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Grumbling, I put my head on the bar. How on earth do I explain this to them?
I think I want to fuck my stepbrother and now we are playing some weird sex game where if I win, he will give me money?
It sounds crazy, even for me.
I know my friends here won't judge me, but over the past few months, I've learnt they are very protective of me. This could end badly, for everyone.
"My mind's in a weird place, that's all," I say, doing my best to placate them.
Volts scoffs as he slowly pours another shot. Vito signals to make it two, his fingers tapping the bar.
"How do you expect to play poker tonight in this state?" Vito asks, taking a shot from Volts. He downs it quickly, unfazed by the burn I know he would be tasting.
I pick up my own shot, throwing it back as I force myself to swallow it. My stomach feels like it's on fire, but slowly, I can feel the stress melt away as the alcohol makes its way into my system.
I push my empty glass towards Volts. "It's fine. Gives a nice little sense of false security. They won't see me coming."
But someone else did…
My eyes widen which does not go unnoticed by the two men staring at me. They shake their heads, but don't question me any further.
Footsteps sound behind me, and I look over my shoulder to see Butch approaching. He stops, looking between the three of us, before his eyes finally stop on my face.
"You're drunk," he says simply.
I shrug, giving him a smile. "Happy… whatever day it is."
Butch looks at Vito who puts his hands up in defence. "She did it on her own."
Ah, yes. This is true. Reminds me of my cousin, Danielle. She once told me I had a talent for attracting trouble. I laughed her off, but of course it's true. I'm in hot water, feeling myself slowly burning while trying to stay afloat.
"Guys, it's fine. Chill."
My legs hold me up surprisingly well as I stand, pushing my hair back. Tilting my head towards the doors at the back, I look at Butch. "Are you coming?"
He offers me an arm, like a gentleman, but I suspect it's to make sure I don't face plant the floor. I take it, letting him lead the way as I give a wave to Volts. Vito follows us, and when we enter the dark room, it takes me longer than usual to adjust to the dimly lit room. The smell of cigarettes and booze hit me, and I breathe it in, enjoying the release and escape.
Voices and laughter grow louder as we approach the table. Most of the occupants are friendly faces and as I slump into an empty chair, I dig out the wad of cash.
"Buy in," I say, waiting for chips.
A guy with dreadlocks snatches the cash, running his fingers along the notes as he counts. Grunting, he pushes over my chips, giving Butch a look who sits down beside me. I don't know this guy, but it's obvious he's well known. What confuses me though is the coldness in Butch's eyes as he watches the man carefully.
Another guy, Fex starts dealing out cards when the round finishes. I've played against Fex before – he's one of Butch's acquaintances. As he deals, Butch leans over to whisper in my ear.
"Be careful of that guy," he whispers, discreetly motioning to the dreadlock man. "He's not from our club. He's a Norseman."
That explains it. Butch and Vito are Rebels – one of the largest clubs in the area. I don't know the structure but from what I've gathered, Butch is quite well known in the charter in our area. There's a few smaller clubs, but the Norsemen are another big one. It always surprises me that bikers socialize at Wheels. Though, in fairness, they generally stick to hanging with their own club members.
There's been a few fights, but since no one wants Wheels to be closed down by the cops, they are usually disbanded pretty quickly.
I pick up my cards, throwing some chips in the center of the table. I'm a bit dizzy but I hold my face strong as I play my hands. Slowly, the number of players starts to dwindle. Soon enough, it's down to just me and the Norseman.
The other players have left, leaving just us, Butch and another guy. He's bald and I can see from his vest colors he is with the Norsemen too. His dark eyes scan over my face more often than I am comfortable with. But I ignore him, refusing to be intimidated. Volts comes and goes, taking drink orders. It's not common for a bartender to do this, but there's an unwritten rule about drinks when games are on.
I've nearly won all the chips, so when I see a straight I can play, I hold strong, calling all-in. As expected, the Norseman calls it so I throw down my cards to reveal my hand. He hisses angrily and I grin, reaching to grab the chips. But as my arms gather them, his hand shoots out, grabbing my wrist roughly in his grip.
"Did you cheat, bitch?" he growls.
