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Since our run-in with her FBI agent ex, Parker had been more focused than ever. I had no doubt that finding my dad’s killer was still her top priority, but it didn’t hurt that she was motivated to show that asshole what she was capable of.
“Let’s go.”
The Ape Hanger made the Moose look like the Ritz. The only word I could use to describe this place was scuzzy. I wasn’t usually weird about germs. How could I be? I had spent my childhood in the woods. But hot damn, I already wanted to shower in a full vat of Purell.
The parking lot was unpaved, and rows of motorcycles were lined up, despite the fact that it was three p.m. on a Wednesday and the middle of winter.
The building was wide and squat, with small windows high on either side of the entrance. An old neon sign that probably hadn’t worked in years hung above a scratched door that was hanging off its hinges and rotted in some spots.
The lights inside were dim. One wall was covered in dartboards, while pool tables took up the open space in the center of the establishment. There was an old-school jukebox in the corner playing a hard rock song I didn’t recognize, and the linoleum floors were covered in at least an inch of grime.
But Parker was oblivious to it all. She was in the zone, watching every patron and employee, soaking in every detail as she traipsed through the bar with a disarming smile.
Heads turned. Every damn one of them. Making the hairs on my arms stand up.
This place was packed for a Wednesday afternoon. I guess bikers did not keep business hours.
Parker was wearing skintight jeans with combat boots and a soft black sweater that kept falling off one shoulder, revealing her bra strap. Her hair was down, and she’d put on dark eyeliner and deep red lipstick. She looked a little hard edged and sinfully sexy.
She walked up to the bartender, a grizzled man who was somewhere between his midforties and his sixties. It was hard to tell. His face was weathered and tan under a long white beard that hung halfway down his chest, and he wore a leather vest over a black T-shirt.
Tattoos peeked out of the collar of his shirt and snaked down both arms.
“Hello,” Parker singsonged in that girly voice that made people underestimate her, just like she wanted them to.
“You lost, sweetheart?” the old guy asked, his arms still crossed.
She plopped onto a stool, putting her purse on the scratched bar top. “Oh no. I only came for a drink. Whatcha have on tap?”
“We don’t got any girlie shit.”
She leaned forward with a grin. “Good. Because I’m in the mood for whiskey. How about a shot of Jameson and a beer to chase?”
Behind her, I hovered closer. The back of my neck was already dotted with sweat. “You with her?” he grunted.
I nodded. “I’ll have the same.”
“And pour yourself one,” she said, her smile never wavering. “What did you say your name was?”
“Didn’t.”
“It’s Otter,” someone hollered from the pool table.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Otter,” Parker said with a prim nod.
He placed two beers in front of her and scowled. “Really. What are you doing here?”
She tossed her hair, and her smile turned even sweeter. “Day drinking. My friend Pascal over here needs to loosen up.” She threw a thumb over her shoulder, and every eye followed, glaring.
“He’s got a big ole stick up his ass. So I saw this place and figured you probably pour a strong drink.”
Otter’s lip quirked. It was probably the closest he came to smiling. Then he busied himself pouring our whiskeys.
Damn. That was all it took for her to disarm them. The interest died down and people mostly went back to their conversations.
With the waning scrutiny, I let my shoulders sag and took in my surroundings.
There were probably two dozen men here, all of whom looked like bikers. But only about half wore the Marauders vest. While there were hundreds of tattoos on display, no one was carrying a weapon, that I could see at least, and they were all either immersed in easy conversation or playing darts.
