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I glance down, praying that it’s not something else, and realize a little too late that there’s some blood splattered on my shoes. I should have checked better when I was in the parking lot, but the flashlight on my phone was the only light out there. And the last thing I need is to be found alone on the Asphalt Zombies’ property.
Walking in here was a mistake, but I’m already here so…
No one notices me at first. The guys are all in groups around square tables, some arguing over who-knows-what while strippers hang off of others. Some of the women are naked, and one lucky fella has a bouncing brunette on his lap. There’s a bulky, dirty looking man getting a blowjob in the far, dark corner of the room.
Wonderful.
I’m not at all jealous that these women are getting attention when my own Thursday night fling ended… violently.
To say the least.
The biker bitch behind the bar cuts her deep brown eyes at me as I perch on the barstool. Her false eyelashes are hanging off her left eyelid, the glue nonexistent after hours of sweating. If her looks could kill, I’d probably bleed out from all the paper cuts her shrewd gaze is throwing at me.
She’s fucked up.
That’s okay, though.
My family’s drugs are top quality.
From what I hear. I don’t actually sample our supplies. Or any supplies. No drugs is one of my rules.
“You wandered into the wrong club, doll,” she says by way of greeting.
She’s lovely.
I smile sweetly at the buxom, red-headed bartender, but I’m not really a sweet person. It’s a hard expression for me to pull off. The way her face morphs as she takes in my appearance shows me she sees me for what I am, not who I am.
Thank fuck.
“I’m here to meet Riot,” I tell her, just loud enough for her to hear me over the shitty metal music and the ruckus in the room. “I’ll take a shot of tequila, too.”
The bar becomes oddly quiet behind me. The only sounds to be heard are the scuff of boots, the rattle of chains, and the kickass guitar solo in whatever song is playing.
Tits McBitchy slams my shot down and trots to the other side of the bar to busy herself as the noises grow louder at my back. The music fades away from my consciousness.
The back of her cut says Property of Scrappy, and I have to fight a snort. All I can picture is the troublesome puppy on Scooby Doo, which makes me wonder if I should call her Daphne.
Now isn’t really the time to get sidetracked.
I take my shot, utterly unflinching after the evening I’ve had, and slam my glass upside-down on the edge of the bar. I’m done, but she’s already decided she’s not serving me any more.
Tits thinks I shouldn’t be here, and she’s not totally wrong. I mean, right idea but wrong reasons. I won’t hold it against her. Much.
This is another reason why I hate dealing with the bikers on their own turf. They’re so unwelcoming, even though all the drugs in this building touch my hands before they get them.
Metaphorically.
I don’t physically touch any of it. My family has people for that. Loads of them; from So-Cal to Texas to Mexico. High places, low places, law enforcement, businessmen. They all use our drugs.
Three bikers step up behind me. They’re so close I can feel their heat press into me and smell the musty body odor wafting off them. They’ve been riding all day under the Southern California sun, sweating their balls off while they make deliveries supplied by people on my family’s payroll.
I keep my back to them, unconcerned by their presence.
There’s a loaded gun in the waistband of my shorts, an extra clip in the pouch of my hoodie, and a knife strapped to my left forearm. When I walked in, there were twenty-six people in the main room. Three have left, two have gone down the hall, and Tits McBitchy just stepped into the back.
I’ll take my chances.
They won’t recognize me, but they’ve all heard my name. The whispers that surface about Jasper make me giddy with delight. Even the hearsay from within my family’s organization.
