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“You sure you want to get out here, miss?”
“Yes.” I throw some cash over the seat and slide out, following Joey at a distance into the warehouse-style building in the compound's center.
“Stop following me,” Joey calls over her shoulder, sounding annoyed. So much for being incognito. Since she knows I’m here, I hurry after her, catching her on the steps.
“No. Come back to the wake.”
“No.”
Shrugging me off, Joey walks into the building. I follow her, finding myself in a large bar with music coming from a jukebox, bikers in their leather vests playing pool, and a motorcycle mounted on a small stage in one corner.
In front of me, Joey is immediately swarmed by a group of women with as many tattoos as her and fewer clothes.
“Who is that?” a blonde one asks, her arm around Joey’s shoulder. She’s talking about me because she’s staring over at me. Joey casts an angry glare over her shoulder, turning away dismissively.
“The spawn of Satan,” she grumbles. “She’s leaving.”
Um, no, I’m not. Not without Joey. Squaring my shoulders, ignoring the women who are all glaring at me now, I march my ass over to the long wooden bar, sitting it down on a barstool and waving to the young guy in a leather jacket who is wiping glasses.
“Vodka. Neat. Please.”
“I thought you were leaving?”
Turning my head, I look at the good-looking blond man, maybe in his early thirties. He has eyes so green they are almost emerald and geometric flower tattoos all over his arms. He’s leaning on the bar next to me, watching me carefully.
“Not until she does,” I grit out. The man’s eyes dart over to Joey, landing back on me as he smirks. I eye his vest – I think they’re called a cut – and all the sewn-on patches.D. Martin. Viper. Secretary. 1%er. One of Joey’s many biker conquests. Maybe he’s going to throw me out. Wouldn’t that be the icing on top of a shitty day?
The bartender places a large glass of vodka in front of me. I hope I get to finish my drink first if I'm being thrown out. The wake won’t have any alcohol, and I need this. Badly. I fumble with my purse, trying to remember if I have cash after what I spent on my unexpected cab ride, but the blond guy waves my money away.
“It’s on me.”
My eyes narrow. He’s buying me a drink? He better not expect anything for it. That’s not how I operate.
“I can pay,” I mumble, still groping in my purse for any cash I can find.
“You seem like you’ve had a rough day.”
Yeah, he’s not wrong about that. What the hell. One drink can’t hurt. Abandoning my search for cash, I snatch up the glass, shooting the vodka and wincing as it burns down my throat. I don’t often drink, but when I do, it’s not vodka neat. He’s still watching me, his eyebrows raised. I guess I owe him an explanation as payment for the drink.
“Buried my mama today,” I croak, still feeling the burn of the alcohol.
His eyes dart between Joey and me, and he raps his knuckles on the bar.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
For whatever reason, his words of condolence are the only ones that penetrate my consciousness today. I blink back a tear. I’m not about to cry in the middle of a biker clubhouse. Joey would never let me live it down.
“It was for the best,” I admit. “She was in a lot of pain at the end.”
“Joey never mentioned.”
I can’t stop my snort in time, and his eyebrows raise again.
“Joey never visited.”
