“So, what’s the deal with the mouse?” Chain asks. “We can’t claim her?”
“No.” Iron Jack’s gaze sweeps the room, his face hard. “She’s new to the club, and she needs to figure out what she wants. If anyone so much as lays a hand on her, I will deal with you personally.”
“You better dig that marsh hole now,” Hoss says. “Because everybody here’s got eyes.”
Iron Jack slams a fist on the table. “I will seriously fuck any of you up.” His eyes turn to me. “Prospect, you and your brother are close to the mouse and her friends. You report back if she talks about anyone mistreating her.”
I nod. Nobody makes a quip that it could be me who lays a hand on her. I guess I’ve made it way too clear that I already passed on her. She certainly thinks it.
The meeting moves on. Marietta doesn’t come up again.
But for me, she’s the only thing on my mind.
CHAPTER 9
MARIETTA
That was stressful. For a moment while I stood among the Wild Hair, I pictured myself lying on the conference table, naked as that redhead in Hoss’s room, with all the men putting their hands on me.
I hope Iron Jack has as much control over his club as he acts. Otherwise, I’m going to be someone’s snack by evening.
I scoot back to the kitchen. Betz is making sandwiches for after the meeting ends, long subs covered in deli meat and cheese. She’s short enough that her elbows barely clear the counter.
Carol sits on a stool, her belly as round as the moon in her pink hoodie, slathering mayo lengthwise on the cut rolls.
“Do we always feed them lunch on Sundays?” I ask.
“Yes,” Betz says. “Sandwiches when I’m lazy, like today. Sometimes we cook, but they don’t appreciate it.”
Carol wipes the back of her hand on her forehead, narrowly missing her frizzed out carroty red hair with the mayo-smeared knife. “Can you cook?”
“Sure. We could make some big Southern casseroles. That wouldn’t be too hard.”
“These men don’t like fancy,” Betz says. “Grill a burger, flame a steak.”
“Throw meat on bread.” Carol slathers mayo on another hoagie.
“What can I do?” I hitch up my jeans, which are loose around the hips. There wasn’t a belt to go with the ensemble, which struck me as something out of the early 2010s, but I wasn’t going to say a word. Betz wanting to control my wardrobe is another line item in my master’s thesis at this point.
“Go find the bags of chips and empty them into bowls,” Betz said. “Make sure there’s some Hot Cheetos for Hoss, or he’ll bitch about it for a month.”
I head into the walk-in pantry. It’s packed to the gills. Shelves of chips. Stacks of bottled salsa. A case of canned chili. Package after package of bread and buns.
These men could use a vegetable. Heck, some pasta would be a change.
But I’m new, and I’m going to live up to my name—a mouse. Scurry around, do what I’m told, and keep quiet.
I pull four bags of chips and take them to the chopping block in the middle of the kitchen. I assume we’ll serve on it for maximum flow when the men come to grab their lunches.
Although if we don’t, I won’t say a word about that either. I’m not here to change things, to maximize efficiency or make improvements.
I’m excited to see how the club works from the inside, hopefully use the information for my thesis, and if everything works according to plan, ditch the V-card with someone who knows his way around a woman.
But as I fetch bowls and start emptying chips into them, I picture Merrick in the hallway, holding the door with the pitchers in his hand.
We’re not too different. Bottom of the heap, seniority-wise. Finding our way.
It’s too bad he doesn’t have a room here. A mouse is stealthy, quiet, and bides its time. I could be in his room, making his bed, mopping his floor. Maybe I’d learn something that we could talk about.
