If it wasn't for their patches, I wouldn't have been able to tell them apart. They were both as big and beautiful as they were dangerous, two hazel-eyed, dark haired brutes packed with muscle.
Jesus, how was I supposed to talk to them if I couldn't remember them by name? Think, Summer, think.
Once, Uncle Robby spelled it out. He told me Freddy had the dagger on his leather cut, underneath his name patch. Jackson wore the smoking pistol, and he'd recently added two more, blood red patches underneath his name. Both skulls.
They'd taken road names since joining the Pistols. Anybody who didn't address them properly was begging for trouble.
JOKER, Jackson's patch said. Freddy's said PIECE.
Two ridiculous, weird biker names that should've left an ordinary person rolling their eyes. But there was no laughing, no doubt, no derision while they brutally knocked some sense into the jackass on the floor.
“That's enough, brother. We don't wanna lay him out. Can't have this little cocksucker bleeding all over the fuckin' kitchen back here,” Piece growled, pulling back his twin brother.
Joker wanted to keep going. He stepped away reluctantly, his clenched teeth showing in a rough smile. He looked at me, stepping out of his brother's hold, extending a hand.
“You all right? We both came running, soon as we heard the scream.”
My lips trembled. I'm fine, I wanted to say. Just brush it off like it was no big deal, but my eighteen year old brain cracked.
“No!” I squeaked, tumbling forward into his grip.
He held me. That shocked me to hell and back.
Jackson “Joker” Taylor was the last man in the world who should've swept a crying, down-on-her-luck teenager into his arms. But he did, swallowing me up in a bear hug as big as the world, holding me as all the crap I'd suffered for the last year or two came pouring out.
“Piece, drag the kid to the door and throw him the fuck out. His posse'll follow as soon as they see him hit the pavement. We've busted him up enough. They'll shit their pants when they see. Make sure they pay Tina, too.”
“No, no, it isn't right. I didn't even get a chance to finish their order,” I whined, too sad to see how little sense that made just then.
“Babe, don't you fuckin' worry about it. We got it taken care of. Everything. We'll make sure none of these shitheads ever show their rat faces anywhere around here again.”
Frat boy groaned as Piece scooped him up. I listened to Joker's twin start humming a country tune as he pulled him out through the kitchen, no different than dragging out the trash.
Tina came rushing in a second later. Her eyes bugged out when she saw me wrapped up in Joker's arms.
“Holy Lord and Moses, Summer! What's going on back here? Should I get the police?”
“Fuck no,” Joker growled, turning his head to face her, without pushing me from his arms. “It's all under control, Miss Tina. Run along. I'll help the girl find her way home.”
“You, Jackson? But her shift's not over 'til...”
“It's okay, Tina.” Sniffing to clear my sinuses, I looked up, hating myself for being such a mess. “I'm going to stand by for a few more evening orders and then I'll go. Don't know when Uncle Robby will be back. He burned his hand real bad. I'll find a way home.”
“Jackson, she doesn't get on that motorcycle unless you have a helmet for her,” Tina said sharply, folding her arms.
“Dammit, Tina, it's Joker now. Joker. You use that Jackson shit again, we're gonna have a problem. Piece and me just did the bar a favor, unloading those motherfuckers. Make sure they're paid up when you check the counter.”
Sighing, Tina threw up her hands. “Okay, whatever. I don't have a clue what this is about. You just...learn to keep your distance. Summer's a good girl. Her mama, Christine, don't need more problems, worrying about her daughter coming home with a guy like you. She's too sick for that crap.”
Joker gave her an icy stare on her way out. His muscles hardened around me, and for the first time, I noticed how huge he really was.
He could've hoisted me up without breaking a sweat. Probably could've broken rocks all day long, just like the old timers talked about, back when the mines boomed.
He must've been two hundred pounds of perfect muscle. Maybe more.
Just a tall, dark, and dangerously handsome twenty-something year old man. Walking, talking, killing steel stuffed into human skin and slathered with scary tattoos.
I looked up, slowly easing myself out of his arms. God, why was it so hard to leave?
“Thanks for the help,” I said softly, having a hard time keeping my eyes on his.
Those dark, hazel gems in his face had a grip even stronger than his hands. Every time I met them, I fell in.
I wanted to keep staring, sinking, defying every warning I'd ever heard about these men.