“You’re the hottest chick I’ve ever made out with,” I tell her in all seriousness. Her ego is about as fragile as a snowflake. “But that shit is dumb to do for them. Don’t you get that?” I widen my eyes, hoping she notes the seriousness in my tone.
The music engulfs us as we enter the bar. It muffles her reply, and I move my head closer to hers. “What?” I shout.
“I said, I’m sure Jesse wouldn’t mind the show.” She pulls back and winks at me.
Why the hell is she on this kick with Jesse all of a sudden? I don’t bother with a comeback for that one. The coke is obviously making her more loving than me tonight.
“Besides,” she adds. “If I did date Jesse, that’d make me his ol’ lady, and then I’d have to jump your bones if he said so.” She sticks her tongue out.
She’s right, of course. It’s the reason why I won’t get romantically involved with any of the members of Lone Breed—I’m my own woman. But for Dar, who keeps getting mixed up with losers, being bound to one guy—who’d keep her safe and scare away the jerkoffs—wouldn’t be such a bad thing. I could adapt…if it meant my girl was taken care of.
As we head for the bar, I spot Jesse seated there. His rumpled leather vest jacket open to expose a white tank underneath. The white and black bottom rocker patch on the back. Dark hair mussed from running his hand through it. He’s all brightly lit with alcohol and I suspect a fresh shot of blow.
My insides tug painfully at my belly, the craving gripping me hard. But I shake it off, along with Darla’s arm, and take a seat next to him.
“Saving it just for me?” I say over the music, flagging down the bartender.
“Of course.” He gives me a wink.
I nod. “That’s what I thought.” I motion for Dar to sit on the edge of my stool, but her attention is aimed out over the crowd, scanning for Crank.
Well, that lasted all of a second.
“I’ll be right back,” she says, her eyes still scouring the scene.
I wave my hand in the air, dismissing her. It’s a waste to get fired up over Dar’s need for seduction. It’s always been this way—giving her a degree of power, something she can own. I’m used to it.
Instead, I order my usual bourbon and Coke from Suzie and then snag Jesse’s beer to take a sip. The harsh bite of it foams in my mouth, some residue from the blow still clinging to my throat. I force it down and smack my lips.
“So are you getting it tomorrow?” I ask Jesse, switching his bottle for the glass Suzie sets before me.
He tilts his head. “I’m about a grand short. Thought I’d hit the track first. Try to get up the money before we head down to Daytona with the others.”
I roll my eyes. “No.”
His head jerks back. “What? I didn’t even—”
“No, but you’re going to. And you’re not racing my baby on the track. That’s exactly how you wasted your hog, dude. Forget it.”
What I leave unsaid is that he was wasted when he did so, and he’s probably already shot at least a kilo into his veins since we’ve been in St. Augustine. All four days. But who am I to judge? I just don’t let anyone other than me drive my bike. Not even Darla. She’s always been my second in command—from the time we skated out of Hazard, Kentucky till now, she’s ridden with me. I even had my bike seat specially modified to seat Dar’s ass. I guess that alone says something for our sisterly love.
Jesse hunches over the bar top, propping his forearms on the counter and dipping his head low to find my gaze. Fuck. He’s going for the damn puppy eyes, and he’s going to call it in.
He bailed me out of the craptastic disaster that became my brief hookup with Simon: biker creep extraordinaire. He and Derick—Dar’s one true love for a couple of weeks—were their own breed of loser. I cringe remembering how I even wore his black bandana, letting him put claim to me. It was more for Dar than him…but still. Never again.
But I owe Jess one. After we parted ways with Sam and her guy Holden, it was an endless downward spiral for Simon and me once we left Kansas. Part of the reason why I hit the needle so hard, and why I almost pulled a Jesse and wound up in the ER.
Not that night, though. Jesse and Tank swooped in and kept me from OD’ing. I still don’t really know how—just that the next day, I was packed and already looking at Simon’s backside from the mirror of my Breakout.
“Shit, Mel…” Jesse moans. “Just one race. I can make enough for my new hog and a little extra.” He gives me his panty-dropping smile that works on every girl at least once. Even me. But only just once.
I sigh to myself. “What about Tank? Can’t you use his bike?” Tank was my dad’s best friend, and he’s Jessie’s mentor—the full-patch member sponsoring Jesse until he becomes a full-fledged patch-holder of Lone Breed himself.
Jessie swivels on his stool, his face pinched in frustration. “Tank’s doing me a solid by not telling the others heading to Daytona about my hog…just yet. But he said I had to earn my ride on my own. So no,” he says, finding my gaze. “He won’t step in.”
I nod solemnly. “They’d rag you pretty fucking hard, huh?”
Jesse releases a clipped laugh. “You don’t even know.” I glimpse his two back patches; the MC patch on the right, and the bottom rocker beside it that reads “Prospect.” He’s basically in the hazing phase of motorcycle club initiation. So my sympathies do go out to him—he’s going to be put through some major shit if he doesn’t get a new ride soon.