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I gave her a self-conscious smile. “I’m sorry, I only met you two minutes ago and here I am already prying.”
But she waved it off. “Don’t be silly. You’ll know my story soon enough. You can’t keep anything quiet around here, you’ll learn that real quick.” She smiled brightly. “Come on, let me show you around.”
The clubhouse was massive. The bar was just one small portion of the ginormous building. Just past the jukebox was a corridor leading to a huge kitchen, some kind of hall, and a couple of restrooms. Off the main corridor was a second smaller one.
“That’s where the bedrooms are,” Cherry explained. “Every King gets one.”
There must’ve been a lot of bedrooms, because the hallway descended out of view and into darkness. “And that over there is Bull’s office.” She pointed to a closed door with PRESIDENT burned into the timber. My eyes lingered, wondering if Bull was in there, and my tummy did a strange little dance.
As if she could read my mind, Cherry added, “He’s not here. He and Ruger are out somewhere, and I’m not sure when they’ll be back.”
An odd disappointment dampened the excitement in my stomach.
“And this over here,” she said, leading me around the corner, “is the Showcase. The Kings of Mayhem pride and joy.”
“Wow,” I said, taking in the huge glass case running the length of the wall. Behind the glass was an eclectic collection of old biker belongings, framed photographs, letters, helmets, dog tags, and other personal items. It was fascinating. And in the center of it all was an old chopper pilot helmet with the name HUTCH scratched into the brow. On the wall behind it was an enlarged black-and-white photo of a very handsome young man. He was sitting in the cockpit of a helicopter, wearing Army greens and the helmet. I leaned in closer to read the description written in the corner. “Hutch Calley. Vietnam, 1966.”
This was the man Pickles had spoken about. The man he’d brawled with at the roadhouse all those years ago.
“Hutch started the Kings of Mayhem when he came back from Vietnam. He was the original president,” Cherry said.
“Was?”
“He died some years back. Way before my time. He was my husband’s granddaddy.”
“Your husband is a biker?”
Her eyes softened. “He was.”
Across from the showcase was a wall of framed photographs. She pointed to one, it was of a gorgeous blond man with twinkling blue eyes and a cute, dimpled smile.
“That was taken about six months before he was killed.”
“Oh, Cherry, I’m so sorry.”
She smiled but it was closed-lipped and full of sadness. “He’s been gone a few years now. The world has moved on. It’s time for me and my boys to move on, too.”
“Is that why you’re leaving?” I asked softly.
“I need a fresh start. My sister moved to Jacksonville about six months ago and I really miss her. And as much as I love it here, I can’t seem to move forward as long as I’m walking these halls. I miss him too much, you know?”
I looked at the faces in the other photos. “Who are these people?”
“This is the Wall of Fallen Family. Any King or his Queen who have died are up there.”
“You mean, all these people have died?”
She nodded and I was taken aback. There were so many of them.
“Who is that?” I asked, pointing to a photograph of a beautiful young woman with shiny, caramel-colored hair and skin the color of toffee.
“That’s Mirabella. She was murdered by the same man who killed my husband.” She pointed to three other photos. “He killed all of them as well. It was a revenge thing. But the psychopath got his just desserts. He’s rotting in a jail cell up at Parchman Farm.”
Parchman Farm was a maximum-security prison over in Sunflower County, about seventy-five miles from here.
She pointed to a photograph of another biker. His face was hidden by a full beard and shaggy, shoulder-length hair, but I could see he had kind eyes.
“His name was Jacob. He was married to Mirabella. He couldn’t cope with her death, so he laid his bike down in front of a truck.”
I squeezed my eyes shut. When I opened them, I was again struck by the number of faces looking down at me from the wall.
And quite a few of them were women.
“The MC world can be exciting. And to me, it’s family. But it’s also dangerous and definitely not for the faint-hearted.” She gave me a warm smile. “You look real sweet, and the boys are going to lose their shit over you, but if I can give you one bit of advice?”
“Sure,” I shrugged.
“Don’t give your heart to a biker.” She toyed with a crown pendant around her neck. “Because you’ll never get it back again.”
TAYLOR
Working at the clubhouse was a lot easier than working at Slingers. No handsy men with bourbon spilled down the front of their shirts, and a hard dick in their pants, as they made a grab for my ass.
