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“How do you know it was them?” Ozzie ponders aloud, scratching his head. “It could’ve been some college dipshits.”
“It was the Hellrazors. They had the patch on their rear bumper!” Brinkley explains with his saggy cheeks coloring red. “They’re after me ’cuz I refused to give them the same kinda prices I sell to the Kings for. They wanted my barley at discount. You know the prez owns that brewery in Wheaton. I shoulda just sold it to ’em for the price they wanted. It would’ve been a loss on my end… but now look. They took out half our produce we sell at the weekly markets. Probably would’ve gone for the barley too if they had the time…”
“No, fuck that,” I growl. “You don’t sell them shit at discount. This was payback ’cuz you’re loyal to us. You belong to our territory. They don’t get to dictate prices for shit that’s not theirs.”
“Then what are you gonna do about it?”
“Cálmate. No se preocupe, señor,” Tito says with a pat on Brinkley’s back. “We’ll handle it. Won’t we, brothers? The Kings… we got you.”
The reassuring words from Tito seem to do the trick—the color fades from Brinkley’s face and he gives a stiff nod.
We depart a few minutes later, walking back out to our bikes and talking over the situation.
“I say we go burn their shit down,” Ozzie says. “They’ve got farms in Wheaton.”
Cash gives Ozzie a disapproving look. “Punish small town farmers for what they did to this one?”
“Eye for an eye!”
“He’s got a point,” Tito admits.
“No innocents,” I say, swinging my leg over my bike, helmet in hand. “It’s the Hellrazors we’ve got beef with. They’re who we fuck up.”
Ozzie grins as the rumbles of our bikes fill the air. “I like fucking things up.”
* * *
You’d think the feud with the Hellrazors would be enough problems for one day. We return to the saloon only to be confronted by another problem. Mick, our bartender and manager of the bar, pulls me aside with a solemn look on his face.
“We’ve gotta talk club funds,” he says. “We’re underperforming, Mace.”
“You talk to Bush about this? He’s our treasurer.”
I walk out from under the cover where we’ve parked our bikes. On summer afternoons it keeps our rides safe from the sizzling hot sun; nobody likes to burn themselves touching steel and leather that’s been in the sun for hours.
Mick walks with me as we approach the saloon doors.
“I’ve brought it up with Bush. But he says we’re caught up on dues. It’s the saloon that’s not raking in as much dough. Some of our regulars haven’t been by in weeks. The result of Hellrazors running them off. We’ve gotta find another way in the meantime. I’m being told we can’t order things we need ’cuz we’re running short.”
“I’ll bring it up at our next club meeting.”
We push open the doors leading into the saloon to find it bursting with life—guys are shouting along to Ride The Wind by Poison with beer bottles in hand, and a game of poker’s going on in the middle of the bar.
Other than special occasions, the saloon’s rarely this packed midafternoon. I glance over at Mick for answers.
He shrugs. “Today’s business doesn’t negate what I said. It’s still too early to tell if this is a fluke or that new barmaid of yours got a gift.”
My mood darkens. It reflects on my face. “What you call a gift, I call a curse.”
“You see how she keeps the guys going? Look at her. It’s a damn talent she’s got.”
I turn my angry gaze on the bar floor. It’s easy picking her out of the crowd—Sydney’s presence instantly draws your attention to her. She’s standing at the table where the poker game’s going on, dressed in another tight top and even tighter jeans.
Fucking hell.
Her clothes might as well bepaintedon. The coke bottle outline of her body is distracting. The way her ass moves when she walks. The way her rack brushes up against the customers as she leans over tables and sets their beers down. The way she smiles at them and places a delicate hand on their shoulders to check if they’re okay.
She knows what she’s doing. She’s flirting with each and every one of them.
