“It’s not arrogance, it’s the truth. It’s how things are set up whether you like it or not.”
Her voice softens. “I know, you don’t have to be so fucking right though,” she huffs.
I give her a minute and am rewarded with a turn of her head, actually meeting my gaze. “I’m sorry. I’m just a little in my head tonight.” She lowers her voice. “He’s fucking dead.”
“He deserves worse than a quick exit out of the world like that for what he was doing to Shine. If you ask me, you did the world a favor without intending to. It was an accident. You didn’t mean for the bike to explode.”
“Yeah, but the bricks he was carrying in that saddlebag? I mean somebody’s not only going to be missing him, but worse than that I have a feeling they’re going to want their drugs back, a shit ton of bricks, Hawg, distribution weight and that product went up into a wave of black smoke.”
My chest tightens. This just went from bad to worse. It wasn’t just a little bit of dope. If the guy is running bricks of dope for the Scorpions it’s on the mafia’s order. No one runs them through Tucson, Phoenix, or Vegas with that okay.
Whether Onyx likes it or not, she and the Harlots are going to be stuck with me and my crew for a while. Because trouble of the worst kind is heading our way.
7
ONYX
Phoenix traffic is a bitch, especially at this time of the night on the way back to the Harlots’ Club. I spur my Street Glide on, weaving in and out of traffic until I hit the ramp, gunning it onto the turnoff and only slowing once I’m almost home.
It may look like a large metal car garage to some, but inside, it’s a different vibe all together. Some of us fix up bikes in the back, hobby, love for the bikes, side jobs, you name it, leaving the front for a club that we call home, and many others like to roll into and blow off a little steam.
The low rumble of motorcycles slows from the main highway, pulling into the parking lot and alongside my still idling bike. I give a nod of greeting to some of our regulars who like to watch the girls dance, have a few drinks, and play a few games of pool.
I park my bike not far from the private entrance in the alley around back. The minute my kick stand is down I peel off my helmet, shaking out my hair, half of which is still glued to my head from a five-hour trip between here and Tucson with not much down time in between stops.
I’m sure I’ll have to deal with Hawg’s crap when I get in the club but the Harlots still have to work, we still have to put food on the table, and it’s my fault the Scorpions are after our ass in the first place. So if anyone is going to put their neck on the line, it’s going to be me.
No matter the conversation two days ago at breakfast. Or that Pearl told us not to worry about it or that Hawg and a couple of the Royal Bastards moved into the club.
It’s still my fucking fault. I should have talked to Shine when I first saw the bruise she was covering up. Shouldn’t have waited to get more information or do things my own way. Now, everything is a mess. The only thing good that came out of it is that Ness, her dickwad of a boyfriend, is no longer in the picture. But I’m getting no thanks for that.
At least from her.
Just the silent treatment and those eyes that tell me something else far beyond my understanding is going on. I huff out a sigh and let the sun soak into my skin preparing myself for the onslaught that will surely come after I walk in that door.
This place may not be much to anyone else, but it’s taken the blood, sweat, and tears of every one of our Harlots to remodel from an old metal garage into something we’re all proud to call our club. A place we live, work out of, and call home no matter if it’s breakfast, lunch or dinner. No matter if we are hosting a roaring Friday or Saturday night party or a quiet Sunday morning brunch with just us.
You mess with anyone under this roof, no matter what we’re doing, and the other Harlots are going to rain down a world of hurt you never saw coming. Weapons, you name it, we all carry our own of choice but nobody’s going to get the best of one of us inside these walls.
But outside of them ... that’s a whole nother story and we have to be prepared for an attack both on our property and off.And as much as Hawg and the Royal Bastards want to help, they can’t be babysitting us every single day.
Summer is hot as hell in Phoenix, Arizona. The crisp conditioned air piping in from the water coolers on the roof keep us comfortable but after a day of riding in the dust of the desert it takes a while to cool a body down even if you love soaking up the sun.
Skye clicks her long blood-red fingernails over the calculator with a stack of cash by her side. I hope she’s going to give us all some good damn news at church this week because the Harlots are still dealing with the loss we took last month after a job that went bad, and redemption is the only name of the game now. We’re almost caught up but we sure as hell don’t need another setback.
Brandy, our fearless cleaner, gives me a nod from behind the bar. “Hey, a cold drink?”
I’m not about to say no. I lay my helmet down on the bar stool next to me. “Sure, ice cold bottle of beer would go down real nice about now.”
The bar is relatively empty this time of day. “Everyone has been looking for you. I think Pearl’s pissed as hell and if I had to guess you’re going to be dealing with Hawg in your face tonight. He was livid when he found out you were gone.”
VP of our club can be the most rewarding and worst position to be in. Brandy’s eyes meet mine as she hands me a beer. She knows me and Pearl better than anyone else. As a senior member of our motorcycle club, she knows what we like, what we don’t, what we’ll forgive and what we won’t.
The long bar stretches across the back wall, with ten black leather stools on this side. It’s supposed to be a rotating job, but Brandy’s so damn good at barkeep and loves it so it’s probably gonna be hers for a while.
Pearl walks into the bar from the back. “Where the fuck were you? We were all worried.” She may have seemed softened last night but she’s in full-on prez mode now. As president of our club, she’s always got our back, no matter the reason, she’s there for every single one of us and she is on fucking edge now, and it’s my fault.
I tap the bar stool next to me. “A drink for the prez?” I ask Brandy.
