Two seconds had passed. “Mateo, Jolene, we need water to clean the tables,” to kill my nanos, “and send in the bouncer. Fast.”
Even as I called for backup, the HA newbie sliced his opponent’s face, a clear violation of the rules. The cut guy fell back. Laughing, the HA walked toward the door, boots clomping. He was scrawny, potbellied, face scarred by one of the plagues, shouting about his dog. He slammed open the door. Whistled.
Every cat in the house bristled, their hair standing on end.
A dog raced in the door. Intact. Wearing a spiked fighting collar. Scarred. Half starved. Fighting dog. Part wolf, part Cane Corso, part devil dog. Humongous.
He sniffed the air. And he headed straight toward me. He had my scent. In a flash, I understood that the dog had been trained to hunt and kill me.
I didn’t have a handgun. No one in the place did.
There was nothing I could do. I braced myself. The dog leaped at me.
Four cats landed on his back. Spy landed on his head. She split his nose with one swipe. More cats raced in and ringed the fight, eyes intense, bodies looking eager. Every cat in the building circled the fight, and it was obvious that the fighting cats were playing with the dog, taunting, scratching or biting and racing away.
The music cut off.
The bikers were frozen, silent, the only sounds the dog yelping and growling as the cats scratched him.
The bikers didn’t see the bouncer walk in through the private door in the back.
My bouncer was Jolene’s contribution to the roadhouse—what she called her alter ego, whatever that was. It was a burnished black metal bot, more than two meters tall. From the waist up she was built like one of the Barbie dolls from the past, big pointed boobs, tiny waist, blonde wig. Sex-bot face. But with two arms built in the style of warbots. From the waist down she wore a weapons harness shaped like a short skirt. Beneath the skirt, three legs propelled her. Each limb had a multitude of weapons built in.
The bot waded into the melee and picked up the dog with one hand. She plucked off the cats and placed them gently on thefloor. She carried the scratched dog out the door and shoved him away to lick his wounds.
Jolene had saved the dog.
The cats sauntered into the shadows, looking smug. The bouncer walked to the HA biker, her head moving up and down his body, as if inspecting him for fleas. His mouth opened and closed like a dying fish. Nothing had gone the way he planned, and he seemed uncertain what the bot’s presence meant.
He looked at his president for affirmation, leading me to deduce that Whip had set this thing in motion, to test me.Bastard. The HA hadn’t known he was Whip’s sacrifice, part of Whip’s game to see what I had.
Jolene picked up the scrawny biker. And slammed him into the floor. Again. Again. His face broke. His arms broke. She removed all his weapons, sticking them in her skirted weapon holder. She tossed the biker over a shoulder and carried him to me, where she upended a bottle of water over the table where I still sat with my knees crossed like a yoga pose, which was very uncomfortable in riding boots. She wiped the surface clean and lay his broken body in front of me.
“Rule fourteen,” I said into the quiet bar. “Hurting cats or dogs will result in forfeit of the biker’s ride.” I looked up from the bloody mess on my table. “This thug isn’t Marconi’s so that means he belongs to Whip.” I settled my gaze on him. “Since he’s your toy, Whip, I assume he rode bitch seat on your bike, so that means your bike is mine.”
The room had gone dead silent. Whip stood, menacing.
I grinned. “You pull anything like that here again, testing my metal,” I let my gaze move over the presidents, “and Jolene here will carry out Rule Fifteen.” I cocked my head and unfolded my legs, slid off the table to my feet, my butt on the edge, the table holding me upright as the room swam from liquor and pain.
“Did you read the Rules of Entry before you came in?” I asked them all before settling my gaze on Whip again. “No. Because you assumed the roadhouse wasn’t open. But the moment the presidents of the supporting clubs spent money or trade in Junkyard Roadhouse, it became officially open for business. And Rule Fifteen states, “Any president, VP, or enforcer on site is responsible for the actions of his made-men, new members, and prospects, and recompense will be enforced on the highest officer present. That’s you, Whip.”
“I’m not giving up my ride,” he growled.
“No. Because I’m not taking it away from you.”Yeah, Whip,I did not say aloud. Suck on that one for a while. You owe me. Again. And everyone here knows it.
“I’m feeling magnanimous. Again,” I said. “So, you keep your ride. But we are not even. We are not even close to being even. I’ll decide what you forfeit in the morning.”
Whip’s stupidity meant I had gotten Cupcake back without amending the charter, and Whip knew it. He grimaced. I wanted to let out a whoop, but a celebration was premature.
I looked around the room. “Roadhouse is closed. There are four private rooms in repurposed shipping containers out back, one for each club. Gratis for tonight. Be sure to read the Rules of Entry on each of the containers. Leave them clean. And I mean spotless. I aintcher mama. Bring the linens to the roadhouse door in the morning. Clean your dishes. Bring pay for the showers. Good night, gentlemen.”
Silent, the presidents left the roadhouse. Some of the riders left the property, bikes roaring into the night. Some stayed. Jagger walked up to me, leaned down, and kissed me gently. Against my lips he asked, laughter in his voice, “Can your bouncer join us in your bed?”
I hiccupped with laughter and nearly fell. “Fuck you, Asshole.”
“Exactly what I have planned.” He picked me up and carried me through the hidden door that led, eventually, to my former office.
???
