“Find it yet, baby?”
“Yep! I found it.” Haley comes running up, the treasure clutched tight in her little hands, looking proud as can be.
Blaze still hasn’t appeared, leaving me no other option. If we go out the back, we’ll have to loop around the building, but at least I’m not opening the door to god knows what. I’ll have the upper hand, preparing myself after coming around the corner instead of getting ambushed on the doorstep like an idiot.
It’s the day that just keeps on giving.
Haley looks at me funny when I pull us toward the metal door at the back of the kitchen that leads into the empty field out back, where we cook out and camp in the summers.
The hinges groan as I push it open, letting in a rush of warm air and the smell of dry grass. Sunlight floods in, too bright after the dim clubhouse. It’s a quick walk, our footsteps announcing our arrival from around the corner.
I stop dead in my tracks. It’s not some vengeful lover looking to chew out one of the guys or someone sketchy with bad intentions; it’s just a kid. I tilt my head and squint against the sun, shielding my eyes with my free hand. Something about him looks familiar, but I can’t quite put my finger on it until he shifts and his eyes connect with mine.
OLD LEATHER AND CHEEP BEER
VIKING
The Rusty Anchorhas no problem living up to its name. The salty air devours the place. Orange-crusted tin siding flakes off around the edges, littering the worn wooden planking, which somehow magically holds the bar up on stilts.
The whole structure leans toward the beach, as if daring the tide to finally take it. Years of harsh weather and bad decisions are baked into every board.
The wood groans from our weight as we push through the patrons exiting the crowded bar. Bodies brush past us, damp skin slick against leather and denim. It’s packed, shoulder to shoulder, enough leather to overpower the smell of weed and spilt liquor. Putrid sweat hangs heavy in the air, clinging to the back of my throat as I swap breathing tactics.
The music thumps hard enough to rattle the loose fixtures overhead. There’s not a table top or bar stool in sight that’s free, but I’m not here to relax and have a good time with the guys. I’ve got business to handle. The weight of it bears down on my shoulders. The kind that doesn’t shake loose with a drink or a laugh with the guys. Every step forward toward this meeting is a deliberate climb toward a peak I might not crest.
“You see him?” I lean in, shouting over the conversation and blasting rock music to ask Silas as we scan the space.
His chin lifts to the opposite side of the bar. In the back corner, at the biggest table, is the man I’m here to see.
Patch sits like he owns the damn place, even though neither of us is from around these parts. His boots are planted wide, beer bottle neck loose in his grip, eyes spotting us through the crowd.
The guys are off at the bar ordering drinks and loosening up in a space that’s not much different than the clubhouse back home. They’re here for the rally, to have fun, and get laid. That shit doesn’t do it for me anymore.
I love my brothers, but I’d rather be back home, in bed with my wife, breeding that sweet little cunt of hers to give me baby number two. The thought hits, tightening something in my chest that has nothing to do with lust and everything to do with seeing her swollen with my child again. I adjust my interested cock and follow Si and Harlow.
Guys stare as we pass, checking out the patches on our cuts. Eyes linger a hair too long, measuring us up, cataloging if we’re a threat. It’s a truce being out here, but one can never be too careful. We’re not at war with anyone at the moment, but grudges from generations past don’t always die as easily as the old men who started them.
“Well, well… look who finally decided to grace us with their presence. You’re a day later than we expected,” Patch says, standing to clap a hug against my back.
“Texas is a bit further than Tallahassee,” I cut back, and his honking laugh breaks the tension.
Chairs scrape loudly against the floor. A couple of the guys around his table get up, making space for the three of us to sit. Si pulls Harlow onto his lap, banding his arm around herwaist. To anyone else, they’d see a man claiming his woman, and he is. But to the rest of us, we know he’s keeping her from flying off the handle, should the need arise. The woman looks ready to strike at the slightest shift in energy, and her gaze hasn’t left the women circling like vultures around our table.
“So, how are things in your little podunk Texas town these days?”
“Heating up.”
Patch shifts, the peeling leather of the old chair’s seat squelching against his movement at my words. His gaze hardens as he brings his beer to his lips, drawing out the moment.
“Is rearranging in order?” he asks.
“That’s what I need to talk to you about.”
We’re interrupted by a waitress in leather shorts that cling to her tan thighs, leaving little to the imagination. She smells like fake cherries and desperation. Patch’s entire demeanor shifts when she gives him her full attention, asking if we’d like another round. I can feel Harlow’s eyes lasering into the side of my face as I ignore the woman and wait to place our order.
“How about you, handsome?” she finally asks.
“Three beers,” I bark, not giving her the time of day, which earns me a grunt of approval from my left, and I shake my head.
