Page 12 of One for the Money

“Okay then, here’s a dose of honest truth for you,” I snapped, yanking on my jacket. “I am maxed out on this emotional bullshit sundae that you’ve decided to serve up for me today. Whatever else you have up your sleeve can be shoved up your ass because I don’t want to hear it. Instead, I’m going to take my bike and drive four hours to Overshire so I can get a drink at Bootleggers. Come with or don’t, your call, but I’m not talking about anything that doesn’t deal with the sparesie sons, okay?”

Spinning on my booted heel, I left and headed for the garage. The telltale sound of heavy boots crunching on the gravel told me Bear was right behind me. I knew he wasn’t going to stay—the overbearing beast would never let me walk into a situation without him watching my back. Walking over to the pegboard where my helmets were hung, I grabbed the black one with red devil horns poking out of the top. Before I put it on, I tied back my hair, knowing what a bitch it was to brush out windblown snarls.

“Hey, boss, which bike are you taking out today?” Miles, our mechanic, asked, wiping his grease-covered hands on a rag. “I just did a tune-up on the oil slick if you want to take her out.”

“Sounds perfect,” I said, tugging on my helmet and leather gloves.

Miles tossed me the keys, which I caught with ease, and headed over to my fastest bike. Actually, it was the fourth fastest bike in the world and could reach two hundred miles per hour. Most of our trip was going to be on the highway, so why not shave off some time getting there? Cops didn’t even bother to try and chase down people on these bad boys—there was no way for their cars to keep up.

Tossing my leg over the bike, I stroked a hand over the shimmering paint job. The base of the bike was black, but I’d had them put a duo chrome over it to match the colors you’d find in an oil slick when the sun hits it. I didn’t get to take this baby out often, so today’s trip was a perfect excuse and meant I couldn’t be trapped in a car with a man testing my last fuck. Speak of the fucker, I watched as he got settled on his matching bike. The only way he’d ever keep up was to have one for himself, but his was matte black with hints of red.

Miles opened the main garage door and gave me a thumbs-up. Grinning, I snapped the tinted face shield closed and turned the key. My baby rumbled to life, vibrating between my legs as I settled deeper into the leather seat. I twisted the throttle a few times just to hear my baby roar, then dropped her into gear and peeled out of the garage. With a slight fishtail as the tires hit the gravel, shooting it everywhere, I kept my balance and aimed for the road.

The ride out to Overshire was like hitting the reset button on the day. The wind blew away all the emotions and upheaval as I flew down the highway. Thanks to the speed we were going, we also managed to shave off an hour. Parking my bike outside Bootleggers, I looked around, noticing it was pretty empty. Then again, it was four o’clock on a Saturday afternoon in an average-sized town.

Locking my helmet on my bike, I also grabbed my gun stored under the seat and slipped it into the holster sewn into my leather jacket. I always had my trusty boot knife on me, but for this situation, I wanted a quicker way to take out anyone who deserved it. While I’d worked with criminals all over the Eastern continent, that didn’t mean I knew whose territory this was. I might be the best weapons dealer, but shocking as it might be, I wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea.

Bear tapped me on the shoulder. “Are we kicking the door in or grabbing a drink first?”

“I don’t know about you, but I’m fucking thirsty. Besides, if this bar is owned by the Accardis, it might be better to ease into this,” I decided.

This caused Bear to frown and put the back of his hand on my forehead. “You don’t feel like you have a fever. How many fingers am I holding up?”

He flipped me the bird which I smacked away. “What a comedian,” I muttered. “I know being levelheaded and rational isn’t my MO, but this isn’t our normal gig. Those bastards have been in hiding for about thirty years, which means they’re fucking good at it.”

Bear nodded and let the matter drop, leading the way into the bar. The front door didn’t have any windows, only faded peeling letters that said Bootleggers Bar and Grill. A shrill squeak from the hinges gave away our entrance, not that there were many people in there to notice. It was your typical dive bar that had seen better days, with a wooden bar running along the back wall and liquor shelves behind it. Stools lined the counter, but there were also tables and chairs along with a few booths on the outer edge of the place.

My feet stuck to the floor, telling me I probably shouldn’t be ordering any food from the place. As if to prove me wrong, a door on the back wall swung open, and a man walked out with a tray of food. While the place looked like a dump, the food was on a whole other level and made my stomach rumble. After setting down the various small plates of food, the man turned to us, tucking the tray under his arm.

“Take a seat where you like. We aren’t too fussy around here,” he shared with a warm smile, then left to return to the kitchen.

Everything I had pictured about this place was backward. Instead of a local hangout for the degenerative criminals, this was the local watering hole. Here I’d thought we’d fit in, but now my ripped jeans with red fishnets underneath and my cropped black, bleach-splattered T-shirt were a glaring clash. Bear never fit in, thanks to his serial killer vibes, scars, and penchant for wearing all leather with no shirt, no matter how cold it was.

With an internal shrug, I pulled off my jacket and headed for the bar. Straddling one of the stools, I placed my jacket on the one next to me in hopes it would keep anyone from sitting beside me. We needed information, and getting kicked out of the place because I nut-shot a guy for remarking about my appearance wouldn’t get us anywhere. Contrary to belief, I was able to rein in the crazy, but I chose not to most of the time. Plus, it made life far more interesting to be unpredictable.

“What can I get you two?” the man asked, placing a menu down.

“I’ll have a lager and…” I paused to look at Bear. He gave me the answer I assumed but didn’t want to come off as a bitch. Plus, people who see sign language assume he’s deaf, so they speak more freely in front of him. “He’ll have a stout if you’ve got it.”

“I don’t have a stout, but I’ve got an imported brown. Will that work?” the man asked, directing his question to me.

“Hundred bucks says you get to hear the juicy bits since he thinks you can’t hear,” I signed, keeping the ruse going.

“Keep your money. I want something else,” Bear responded.

Turning back to the bartender, I smiled, keeping my teeth hidden. “He said that would be fine.”

“Sure thing,” he answered, grabbing two glasses and setting them in front of us before popping the tops of the beers. “Have to say we don’t get many visitors here. It’s not what you would call a hot spot.”

“Oh, a friend recommended it,” I offered as I poured the beer into my glass. “You wouldn’t happen to be Trent, would you?”

“No, I’m not. Name’s Deker, though,” he shared, reaching out his hand.

I gave the man a firm shake and another smile, trying to channel my inner Poison Ivy, the mistress of seduction. “Von, and this is my best friend, Bear.”

“Nice to meet you both,” Deker beamed at me then offered a hand to Bear.

“Be nice. If Trent isn’t here, we might need to come back,” I warned.