“Y’all don’t want to mess with that one, she’s not very… friendly!” A burst of heavy, hearty laughter rocks him, causing the other men to join in and laugh. “She’s grown!” he continues, his making fun of me really pissing me off. Fucking bastard.
“Mmm, you know how them grown girls know a thing or two,” the guy on the box crate chimes in and I decide now is the time to walk away before I say or do something I can’t get out of.
Loud convulsive chuckles erupt after I turn away, one of them even catcalling.
Fucking bikers.
I’m not offended, I mean my uncles and brother have shown their bad side in front of me a few times but I’ve never been talked to like that before. My brother or dad would have ripped Bugs’ good eye out and shoved it down one of his brothers’ throats for just looking in my direction.
I got to say though, it’s weird to see this side of motorcycle life. I’ve always been on the inside and watching, always thinking my club is the good guys. The Fallen Gods MC probably don’t think any different. I’ve heard of some brutal shit some clubs do. Behaviors tiptoeing the line of a feral criminal rather than a human being. They think they’re above not only the law but God himself. I try to remind myself that everyone has a story. Hell, I’m sure if you read mine, it wouldn’t be a fable you’d tell to the grandkids any time soon. I’m no fucking role model.
But these assholes better stay in their lane because they don’t know who they’re fucking with… or do they, and that’s why they’re making it a point to make me uncomfortable?
5
Two Days Later
Delilah
Straddling a custom chopper, one leg on each side of the seat, I lean over the gas tank and spray paint the piece. Everything around me disappears, the colors of gray and black drowning out my surroundings as I focus on the detailed skull I’m painting. A guy came in wanting one with a dead rose sticking through the eye. Thane has another guy at the shop across the street that paints too but I wanted this piece for myself. It’s easy enough and perfect for me to get used to the tools and the way things work here.
Lost in my own world, I sing the words to Midnight Rider coming out of the radio on the bench. At home I was told to wear earbuds or headphones because I had my music too loud.
My eyes slowly trail up the bike to the door, finding Thane. How long has he been standing there? His hair in his eyes, he watches me as he walks around the motorcycle and myself to the bench and turns down the music. His movements are powerful, aggressive, gone with the kid I once knew, and a respected outlaw standing before me. His dark shirt pulls across his shoulders making it impossible to ignore his broad chest, veins protruding his muscled arms. I couldn’t avoid him when I was young and I’m finding it nearly impossible not to drift toward him now.
I exhale and sit up to see what he wants. A smirk on his face, that tattoo next to his eye making him look more bad than good, he looks me up and down. Raising his hand, he points a finger at me.
“Why aren’t you wearing the protective gear?”
The what? Holding the spray gun out, I glance down at myself. I’m wearing the tan overalls that were in the cabinet along with my black sports bra and my hair pinned back. Maybe I should have put a shirt on. The sports bra might not be covering enough?
He walks over to the metal cabinet and pulls out a gray button-up shirt that looks like a mechanic would wear and a face mask, tossing them on the floor next to my feet.
Head lolling back, I scoff.
“Look, I’ve been doing this for years. I don’t need that shit,” I tell him. I know how to get the paint off my skin, and I don’t need a facemask because it’s just some light detailing.
“I need you to wear it so if you come up with some raspatory illness you can’t blame my company,” he cocks his head to the side, explaining.
We stare each other down, but I don’t waver. I’m not wearing it. If I were painting or detailing a vehicle then maybe would wear it. But I’m just doing some light airbrushing and the garage door is open, diluting the fumes. He’s overreacting.
His hand raises, fingers rubbing at his chin and his jaw ticcing with impatience. Lowering his head, he swipes his hair out of his face.
“You’re stubborn. A pretty girl with a mean bite, aren’t you?”
A mocking laugh escapes my chest. A pretty mean girl, isn’t that just a simple way of calling me a bitch?