3
ELLE
Nobody talks to me for hours, but that suits me just fine. I sit on the hard-ass stool and stare at the wall behind the bar, counting bottles of liquor. Then I count the approximate ounces in each one. Then I try to calculate exactly how many people could get entirely fucked up on just the contents on the wall. It’s a lot.
I nurse one beer, then a second, waiting and waiting for a sign that Reaper is going to follow through for me. Reaper. That’s a name I never thought I’d think of hopefully, but here we are. Beast watches me closely, not saying much, just keeping me in his sight.
At about the four-hour mark, exhaustion hits. I’m usually up before the sun, coffee in my thermos and a stack of papers to grade in front of me. But I said I wasn’t leaving until they agreed to help me, so that’s what I’m doing. I flag down the hulking man behind the bar and ask for another drink.
The monster of a man raises an eyebrow, frowning at me as he twists the top off of a beer. I eye the bottle as he slides it toward me. It isnotthe cheap stuff. “On the house,” he grunts before turning away and shouting, “Last Call!”
Well, that was weirdly sweet from a man with the nickname ‘Beast’. But then again, half of the people in Haven and almost everyone back in Peril use the shitty nickname my sperm donor gave me as a kid. The elementary school is just about the only place where I’m ‘Elle’ or Ms. R.
I’m a prime example of why making assumptions based on nicknames really isn’t fair. If we’re going off the moniker ‘Cherry’, I think that, statistically, I’d be twirling on a pole down at Lust & Sin instead of teaching U.S. History and grading English papers.
The thought is almost enough to make me laugh out loud. I can’t imagineanythingthat would make Clint’s head explode faster. Well… almost anything. Playing ‘Kitty in the Middle’ with two Sinners could absolutely give stripping a run for its money.
I glance around the bar, grateful no one can hear my thoughts. I’ve been here for so long that the novelty seems to have worn off. People have stopped staring, at least. I was trying to be discrete covering my hair and wearing the bulky sweatshirt under my jacket, not that it helped. I thought maybe it would buy me a sliver of anonymity, but I really should have known better..
I am nothing short of infamous in Haven. Not because I’m dangerous or evil, or really even threatening on a base level. There is one, and only one, reason. The blood of public enemy number one flows in my veins, and that makes me guilty by association. The jig was up the second I stepped through the door, maybe even before that. I think of the looks I got from the crowd smoking out front as my cute little Fiat crunched its way through the gravel lot. It looked ridiculous next to all of those motorcycles, especially because some of them were actually larger than my car.
I strip off my jacket, then the hoodie. There are plenty of other women here, but they’re all club candy or Old Ladies and none of them are looking my direction with any level of warmth. Not that I blame them. It makes me miss my friend Willow, though. She’s just about the only person in Haven that seeks my company.
Looking around, I’m struck by the confidence of the women in the Pour House. Just like the Chaos girls, they’re dressed provocatively. Leather mini skirts, tight shorts, bare midriffs and cleavage everywhere.
Skin is always going to be bare around MCs. That’s just life. But the women in the Chaos orbit have this worn-down quality, even the ones that are still young and hot as fuck. You can’t go near that club without the desperation leeching into you. It’s like the deep down hopelessness that comes from drugs, alcohol, and hitching your wagon to a toxic as fuck social circle is contagious.
Not here, though. This actually feels like one extensive family; even if it is admittedly a loud and slightly smelly one. More than a few glances flit my direction and I turn my attention back to my beer bottle. Still, the frustration of watching all those people live their lives on their terms hits a nerve buried deep inside me. Sure, I can go where I want and do pretty much anything I want… unless the thing I want to do is a man.
I’ve heard the whispers. The rumors. Clint didn’t actually shoot my ex, but he did break his hand. What no one knows, though, is that my brother caught him cheating on me. He’d never admit to defending my honor, but that’s what it was.
Regardless, the damage was done. My ex fled the state. Literally. Packed up in the night with a broken hand and headed west. After that, tongues started wagging. Speculation spread like a wildfire. He was dead and buried in the mountains. Maybe cut up into pieces and tossed into the ocean, a la Dexter.
After that, no one would touch me with a ten-foot pole. Men started crossing the street to get out of my path. Male colleagues wouldn’t be caught dead in the break room with me. I’ve basically been existing inside an invisible bubble of testosterone repellent for the last few years.
It has its perks, sure. Men don’t catcall me on the street anymore. They scatter when I slide up to a packed bar, ensuring I always have a seat. But it’s losing its appeal, especially now that I’ve crossed the threshold between a ‘dry spell’ and chronic celibacy.
Tonight is the first time in ages that men haven’t gone running like their hair was on fire. It wasalmostnice.Almost. I guess the takeaway is that a little hostility is preferable to sheer terror. Maybe I should find a Sinner to bring my sex life back into this decade. The thought makes me chuckle into my beer, but it’s a mirthless sound.
“What’s so funny, Red?”
The biker who sat next to me earlier reappears in the same seat, dark eyes tracking me as he raises his own drink to his lips. R-A-T-T-L-E-R is tattooed across the back of his hand and a hyper-realistic Diamond Back Rattlesnake curls around his right arm. Its fangs are bared in a menacing expression of rage.
I eye him, curious despite knowing better. Muscles ripple tantalizingly under golden skin. He looks like a hard ass, with his dark beard and scruffy black hair, but there’s something about the shape of his mouth that I like. He wears a subtle, but ever-present smirk. Like instead of Resting Bitch Face, he has RPMF. Resting Panty-Melter Face. God, I bet he pulls so much pussy that the club candy smells like him.
My dusty lady-bits wheeze in jealousy. I wonder if Clint’s head wouldliterallyexplode if he caught me with a Sinner. Like, could the actual pressure inside of his skull cause damage? I wouldn’t even be surprised. He hates them so much that even my working in Haven pisses him off. In hindsight, maybe I should have moved farther away. China might have been far enough. Maybe.
I wince at the biker presumably known as Rattler. “Trying to picture the expression on my brother’s face if he knew where I was.”
Rattler cocks an eyebrow at me as club members drag themselves out of the bar and into the chilly night. “Can’t imagine he’d be dancing with joy.”
“Understatement of the century,” I laugh, tipping my head back and swallowing the last sip of my beer. Setting the bottle on the bar, it’s impossible to miss the way his eyes follow my motions. It shouldn’t make my insides heat. It shouldn’t make my heart beat off rhythm. It absolutely shouldn’t make my core clench, empty and unfulfilled. But it does.
The bar empties out, all except for Beast behind the bar and Rattler by my side. “Closing time, Cherry,” Beast grunts, slinging a bar towel over his shoulder.
“And I told you, I’m not getting off of this stool until Iknowyou’re going to help this kid.” I’m being stubborn. I know that, but what else can I do?
When I said I’d find a way to handle Hicks myself, it wasn’t an empty threat. I’ll do it if I have to, but let’s be honest, I’m no match for him. Physically, at least. I haven’t held a gun once in my entire life, and he’s a trained police officer with apparent ties to the Chaos riders. I suspect that, if I wasn’t under the umbrella of my brother’s protection and part of the Chaos bloodline, that Hicks would have already done worse than just threaten me.