more of a pub. The music gets louder, the row of pool tables in the back gets busier, and the bar becomes packed. I don’t mind working the bar though—in fact, I prefer it. The later it gets, the more cash I make.
I look up when I’ve finished delivering the drinks, knowing the club members are my next table, but Chantel is still not back yet. I give in and glance over at them. The Sergeant is leaning back in the padded leather booth, deep in conversation. His legs are relaxed, his inked forearm rests on the table, and his sculpted hand is covered with more ink and rings. He uses his thumb to spin the ring on his first finger methodically as he looks over. It’s almost as if he can sense my eyes on him, and then he beckons me with his first two fingers and an upward nod of his chin.
As I grab their menus and silverware, I feel the heat creep up my throat. His bold demeanor and the way he slowly looks me over from my cherry red heels to the hair on my head unnerves me. It’s not subtle, but it’s not degrading either. I can’t put my finger on the way it makes me feel. Somehow it has me wanting to cover up, and at the same time tear every shred of clothing from my body so his gaze can make a permanent home on mynaked flesh. Then his eyes leave me to go back to the men sitting across from him.
I lift my chin in fake confidence as I approach, and something in me takes over. I don’t know if it was my encounter with the elders from my church—or the way this man just looked me up and down as if it was his right, and then dismissed me just as quickly with his eyes.
The need to let someone,anyone, know I’m not who they think I am overwhelms me as I set down the three menus on their table.
“Next time, you need to wait until someone seats you,” I say as confidently as I can. “Will you all be eating tonight?” I ask, looking from one to the other.
