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I left even faster than I did at the strip club.
I reassessed my game plan.
I could try to get a bartending job. Not to brag, but I’m not hard on the eyes, especially in a low-cut t-shirt. But then my nights would be tied up, and I needed to be free to do recon.
Office job? No go. I could type about ten words per minute, if that. And a private investigator job was out of the question. Not if I wanted to infiltrate a gang.
I had about five grand saved, but it wouldn’t last forever – and I would look reaallly suspicious if I were just hanging around with nothing to do all day except shadow bikers. So I settled for the standby of every young woman who comes to a new town with stars in her eyes, then abruptly falls hard onto reality, the most unforgiving surface of all.
I got a waitressing job.
6
“Charlie’s” was a greasy-spoon diner on the wrong side of the tracks. I figured they probably saw every disreputable type come in there, so why not? What better way to find out about the seedy underbelly of a town than to serve them breakfast and lunch?
Turns out I was more right than I knew.
I started the day after I applied. My coworkers were older women, sassy types who flirted with the regulars. The customers cut a broad swath: truckers, lots of blue collar workers, and a handful of seedier types who looked like they might be working off some sort of chemical bender.
I mostly kept to myself. I didn’t give a damn about tips; I was there to earn a few bucks and keep my eyes open.
They were open wide when he walked in.
It was Wednesday morning, 7 AM, and I was half-dead from staking out the Seven Veils the night before.
Suddenly in walked two of the most incredibly attractive men I’d ever seen in my life.
One was young, probably mid-twenties. Long, blond hair to his shoulders, clean-cut face with incredible cheekbones, six foot one, body like a college football running back. He had dead eyes and a humorless face.
He was hot enough, though his cold exterior made him off-putting. But the second guy…
…daaaaaaaamn.
He was older, probably early thirties. Short haircut, neatly trimmed beard in a Hollywoodian style. (Not Hollywood; Hollywoodian. It’s a thing, go look it up. And look at George Clooney or Ryan Gosling instead of the other dudes on Google Images.)
Full sleeves of tats down his arms, done in basic black – some menacing, all surprisingly artistic. Six foot two or three. He had piercing blue eyes, dark brown hair, suntanned skin, broad shoulders, a muscular frame, and a face that could have been selling Armani suits in a GQ spread. He looked like Gerard Butler in the movie 300 – Leonidas, king of the Spartans.
And just like Leonidas in that movie, he walked with authority. He exuded power – but quietly. The barest hint of swagger, but nothing ostentatious. The way a man would walk into a room if he knew he owned it, and everyone in it, but didn’t need to prove it to anybody.
Which was odd, because this wasn’t much of a royal court, and they weren’t dressed particularly well. The blond 20-something wore blue mechanic’s coveralls that were obviously from the beginning of the shift, because they didn’t have a trace of oil or grime on them – yet. The 30-something dude was dressed in navy pants and a navy shirt, like he was management at the same place. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, showing off his tats and his muscular forearms. Both of their uniforms sported patches that said, “Pollari’s Body Shop.”
He caught my eye as he strolled past, and there was a twinkle there. His eyes crinkled in a friendly manner as he smiled, and he even swiveled his head a little as he walked past me to take me in.
As for me, I couldn’t take my eyes off him. I was used to seeing pretty boys all the time in LA. It took me a little by surprise to see a hot-as-hell, grown-ass man.
Then he was past, and he and the mechanic sat in a far booth. Vera, one of the older waitresses, went over to take their orders. The blond Viking was still cold and aloof, but the brown-haired guy was courteous, if not exactly talkative. Once their orders were in, they hunched over the table and talked in whispers, as though they were planning something momentous.
I kept my eyes on them, especially on Mr. Spartan – mostly because I couldn’t tear them away. The leader (that’s how I thought of the older guy, and that’s how the younger guy treated him) was just too damn hot, and the rest of my existence just too damn boring, to do anything else.
He even caught me checking him out a couple of times. Every single time, I quickly turned away like I was back in 7th grade and the popular boy had caught me staring. I even blushed a little, but I think having my back turned hid that.
I tried to keep my mind on other things, but there weren’t any Midnight Riders club members to spy on, and any other lowlifes in the joint were spectacularly uninteresting.
Especially the one who was currently irritating me the most.
“Hey sugar tits,” he drawled, “gimme some damn coffee.”
As the new girl, I had to work the counter. The counter was usually single men, the tips were crap, and you tended to draw the most charming elements of the human species. This particular Neanderthal was an overweight trucker with greasy hair and a nose redder than Rudolph’s, probably from rotgut whiskey. He smelled like he hadn’t had a shower in weeks. His baseball cap sported the silhouette of one of those mudflap stripper girls next to the words I’D RATHER BE FUCKIN’.
