“Of course, I knew it,” I mutter sweetly. “You’re just a good boy, aren’t you? Just look at you. You’re perfect.”
I scratch behind his ears, and he presses closer, his whole body continuing to wiggle as he kisses my cheek. He drops to the ground and rolls onto his back like he’s auditioning for a commercial. Sidetracked, I’m on my knees petting him, and telling him how handsome he is. I can’t help it, heisa good boy. He didn’t eat me after all. That definitely makes him the best boy in all the land.
That’s when I hear the unmistakable click of a gun and a gravelly voice that rasps, “Don’t fuckin’ move.”
“I wasn’t planning on it,” I say, slowly lifting my hands while the dog licks my chin and growls at the gun wielder. “But you might want to lower the gun. You’re upsetting your dog.”
“Bandit,” the biker snaps. “You’re a worthless guard dog. Oughta beat your ass.”
I turn my body toward the voice. “Hey, don’t talk to that baby like that. And if you lay a finger on him, you and I are gonna have big problems.”
I crouch fully and rub Bandit’s belly. He groans happily and rolls more in the dirt.
“You’re just a baby, aren’t you?” I coo. “Yes, you are. He didn’t mean to talk to you that way. You’re a good boy.”
The biker stares at me like he doesn’t know what dimension he’s in.
“Are you gonna shoot me or what?” I huff. “Just don’t scare the dog.”
“Get up,” he growls, yanking me to my feet, shoving me toward a metal door against the brick wall I hadn’t noticed before. It bangs open, and the smell hits me like a brick to theface. The smell that filled Murphy’s Auto during my childhood, before I took it over, and Sully stopped working there.
Smoke, marijuana, booze, sweat, and oil. I glance around through the haze, and it looks like a bar for all intents and purposes. But then I look more closely and realize it’s also a garage, with a truck parked there, the hood propped open.
The dog that scary guy called Bandit stands at my side, wagging his tail and looking at the bikers like I’m a prize he’s found. The scary guy is looking at me like he’s not sure whether I’m going to live to see tomorrow or not.
The room is full of bikers in leather cuts, their tattoos visible, some on their necks. Beards and flannel. Every single head turns toward me at once. The rock music keeps playing, but the room itself goes dead quiet. I count at least twenty of them. Some are clustered around a table playing cards. A few are behind a make-shift bar.
I raise a hand, smile, and wave. “Hi.”
“Jesus,” one of them says. “Pint, where’d you find the chick?”
“Climbing our fence and using sorcery on our piece of shit dog,” Pint bites out.
I glare at him. “You don’t deserve the dog,Pint.”
“Oh, shit,” someone grumbles.
Another guy squints at me like I’ve just ordered a death wish.
“Where’s Grave?” the scary guy whose name I now know as Pint asks the group.
“He ain’t back yet,” someone says, blowing smoke rings. “This ain’t gonna be good for the chick.”
My stomach flips. What the heck does that mean?
Okay, maybe this was a huge mistake. I didn’t think this through. Ollie’s going to kill me. Well, they might killme first, technically. Then Ollie can kill whatever’s left of me.And rightfully so.
Then I think of Owen, without another mother figure. And I think, no way. This isn’t happening. I didn’t come here to chicken out. I came here to handle business. I also was staring at the open truck engine and noticed one of these dumbasses put the oil filter on upside down.
I yank my arm free from Pint, who had a tight hold on it. “Hands off, motherfucker.”
That gets their attention. I decide to run with it and use my best teacher voice on them. Maybe it’ll work. Heck, I escaped death with the guard dog. I can handle a few dozen bikers.
“Who’s in charge here?” I ask, planting my hands on my hips, looking around. “Well? Is it the Grave man?”
They all stare at me, and no one answers. They all wear the same black leather coats, some more worn than others, some newer looking. The pint next to me looks like it’s new. He must be a new edition, a recruit, or whatever. I grew up around bikers, but I don’t recognize any of these guys. Not a single one of them. But it’s been a long time since my dad was at the shop with his biker friends. Maybe they don’t have very long lifespans. Kind of like raccoons in the wild have an averaged two-year lifespan. If domesticated they can live up to seven to ten years. Maybe bikers are like wild racoons.
Pint swears under his breath and grabs me again. “You’re done.”
