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I used it as a stress reliever.
When you’re in the middle of the battle zone, sex is more of a reminder that you’re alive than anything else, a base human interaction that your body craves after seeing, breathing and touching death.
I had a regular thing going with a photojournalist from Sweden.
We both knew the score.
I hadn’t heard from him since I’d been back.
He could be dead for all I knew.
It was better not to know.
So using sex for a story wasn’t something that was beyond my journalistic morals or ethics. Morals had little place in the real world. And if I wasn’t going to use sex, then I’d have to find something more creative and a heck of a lot less legal as a reason to find myself in the clubhouse.
And Scarlett seemed to be my guardian angel in that respect. If angels wore tight red dresses with a neckline that plunged almost to her belly button and hemline barely covering her ass.
“Can you tend a bar?” she asked after a beat, after assessing me with those hard, sharp eyes and coming to some kind of conclusion about me.
I was outwardly calm, forcing myself not to think she’d recognized me. Even if the men had seen me on the news, I doubt they’d connect the woman on screen in the bulletproof vest and dirty helmet labeled ‘Press’ with the brunette who had blowjob lips and half her tits out.
Women, on the other hand, were more observant. More dangerous.
I regarded her for a long second, sipping my beer. “Slinging cocktails put me through college,” I said. It was the truth. Because when working with big lies, it was important to tell as many small truths as possible.
She grinned and it made me relax. It wasn’t an easy smile, something told me this woman didn’t smile easily, it wasn’t exactly warm either, but it was genuine. “Can’t say this job will be slinging many cocktails, unless Gwen or fuckin’ Amy find themselves up here, in that case, you better know how to make a Cosmo. Or at least surrender the bar so they can make them themselves.”
“Gwen and Amy?” I repeated, though I knew exactly who they were. Though the club had tried to keep the events of the past few years in Amber quiet, it didn’t completely escape notice, considering Amy Abrams was the daughter of a prominent New York family. Both her and Gwen Alexandra—now Fletcher—were regulars on Page Six before they both moved to Amber.
Both of them going through various traumas throughout their courtships with the now president and vice of the Sons of Templar MC.
“Old Ladies,” Scarlett continued. “Amber chapter.” She paused. “Fuck, I guess I’m one of them now too,” she muttered as an afterthought. Then her heavily black-rimmed eyes went to a man in the corner who had had his eyes on her since she approached me. I knew this because I knew how to read the room. Especially the danger in it. Especially dangerous men who were hot as anything and bore a striking resemblance to WWE wrestlers.
“Your Old Man, I’m guessing?” I nodded my head in the direction of the man who was staring at Scarlett’s ass.
She grinned, turning to give him a heated look. “Yeah, still getting used to that title.” She turned back to me. “I’m not exactly in this chapter anymore, but Hansen mentioned the club finally bit the bullet—so to speak—and bought The Rock. Cheaper than paying for damages whenever there are brawls or shootouts every weekend. Need a bartender.” She looked me up and down. “You scare easily? Squeamish with blood?”
I thought about the explosions that had rocked me to sleep, about the bodies strewn on the side of the road, rogue limbs after a car bomb. “No and no.”
She nodded once. “Didn’t think so. Reckon you can handle yourself with this lot too. I’m not gonna say that their bark is worse than their bite, ‘cause they don’t bite as much as rip your fucking head off if you cross them.” She didn’t smile as she said this.
Another warning.
That strange feeling hit me again. That certainty that Scarlett knew what I was doing and was giving me another out.
If I said no, then I might be able to walk out of here with a tame story that might sell as a back-page interest story. Or it would become a memory.
I nodded once. “So noted.”
“You start tomorrow.”
One Week Later
“Caroline, when are you gonna finally realize you’re in love with me and get your fine ass on the back of my bike?” Claw asked as I handed him his beer.
I flashed him a genuine smile—him, and many of the men had grown on me in the past week since I’d started at the bar. Now that the club owned it, they were here almost every night. Which was perfect for me. I’d met every member, even the club’s recently patched president, Hansen. He’d been friendly and told me to let him know if anyone gave me any trouble.
