I’d known appreciative glances. I’d had them since I could remember too.
Now, I wondered what both of those men thought, me, twenty-five (almost twenty-six), dumped, a single mom (not that they knew that but I felt like I wore that knowledge on every inch of me), climbing out of an old, worn-out car, wearing a flirty but cheap dress and cute but cheap butterfly shoes that at that moment felt stupid and, worse, desperate.
I should have worn jeans.
No.
I shouldn’t have come at all.
“Yo,” the lanky one called.
I got close. “Uh… yes, yo.” He grinned. It was highly attractive. I ignored it and I carried on, “I’m Carissa. Carissa Teodoro. A couple of days ago—”
The lanky guy’s head jerked and he interrupted me. “Joker’s girl?”
I shut my mouth.
Joker’s girl.
Why did that sound so nice?
“Yup, spare. Tercel. Joker gave us the heads-up. We’re covered,” the guy in the greasy jeans said and twisted toward the bays. “Yo! Someone come get this bucket! Joker’s girl is here!”
I looked from him, mouth open to say something, to the lanky guy with the clipboard (thinking, seeing as he had a clipboard, he was probably someone with authority). But I didn’t say anything because he was looking me up and down with attractive green eyes and his lips were quirked like something was amusing.
Immensely amusing.
“We’ll need your keys,” he stated when his eyes again met mine.
“I, well, yes, of course,” I dangled them out in front of me while a man in coveralls jogged from the bay, heading our way. “I kinda have a financial situation.” I shared my understatement. “So can you give me an estimate before you take care of everything?”
Both men stared at me like I was crazy before lanky guy said, “We’ll get Joker to take care a’ that.”
I nodded and told him, “I have to grab my purse and something from the back.”
Greasy jeans guy came to me, nabbed my keys, and said, “Get ’em, babe.”
I looked to him, nodded agreeably, then rushed back to my car. I leaned in deep and grabbed my purse from where it sat in Travis’s car seat. Then I went to the back and got the pie.
When I closed the door and turned to the guys, I saw they were all leaned slightly to the right, heads tipped, eyes on my behind (or, in the case of the lanky guy) my legs.
I felt warmth hit my cheeks and called, “Is Joker around?”
They all came to and looked to my face.
“She brought him pie,” the lanky guy muttered.
“Fuckin’ brilliant,” the greasy jeans guy also was muttering.
“Does Joker even like pie?” the coverall guy was only slightly muttering.
But my heart squeezed.
Didn’t he like pie?
Didn’t everyone like pie?
Oh no! What if he didn’t like pie?
“Does Joker like anything?” greasy jeans guy asked.
“I bet, today, he’s gonna like butterflies,” lanky guy noted.
“Today, I like butterflies,” greasy jeans guy declared.
I cleared my throat.
Lanky guy’s lips quirked again just as he jerked his chin to the right and said, “Compound.”
“Sorry?” I asked.
“Joker’s in the Compound, babe. Building over there.” He swung his clipboard in that direction and then smiled a highly appealing but definitely meaningful smile. “Go right on in. He’s not out front, someone in there will get him for you.”
I looked where he was indicating and saw a large, long building that ran the entire length of the property from the back of the auto store to well beyond the garage. It had an overhang along the front, picnic tables under it (five of them, precisely), a big barrel grill to one end, and four kegs with taps looking like they were ready for use sat against the wall of the building, close to the grill. Last, there were a number of motorcycles parked in formation at the front.
There was also a set of double doors.
I turned my eyes back to the men.
“Thanks!” I called on another bright smile, ignored the strangeness they were making me feel and my inability to understand if it was a good strangeness or a bad one, and then I moved toward the Compound, carrying my pie in front of me with both hands, acutely aware they were watching me.
It was a long walk, and when I made it to the end, balanced the pie, grabbed the handle to one of the doors, pulled it open, and chanced a look back, I saw what I had a feeling I’d see.
Not a single one of them had moved, and their eyes were on me.
More strangeness invaded but even if it was quite a distance, they had to know I was looking at them. So I lifted a hand to wave before I slid through the door.
Only the coveralls guy waved back.
I rebalanced the pie in both hands, took two steps in, and stopped because I had to due to the fact I couldn’t see a thing.
The place was dark. After the bright Denver sun, my eyes needed time to adjust.
This took time, neon beer signs finally coming into focus. Then more.
None of it good.
Tatty furniture. Pool tables. A long sweeping bar. Flags on the walls like the one flying over the auto store under the American flag. Pictures also on the walls. Harley-Davidson stickers, again stuck to the walls. It wasn’t tidy. It wasn’t even clean.
It was just scary.
“Yo!” I heard and turned my head right.
I had company.
At the curved part of the sweep of the bar, a man was standing, leaning into his arm on the bar. He had a goatee. He was large. He was rough but nonetheless very good-looking. He had a lovely redheaded woman in a dainty blouse and tight skirt in front of him on a barstool. He was standing very close to her. Although he looked firmly the manly biker yin to her girly classy yang, she clearly didn’t mind this.