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“What the fuck is the pocket pouch?” he questioned with fear butting up against curiosity.
“Unlike tighty-whities that are supposed to secure the package, men who strip wear g- string speedos that have extra room for bills.”
“Oh shit.” Chief shifted on his barstool and guzzled down the last of his beer. “Y’all stick your hand there?”
“Not usually, although exceptions can be made. But the men tend to stuff for the ladies after they snap the bill to their string.”
“Realistically? This is something women would pay money for?” he questioned as both women nodded feverously.
“Yes, and lord knows outside of heading to Vegas we aren’t going to find one a few miles from the exit. Worse yet we don’t get stops in Montana for the traveling ones very often. Preacher Girl’s bachelorette party was a fluke of timing.”
“Have Dreamer oil you down, hang your pants low and take some pictures for promo. Seriously, we could advertise and sell tickets on top of you making money shaking your ass.”
“Fine, me sure, three or four shots of tequila and the clothes break away like the seams were stitched with dissolving thread, but you need more than me,” he reasoned.
“I talked you into it,” she said. “I’ll get you a crew, but you have to dance. It’s a job, it’s entertainment and of course we’ll be more than happy to help you with the moves.”
“Give me a shot of courage,” he said shaking his head. “Because I need to talk to the Ol’ Lady.”
Porsche poured a shot of whiskey and Chief did a full body shiver after he downed it, but she had a feeling it wasn’t from the alcohol burn. Turning on his stool he gathered himself then headed out the door.
“You think she’ll let him do it?” Michele asked.
“Doesn’t matter,” Porsche said, a warmth seeping up into her bones. “Even if she doesn’t we can make him be a waiter and I’ll get the other guys to do it.”
Porsche finished her night at the Roadhouse and headed home. In the morning she would meet up with Nightingale. Sure the woman would help her with the fundraiser because her fiancé would have to be a highlighted act. Her man, road name Mountain, was nearly seven feet tall and tapped into his Norse roots well. Him in a Viking outfit or dressed as a lumberjack. Fuck that he’d be a lumber snack. With Dreamer’s help getting promo pics they could really bring in money.
Driving home she knew it was going to be a long night. She didn’t feel tired because her mind was slightly going off the rails with a million ideas spinning at top speed. Walking into her apartment she threw her keys and purse on the counter then opened the fridge. Grabbing out a mixed berry flavored sports drink, she cracked it open and took a long swallow from the bottle. Recapping it she pressed the cold plastic to the side of her face.
Settling in at her little dinette table she snagged her phone and decided to go through her social media accounts. This was her life. When she had moods like today then the night which sent her down a planning path it was really hard for her to sleep. She’d been like this since she was a teenager. Grabbing onto an idea and hoping she could hold on through the end. Only endings were hard. Planning, plotting, dreaming, that she could do it was the follow through where she had and issue.
It was why she was still dancing a decade later. Money first for the basics, then necessity, each paying and being wasted on fly by night ideas that were good in theory, but never in practice. Ju-Co classes one or two at time that she’d drop before it would stay on her record that she actually attended a class.
Wandering through her apartment she scanned her phone with videos on auto play as she washed her face after tying the blonde hair she was sporting this week up into a bun. Plopping in her recliner she found the remote and turned on the TV. Flipping the footrest out she leaned back in the recliner, finally able to close her eyes only to be assaulted with memories of her life before Montana.
Dreamer had come from New Mexico after being removed from her abusive boyfriend Clive’s life. Only Porsche had been there first. Ironically saved by the same woman who’d found Dreamer. Dell, who is married to the Vice Prez and founder of the Steel MC, Titan ‘Steel’ Malone. While the woman had held her hand as she gave her story to the cops that eventually arrested Clive having him resurface because he was tracking down Dreamer had caused nightmares to return. The fear creeping up her spine as the man, now dead, stared accusingly across from her with hard eyes bent on getting his pound of flesh.
Who said ghosts can’t hurt you never had Clive giving them the death glare until the lights were flipped back on and his image vaporized into the shadows again. In New Mexico she started working for the club, but a call came for Hoez to help establish a new charter in Montana. While she rarely left the compound in New Mexico because Clive was alive, well, and on probation nearby. In Montana she had space, freedom to roam without worrying about seeing the man who pledged undying love to her.
After Clive was killed, her life suddenly didn’t look so bleak. She checked out schools that weren’t online, went in search of apprenticeships and even looked into franchise opportunities. He was gone so why was she still worried? The weight lifting from her shoulders only to return if a man came around too much. While she had her men that beelined to her the moment they landed in Turnabout from Albuquerque, they knew it was for the weekend. Her mother used to say that she had a broken picker and she probably gave Porsche one too. Only Porsche had more than a handful of examples of men that weren’t fuckers, who treated their women right and with reverence. That didn’t make them responsible for the air they breathe. Maybe Doc is right, she should work through the trauma she suffered, but it was hard to speak the words aloud. As if verbalizing them gave them life instead of freeing them to escape her mind.
With an aching back because she never made it to her bed, Porsche was greeted by the rising sun. Three long stretches and a hard yawn later she was ready to take on the day and her latest project. Taking a quick shower, she dressed and got ready to leave.
Driving back into town she walked up the steps of Amber’s house. She knocked on the door only to be quickly greeted by Maisie, the woman’s nine-year-old daughter, who opened the door without fear or questions.
“Porsche!” The little girl’s arms wrapped tightly around her waist before she could even try to protest the contact. “You’re blonde!”
“Maisie it’s good to see you.” Ruffling the girl’s dark blonde hair that was a mess of snarls from a mean case of bedhead. “Heard blondes have more fun and wanted to be part of the club. Where is your mom?”
Nightingale walked to the top of the stairs of the split level home they were renting from the club and shook her head.
“Maisie, do you have to hug everyone?” Amber laughed.
“Porsche’s my friend, that’s why I hug her.” Maisie led Porsche and her mother into the kitchen, before sitting down at the table to finish her breakfast.
“I thought the kids had school today?” Porsche asked.
“It’s Saturday,” Nightingale pointed out and Porsche shook her head at the way the days melded and mixed to the point that for her one night might as well be another. “That being said, Dreamer’s trying to stick close to the other schools in the state’s schedules and so spring break is upon us all.”
