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Fitting considering what I’m dealing with and the act she’s putting on. For as good as she looks, this chick’s got bite.
Which confirms what I already know—she’s got to go.
I come up from behind and place my lips near her ear. Only she’ll be able to hear me. Everybody else watches on like a dumbass.
“Sydney, huh?” I ask in a raspy whisper. “I’m going to make your life a living hell.”
Velma grows tired of me being a dick. She loudly clears her throat and asks me not to spoil the mood.
She’s another one who’s a spitfire; Tom fell for her the moment he saw she could serve a beer with her tits outandturn a wrench.
No wonder these two seem to get along. Leave it to Velma to hire a girl just ’cuz she’s got guts.
“Have at it,” I say to the rest of the room. “Let off some steam. Today didn’t go as we hoped. But Kings don’t stop. We always rise up.”
Several of the guys give hearty nods and make sounds of approval. Ozzie cries out for somebody to start up the greatest hits playlist on the stereos. I sulk off to get the fuck away from any loud music and heavy drinking.
Given how much of a fuckup today’s mission was, I’m in no mood.
We were supposed to intercept the Hellrazor’s next drug and armament shipment, crippling their operations big time. Instead, the lead we had turned out to be a dead end, and we were left chasing our tails like jackasses ‘til we figured out we’d missed the exchange altogether.
If we’re going to do damage to the Hellrazors, we’ve got to do better than today’s amateur hour.
On my way toward the back, I overhear Velma.
“Let’s get to work, girly,” she says, grabbing Sydney’s arm. “I’ll show you everything there is to know about being a barmaid at the Steel Saloon.”
I glare after them. It’d be a lot easier getting rid of the new girl if Velma and everybody else didn’t take such a liking to her.
* * *
Fast forward two hours, my mood hasn’t improved. But I have come out of the club office. Cash tricked me by talking me into taking a look at the repairs he’s made on his FXDB Street Bob. Earlier today during our ride, he borrowed an Electra Glide from our shop. As road captain and tail gunner, we know the ins and outs of each other’s bikes.
Once I came out of my cave, the others got me.
Ozzie supplied me a bottle of beer and tossed an arm around my shoulders. We wandered over to a table where he and Cash were sitting with Rhett “Bush” Bushman.
“You’ve had a hard day,” Ozzie says. “But don’t worry. ’Cuz the Tits on Heels are here to make everything better.”
Cash takes a drink from his Coke can, his blue eyes glinting like he’s about to laugh. “Are you trying to give Mace Sandie flashbacks?”
“My bad. What about one of the barmaids? They’re a little more respectable. The ones that don’t go full Tits on Heels.”
“Most do,” Cash says.
“There’s the new one,” Bush pipes up. One of the senior members from Tom’s early days in the club, he’s lanky, wrinkly, and grayed, but he can still hang with the best of ’em.
“A Black chick. I like it,” Ozzie says. “Very progressive.”
“More T&A around,” Bush adds from between gulps of his pint. “Always a good thing in my book.”
At their words, I seek her out on the saloon floor. She’s already working the room solo, jotting down orders and delivering them like she’s been with us for years, not hours.
My glare narrows watching her. “She needs to go. She doesn’t belong here.”
Ozzie’s grin drops off his face. “Bro, that’s not cool. We’re all the same color on the inside.”
“It’s not that, you asshole,” I snarl. “She’s up to no good. Look at her.”
