Griffin (Ruthless MC 3)

My record label prefers the term "country trap artist" since I sing too. But whatever.

Hyena laughs with the signature sound that inspired his road name as I heave myself out of my chair and go over to sign all their shit and thank them for being fans. Instead of getting my fight, I get promises that I’ll see a few of them standing front row at the New Year’s concert I’m headlining in two weeks.

“Well, that was a bust, and I’m still bored as fuck,” I inform Crash when I return to the Reaper's table. At least he has the decency to drop his eyes. Yeah, he should feel guilty.

“What else?” I ask the rest of the table.

“I got Molly,” Rowdy offers again.

“There’s a whole bunch of extra holiday help this year,” Hyena points out now that he’s over his laughing fit.

“You should see the hot redhead Vengeance’s got lined up for later tonight,” Crazytown, one of our old-timers, brags, nodding over at Hyena, Vampire, and Des-E. “She’s got a set of cans on her you wouldn’t believe.”

Vengeance is what we call the three guys in charge of doing the Reaper’s grislier enforcement duties. One laughs and smiles like a Hyena. We already covered that. One carries not one, but three Desert Eagles on him at all times, hence the shortened road name. And one’s a pale and broody as . . . well, a vampire. Anyway, they don’t just work together, they fuck together. One girl always gets all their attention after one of them—almost always Hyena—picks them up.

Not my thing. But, hey, I’m not judging. I grew up in Los Angeles. Hell knows, I’ve seen stranger arrangements.

“That’s what’s up. Good for you, guys,” I say, throwing Vengeance a chin nod.

Crash comes out of his guilty head hang to suggest, “Bet you could do the same thing. But, you know, in reverse,” he quickly adds. “Three girls all to yourself.”

Yeah, the prospect of that would be intriguing to 99.9% of straight guys. Me, not so much.

“Been there, done that,” I let Crash know. “Not as fun as you’d think. Three girls is a fuck ton of condom work. And my number one goal in life is to make sure I don’t become some chick’s eighteen-year child support check.”

“Yeah, but I got Molly, man,” Rowdy says again like there’s a chance I didn’t hear him the first two times. “And I heard there’s at least three new waitresses from Rydell, that all-girls school, working tonight.”

“All women’s college,” Des-E corrects.

We all turn to stare at him. Three words are two more than Des-E’s nightly average. Hell, I’ve seen whole weeks go by without him saying three words, especially all in a row like that.

“Doc went to Rydell, and she gets pissed when you call it an all-girls school,” Hyena explains off all our confused looks.

Crazytown and the rest of the Reapers who haven’t been touring with me all year nod like this makes 100% sense.

But since this is the first chance I’ve gotten to hang out with my old crew for a while, I have to ask, “Who’s Doc?”

Before anyone can answer, my song is abruptly cut off and replaced by an AC/DC anthem I’ve been thinking about sampling for my next album.

“Okay, Mama Red Bird is in the house!” an amplified voice calls out over Brian Johnson scream-wailing about the girl who shook him all night long. “I’ve got shots, and I’m looking for my biker birdies! Chirp-chirp, baby! Bring your twenties to the bar, and line up if you want somethin’ good!”

I look up, and holy fuck.

A girl . . .

A girl like no other is standing on top of the bar that runs the length of the roadhouse’s back wall—a girl with silky brown skin stretched over curves that call my name like a siren song.

She’s a waitress. I know that because her supple breasts are bared for the world to see, and she’s dressed in high-rise cutoff shorts and cowboy boots—the official uniform for all servers at the Reaper’s favorite roadhouse. But unlike the rest of the roadhouse girls, she’s wearing a pair of huge wings. I’d call them angel wings, but she sounds pretty damn committed to that bird imagery. Plus, they’re cherry-red—the same color as the hair spilling in long waves over her breasts down to her waist.

Her eyes are huge in a way that makes me think of innocence. But her smile is 100% wicked as she waggles a spouted bottle of some clear alcohol above her head.

Our gazes lock across the distance, and she stutters, the come-hither look slipping off her face as she stares at me staring at her.

Suddenly . . .

Suddenly I’m not so bored.

My cock stirs, and that dead inside feeling fades away along with everything else as the entire world becomes a single question: