The men weren't shy about sex. Doors opened and closed at odd hours, releasing men with sweat still shining on their foreheads, or half-dressed girls barely older than me.
They all headed to the bar to pick up whiskey and water, hauling it back to their rooms to resume the insatiable passions happening inside. Some of them looked like they were drugged out of their minds. It was late when I finally started on the bar counter.
I cleared off the bottles, gingerly wiping them down, when I heard footsteps behind me. I would've preferred just about anything standing behind me except for the nasty freak with the barbed wire tattooed on his face.
“Whiskey, bitch,” Serial barked.
I held up my hands. “I'm not a bartender. Brass didn't tell me to touch any of this stuff –“
His arms twitched, and then his palms slapped the counter like lightning. “You fucking heard me. Don't make me ask again. I want a bottle of Jack to go, and I want it right fucking now.”
His eyes were stranger than the pitch black pools I'd seen on the night he wanted to kill us. They were brighter, but still so vacant, like light reflecting off a marionette's marble eyes.
His sleeve was pushed up. Several patches of skin were gray, discolored, dull red holes along their edges. Unmistakable bruises left behind by a junkie shooting up. I'd seen it plenty of times on ride alongs with daddy as a little girl.
This wasn't a man to reason with sober, let alone tripping out of his mind. I reached for the nearest whiskey bottle I could find and shoved it across the counter.
He popped the cap and took a long swig, pouring the crap down his throat like it was cream soda. “You remember who you're working for. I would've blown your girl's brains out if Brass and Blackjack hadn't pussied out. You're here at our mercy. This club doesn't need any parasites when it's fighting for its life. We fucking own you, and your little girl. We can stomp you both like a fucking flea any time we choose.”
He winked, and pointed his free hand at me like a gun. “BANG BANG! You're dead, cunt. Think I'd start on little sissy first, though.” he growled.
Pretty sure my heart stopped then. My fingers trembled as I heard his death threat echoing in my head, the cold, calm closeness to murder. I was still pinching the rag in my burning fingers when he was finally gone.
“Missy.”
I nearly hit the ceiling. I threw the rag on the counter and spun. Angry, shaken, and ready to face trouble. Brass was there on the other side of the bar, one hand braced against the granite.
“How'd it go?” he asked, smooth as an assistant manager checking in on me at some bullshit job.
“Your friend with the thorns on his face just told me how much he'd like to kill Jackie. How the hell do you think?”
Anger roiled his face, a more violent, masculine mirror of mine. “Fuck. Don't listen to that shithead. He's always been a twisted little fuck since the minute I got to Redding. Come on. Let's fucking go.”
He grabbed the rag and cleaner off the counter and held them for me while I quickly pushed dusty bottles back into place. I'd have to pick up on this nightmare job tomorrow.
When our stuff was put away, we left, riding along the bluish fading horizon on his Harley. This time, I practically jabbed my nails into his stomach, trying to hurt him whenever he made a turn.
I never asked for any of this shit. And I definitely wasn't cut out for it – not for dealing with these animals.
It was just my first day on the 'job' – and calling it that was being painfully generous – and I was totally ready to lose it.
Jackie's words stabbed deep in my mind over and over. Slaves. That's exactly what we were, shackled to work with these brutes until we were dead or they finally got tired of us.
And what then? I thought about Serial.
BANG BANG!
I pressed my hands tight around Brass' waist. Rage churned in my veins, so potent I refused to recognize how seductive his stupid sexy abs were beneath my hands.
What if we never came back? Jackie would eventually break, leave the apartment, and run, wouldn't she?
I chewed my lip, seriously considering hurling my fingernails into Brass' eyes, making him wreck the bike before we got off the highway. But killing him and snapping my own neck wouldn't get us out of this. Not without giving my sister more hellish memories that would haunt her for the rest of her life.
I wanted it to be easy with him. Just once. I wanted to treat him like one of them, an easy target for my hatred, my pain, my will to survive.
Brass parked the Harley next to the apartment and switched it off. Quickly climbing off, he faced me, ripping off my helmet before I could work off the strap myself.
“Fucking shit, babe. I thought you were gonna tear a hole in my guts the whole ride here. What's eating you?”