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“We can have the old ladies put together a merch booth like at the semi-annuals.”
“Mick can grill out back.”
“We’ll set up a couple bikes by the Chop Shop.”
I watch my idea blossom into more than even I imagined. My confidence returns with a smile.
“I’m glad you like my idea,” I say. “We can get started planning—”
“There is no we.”
For a second time, things in the club drop off. Everybody recognizes that Mason has spoken, which means they better shut up.
I realize it’s me he’s speaking to—from halfway across the saloon he’s eying me, his face a callous mask.
There’s no mistaking it. He hates that I’ve involved myself.
He hates me. He always will.
I decide to clarify. “I didn’t mean to include myself—”
“Good,” he snaps. “Because you’re not one of us. You’re not a club girl. You’re not an old lady. You’re nothing here.”
“Mace,” Ozzie mutters.
Mason ignores him. If anything, his green eyes darken with loathing. “You have one job and one job only. You serve us beer. That means you keep your mouth shut, go back and grab some more bottles, and do your fucking job. You got that?”
I feel like I’ve been slapped across the face. His words sting enough. My cheeks heat up and prickle as if struck by a heavy palm.
The other club members exchange uncertain glances as though tempted to defend me, but conflicted due to Mason being acting president. As a result, they simply sit in silence as I stand in humiliation.
For once, Mason’s done it. He’s chinked my armor.
There’s something about the way he spoke to me, the way he scolded me like I mean nothing, that was a little too personal.
It hit a little too close to home. My wound nobody knows I have.
Mason’s right.
I’m not one of them. Because I don’t belong here. I don’t belong anywhere. That’s always been my curse as an orphan.
Pop was the last person I had. The last family…
“Excuse me,” I mutter, turning to go. I’m gone from the bar floor before anyone can call me back.
9
SYDNEY
“You really are me,”Velma cackles, blowing cigarette smoke.
It’s early morning, and I haven’t even had my coffee yet. Velma’s perched at the bar counter of the saloon, smoking over a plate of cheesy eggs and black coffee.
I slide onto the stool next to hers and reach over the counter to nick a mug and the coffee pot. “I’m sorry… what are you talking about?”
“You, girly. You are me.”
“And I am you..?” I finish, confused.
