Doesn’t allow? Who does this guy think he is? Also . . .
“Don’t you have a boyfriend?” I ask Kitten, thinking of the guy I’d seen dutifully drop her off and pick her up in a Suzuki mini-truck a few times since I started working here right before Thanksgiving.
Kitten shrugs. “Mike’s about to go back on the road, and Rockstar’s my hall pass.”
Wow. Rockstar. Is that really the Reaper’s road name? I roll my eyes. It’s obvious from that tag and the way he turned Tawny down like she wasn’t worth more than a few words that this guy thinks he’s all that and a bag of chips. He might be even worse than Hades in the arrogance department.
“Is this guy really worth fighting over?” I ask Kitten. “I mean, you saw the way he treated Tawny. And just because Mike’s going on the road, that doesn’t mean—”
“He’s my hall pass,” Kitten repeats, as if that somehow negates any argument I could possibly make. She glares at her best friend. “Or at least he would’ve been if Tawny hadn’t swooped in, even though she knows he doesn’t do seconds!”
“There’s always an exception to the rule,” Tawny answers in as haughty a tone as one can pull off with her breasts hanging out. “And there was a chance he didn’t remember me. He was pretty wasted the first time, so he only let me suck his dick.”
Okay, so many problematic statements in their argument.
But as Allie had warned me before my first shift at the roadhouse: “Abandon ye here all sense of ethics, sis. Especially the kind that begins with ‘fem’ and ends with ‘ism.’”
Tawny and Kitten get to arguing so bad I decide to do the Bird Call a couple of hours early just to distract them from their fight.
It works. Tawny and Kitten go from arguing with each other to glaring at me.
Ever since I came up with the highly lucrative Bird Call game and Allie used her niece-of-the-boss privilege to tell the other bartenders they couldn’t replicate it, the year-rounders have banded together in hating me behind the scenes. So, Mission Stop the Catfight is easily accomplished within a few bars of the devil music I had to love in secret while growing up with my grandma, who only allowed me to listen to, sing, and buy gospel. Thanks, AC/DC!
I waggle the bottle above my head, and all the biker criminals come running like panting dogs. Rockstar, who?
Not going to lie. Diverting their attention makes me feel some kind of powerful as I watch them converge on the bar.
I paste on what Allie calls my “welcoming sex goddess look.” It’s not for real, though.
They can look all they want. But Red never lets them touch. She calls them “baby” and acts like she’s known them forever. But they’re not allowed to know her, even for a little while. She smiles and flirts and takes their money. But she’ll never let any of them—
I feel his gaze before I see it. Powerful and burning, even before I notice him watching me across the bar.
The biker Kitten called Rockstar. He’s standing now, but instead of approaching the bar like the others, he’s looking at me. Just looking at me. And it feels like he’s staring into my soul.
Red doesn’t care about the bikers. They’re only a temporary means to an end until we save up enough money to finally make our new dream come true.
But my Red mask slips when my eyes lock with the biker’s. I falter and forget that I’m no longer Boring Bernice. Why is he staring at me like that—like a wolf who’s found his dinner?
My heart flips over, and my stomach flutters. I’m no longer Red. I can’t be. I’m too nervous and afraid.
For a moment, the whole world disappears and becomes one question:
Who is he?
“Hey, Red, you going to pour my shot or what?”
The real world comes back into focus. Gritty and wild, with an AC/DC song playing overhead. I tear my eyes away from the unknown Reaper and find one of The Bandits who took a selfie with him earlier. He’s now standing belly up to the bar and waving a twenty.
“Sorry, baby.” I exhale and pull the Red mask back on to focus all of my transactional attention on the biker with the money.
“Mama Red Bird’s got what you need right here,” I promise him with a wicked smile.
Then I proceed with the Bird Call—doing my level best to pretend like I don’t feel the other biker’s eyes on me.
But I’m beginning to understand why they call him Rockstar.
CHAPTER 3
GRIFF
I’m rooted to the spot. But all around me, bikers scramble out of their chairs and rush toward her. Crash, Rowdy, Hyena, and the entire table of Bandits belly up to the bar and tip back their heads while waving their twenties in the air.