Symphony smacks his chest. “You most certainly did not. I would have told her!”
I take a step back. I’m not comfortable with this entire line of talk. There shouldn’t be anything I do that affects Marietta that much. I barely know her. “I should get back to the bar.”
“Oh, hell, no,” Symphony says. “You’re going to sit right here and talk to her. Jenna, you go find Bailey. Actually, we’ll go with you. Merrick,sit.”
I glance over at Marietta as I drop into a chair next to her. I’m not one to do much of anything I’m told, but I don’t want to upset her either. We came damn close to hooking up mid-summer when she acted like she was going to throw her cherry under the member of one of the pissant bands that come through.
I wasn’t down with letting that happen. But then she disappeared off the face of the earth, and we shut down the bar for the remodel.
Now she’s here, going plumb unconscious over my decision to join the Wild Hair. She’s the one who was hanging on Low Joe and Chain the first time she came. I remember that well, this fresh young city girl in between two sixty-year-old bikers.
They still talk about her after she flashed the whole lot of them one night at the bar.
My eyes stray to her sweater. Marietta is not a fan of bras, and those headlights like to turn on. And sure enough, the minute I look at them, those nipples go hard and sharp under the strain of the silvery fabric.
“Are you looking at my boobs?” The color has returned to her cheeks, that’s for sure.
I try to intimidate her with a stare, but she gives it right back. Hell, now I’m wondering if the whole fainting bit was an act. Except she was total jelly on the floor. That’s hard to fake.
“They’re good boobs,” I say. “And I seem to recall you like showing them off. If you’re all right, I’ll get back to the bar.” I scoot the chair back.
Her hand shoots out. “No, wait. I need to ask you something.”
There’s an upset note in her voice that makes me pause. “All right.”
“You joined the Wild Hair?”
“I did.”
“Why?” Her expression is all twisted, like she can’t believe it.
“It’s a good club. Two-Shit and some of the boys did a lot of the bar remodel. I got to know them.”
“They do … construction?” This surprises her.
“Yeah. Lots of clubs have operations like that.”
“They don’t run guns through it? Or drugs?”
I sigh. “Sons of Anarchyfan?”
Her face turns pink again. “Maybe.”
“Look, the clubs that do big crimes are called one percenters for a reason. It’s one percent of bikers. The Wild Hair —they’re protectors.”
“Protectors?”
“Heavies. Bodyguards. Security. That sort of thing, when they can get it. And for steady work, they do construction.”
“Nothing illegal?”
I hesitate. Sure, the Wild Hair will get somewhatconvincingat times when an asshole they’ve been hired to get rid of doesn’t get the message. But I say, “All on the up and up. Hell, most of them are building contractors. Protection is more of a side gig.”
Her shoulders relax. “And what about the rest? The ol’ ladies? And what about the girls who get passed around the club?”
How do I answer that? Converting a woman who hired the Wild Hair into a club bunny is everyone’s favorite pastime. “What’s with all the questions?”
“Just curious about the dynamics in the club. The other bikers seem so old.” She glances around at the tables. It’s true. Lots of gray hair tops the Wild Hair emblems.
