Arianne parked her car in the dimly lit parking lot behind Banks Bar and reached down to check the LadySmith .38 Special in her lower calf holster.
He was coming for her. She knew it from the pounding of her heart and the sick feeling that hadn’t disappeared since Jagger dropped her off five days ago. If she could only get home to collect the rest of her weapons inventory: a 9 mm Glock 26, usually holstered under her shirt when on Black Jack business, and a .22 she carried in her purse when she wore a skirt or dress. But she’d been in such a hurry to get to Jeff the night of the fire, she hadn’t had time to get them, and since then she hadn’t been able to go home to retrieve them. Hell, she hadn’t even been able to collect clean clothes, knowing that the minute she stepped into her apartment, she would be snatched up and dragged back to face Viper’s wrath.
But that was the biker way. A price would have to be paid for her interference with the raid on the Sinner clubhouse, especially since Jeff hadn’t managed to steal all the guns from the weapons shed out back, and there were only two possible punishments. Since she could never be kicked out of the club, she would have to pay in blood and bruises, and she hadn’t yet recovered from the last beating.
Arianne took one last glance in the rearview mirror before turning off her vehicle. She’d managed to hide at Dawn’s place for the last week. Her best friend and coworker was always more than happy to give up her spare room when Arianne needed a place to stay, and had even cleared out a space in her wardrobe so Arianne could store emergency clothes. But after five days of sneaking out in disguise to search for Jeff, and with her savings depleted, Arianne had to break cover.
Her father would’ve anticipated her eventual emergence. Waited. When it served his needs, Viper had infinite patience, and when it didn’t, he let loose a temper that had spilled the blood of some of the strongest men she knew.
And women.
Even after so many years, she was still afraid of him. Not that she would ever let him know it. Fear was a weakness, and Viper, president of the Black Jacks MC, didn’t tolerate weakness. Not in himself. And certainly not in his daughter.
With one hand on the door handle, she made a slow, thorough check of the area for Black Jacks before sliding out of the vehicle, and racing to the back door of the bar. The night was crisp and cold. A harsh breeze sent leaves scurrying across the pavement. She fumbled with the key, and caught a whiff of piss and stale beer, and … leather.
No.
She wrenched open the door and threw herself into the warm, dimly lit stockroom, where her Dawn was counting bottles with their boss, Joe Banks aka Banks.
“You okay?” His eyebrows furrowed. “Someone outside bothering you?”
“No. Just … looking forward to work.” She turned around and worked the dead bolt with a firm click.
“Really?” The bar’s owner and manager straightened and glared at the door as if he could see through the steel and into the night. Standing just over six feet tall, he was muscular but not bulky, his forearms covered with tats from the year he’d spent in prison. The soft fuzz on his head—usually shaved to a number 2—contrasted with piercing steel-blue eyes that could warm to a deep azure in an instant. He wore his usual uniform of black heavy metal band T-shirt, khakis, and an ancient pair of kicks.
“Yeah. I’m good.” She held her voice firm, knowing even the slightest hitch would send him charging into the parking lot in an overprotective frenzy, ready to pound on anyone who dared mess with his staff.
Dawn brushed back her soft blond curls with one hand and gave her a questioning look. Small and curvy with a pixie face and big green eyes, she was the yin to Banks’s yang. Soft where he was hard, sweet where he was bitter, she could cajole their boss to do almost anything except leave her unattended on the floor. Banks had hired a new bouncer, ostensibly to tighten up security, but in reality to keep roaming hands off Dawn’s ass. Little did he know, Dawn’s seemingly delicate fists packed a dangerous punch. She’d once been a biker’s old lady and could still hold her own.
“You’re looking kinda pale.” Dawn stared at her intently. “Even paler than when I saw you this morning.”
“Seriously.” Arianne told her. “Just jumpy tonight.”
Banks huffed and then gave Arianne a slow perusal, from her dark chestnut hair swept into a high ponytail to her plain black tank top and her tight jeans to her ballet flats. “Your top is too low, your jeans are too tight, and you’re wearing too much lipstick to work the bar tonight. Unless you want me to pull security from the door to watch you, I’d suggest you put on one of my T-shirts.”
A smile curled her lips, and for the first time in a week, she felt as close to safe as she ever got. No one messed with Banks, and that meant no one messed with her. “You say that all the time, and yet I do just fine on my own.”