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EIGHT
KAI
Tobacco, sweat, and pungent male musk mixed in with the subtle aromas of rancid wheat and barley. That’s what you're met with the moment you walk into Killian’s. How else is a Motorcycle Clubhouse supposed to smell?
You don’t come here expecting roses and sunshine; you expect nothing but what I’m staring at right now. Burly, tattooed bikers obnoxiously laughing out loud and slamming jugs of cheap, stale beer over every tabletop, while short skirts parade around with their tits on full display, hoping to catch a ride on a Harley, or at least its rider.
Pathetic if you ask me. Luckily, no one does.
I set my empty bottle down on the bar to my right, bringing a lit joint between my lips. Two more hours and my gig is up. I hate Thirsty Thursdays here at Killian’s. Beer pitchers are half off, liquor shots are two for one, and the usual drunks get fucking wrecked. It’s a messy picture.
“Can I get ya anything else, Saint?” the chick behind the bar asks, leaning over the counter, giving me a clear glimpse into her V-neck crop top.
“Nah, Remi, I’m on the clock tonight.” Across the room, two guys hoot and holler while participating in an arm wrestling match. Yeah, it’s that kind of bar, your cliche, piece of shit dive bar in the middle of the ghetto.
“What a shame. Thought maybe you and I could sneak out back for my ten. I could use a smoke,” she says, coyly twirling her hair, her blue eyes hungrily roaming over me.
It’s sad really. “You think Zeke would be cool with that?” I ask, raising a brow in question. For some odd as fuck reason, my uncle Zeke, President of the Pleasant Hills Cobras, decided toadoptthe deviant twin sisters Scarlett met back when she worked for Wesley Servite. The unruly pair ofdancersbecame good friends of hers after she freed the little birds from Servite’s twisted cage, his corrupt hangout, The Gallows. Though how they ended up here in Pleasant Hills is still a mystery to me. Yet here they are, both tending the bar and waiting tables for him.
Remi straightens up, wiping the counter, before looking back at me. “Zeke doesn’t care what Lex and I do as long as we stay out of trouble, and despite what everyone around here believes, I don’t think you’re any trouble, Saint.”
I chuckle lightly, grabbing the bottle of beer she set down regardless of my refusal. “That’s your first mistake, Remi. You don't recognize trouble until it’s knocking down your door.”
“At least I own up to it and don’t act like something I’m not,” she snaps back, clearly annoyed I’ve called her out.
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” I shout defensively, leaning over the bar to meet her gaze.
She licks her lips at our closeness, “You’re no thug, Saint. You’re no Cobra. You come around the clubhouse, strutting like you own the place, like you're in charge, but you’re not one of them. You want nothing to do with these people or the shit they’re involved with, and it’s clear as day you don’t give a fuck about any of these guys. Except maybe for Zeke. My only question is, why’d he let you in now? From what I’ve heard, he’s always kept you at arm’s length.”
“You girls just showed up. You have no clue what goes on around here or what my part in all of this is. Zeke is my family, and the Cobras are his.”
She scoffs, flipping her unruly black hair over her shoulder. “Yet, you’re standing here arguing with me, bored out of your mind, counting down the minutes until your shift is over and you can get the hell out of here.”
Now it’s me who’s fucking annoyed, “Think what you want, I don’t give a shit about your opinion of me. I’ll catch you later, Remi.”
“It’s just an observation, Malachi. Take it as a compliment.” She sets a shot of tequila down on the counter. “You’re worth more than every single asshole in this place. Stop telling yourself otherwise.”
Ignoring her psychoanalysis of me, I walk away from the bar and toward the back entrance of the building, though not before throwing back the tequila. Remi might be a pain in the ass, but she’s also right about one thing. I’d rather be anywhere but here.
The door behind me opens loudly as the last person I thought I’d see walks through. He’s dressed in all black, a beanie covering his dark blond hair, and a hoodie thrown over it. Incognito if I’ve ever seen it.
“Roman Wolfe, what the fuck brings you here?” I yell, and I can see he’s just as surprised to see me. After the little scene he pulled the other day at his apartment, when Jade came over and confronted him about the shit that went down with their dad and Wesley, I’m surprised he’s parading around these parts of town.
He walks over to me, cracking his tattooed knuckles in a feeble intimidation attempt as he approaches. “I could ask you the same thing, but that cut you’re wearing answers my question.”
His scowl is directed at my leather jacket patched with The Cobras name and emblem across the back. It’s no secret that my uncle Zeke’s been at the helm of the Cobras for the last two decades, but he’s also done all he can to keep me out of their more illicit business dealings. However, that was until just over two weeks ago when he brought me on and into the rankings.
“I guess we’re all full of surprises.” I take the joint from my lips and pass it over to him.
He takes it and inhales, blowing out a ring of smoke. “Looks like it.”
I shake my head as he passes it back to me. “You still haven’t answered why you’re here. Last I heard, you were in hiding, and before that, working for Wesley Servite as his own personal hitman.”
“That was all before. I’m trying to get back in Jade’s good graces, which means staying the hell out of the dealings between the gangs around here.”
I look around the room full of tattooed thugs in leather jackets, who watch us intently, having noticed his arrival. “Well, looks like you’re off to a great start.”
“I’m here for information, nothing else. Something I’m sure is above your pay grade, so if you’d just point me toward your uncle, you can get back to your guard dog duties.”
