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Bored, I picked up a washcloth, wiping down the bar, tables, and frequently touched surfaces, ensuring the place appeared clean.
The front door swung open as I glanced over, revealing four men I had never seen before tonight. Four strangers who didn’t belong here and certainly didn’t show up just to try the new beeron tap. All four wore leather vests, jeans, and boots. Silver chains dangled from a couple of belt loops, but the guns they didn’t bother to hide caught my attention the most.
Bikers. The wild type. They looked like determined, mean motherfuckers too. Outlaws. One-percenter motorcycle club members.
Shit.
Not a single one of them was scrawny. In fact, they all resembled pro wrestlers or bodybuilders. Bulging muscles, broad shoulders that tapered to trim abdomens, and not an ounce of fat. Not to mention plenty of dark tattoos. They didn’t hesitate, walking inside like they could do what they pleased. They spread out, quick to block any exit, sharp gazes quickly assessing the interior for hidden dangers.
Two of them were giants, ducking to avoid slamming their heads into the door as they entered. One with long dark hair that brushed his shoulders, stick straight and thick, wearing a skeletal mask over his face. He wore all black leather, any small bits of exposed skin covered in dark ink. The other, a handsome and rugged type that reminded me of a Viking, had reddish-blond hair and multiple braids swept back beyond the shaved sides of his head. A long beard helped conceal his features, but something about his eyes made me shiver.
One of the four, probably the leader, stepped forward with his assertive expression and plenty of confidence. A patch labeledpresidentadhered to the front of his vest.
His black hair was slicked back and slightly tousled, begging for someone to tidy the strands. I noted the style, longer on top and short on the sides, fading in that fresh-cut way you only saw right after a visit to the barber. His dark beard added a rough but attractive hint of rebellion. Not that a biker obeyed the law or even cared about following rules. Of the four, his clothes were the most wrinkle-free and crisp.
The president remained silent, his gaze roaming over me as if waiting on something.
The fourth one, wearing a cowboy hat over shaggy brown hair, boots with spurs, faded, ripped jeans, and a playful smirk, strode my way with a swagger none of his friends could have pulled off. Golden skin dotted with a few tattoos, cleanshaven, and flashing a panty-melting grin, he appeared the least rough of the bunch. Warm, soft brown eyes revealed a touch of humor before he winked. “Who’re you, darlin’?”
“Not now, Cowboy,” the president ordered in an authoritative tone.
Cowboy? Not very original, but it fit.
The president approached, and I didn’t back away, refusing to show fear or weakness as he closed in. I’d be stupid not to be afraid of these men. They were obviously dangerous, but I wouldn’t be intimidated in the only place I called home. My chin lifted, waiting for him to say why they entered Amelia’s bar. I never saw her interact with bikers.
The big, dark one wearing the mask stayed silent. The shade of his eyes was disguised by the ghostly skull, and I wondered what color they’d be. His neck was the only area of his body uncovered beside his wrists and forearms. A tattoo of a black spider and web connected with a snake baring his fangs, winding around his throat. Hands clenched at his hips; his veiny forearms flexed briefly.
I could feel his hostility from here.
The snug black t-shirt he wore clung in all the right places, indenting at his pecs and chiseled abs. His biceps pushed the cloth up his arms, almost too large to be covered.
The tight jeans he wore molded to his thighs and drew my appreciation, but my attention returned to his hands, curious about the chunky silver rings on his fingers, slightly below thetattooed letters on each hand. LOST on the right and SOUL on the left. For some reason, I felt sad for him.
When he noticed I stared, a growl vibrated low in his throat.
“Reaper,” the president warned.
Reaper. A name that fit this dark, chiseled man who seemed carved from obsidian straight out of hell.
“Is Amelia here?”
I didn’t answer or reveal that I knew her. “Who are you?”
Reaper snarled beneath the mask, stalking forward.
The president held up his hand, halting Reaper’s progress. “A valid question. I’m Devil, the president of the Reaper’s Vale MC. These are some of my officers. My V.P. Raiden,” he ticked his head toward the Viking who stood to his left, watching me intently, “my S.A.A. Reaper,” nodding to the one in the mask who wouldn’t stand still, “and my Treasurer, Cowboy.”
I nodded, deciding I could be civil. “I’m Henrietta, but I go by Henny.”
Devil smiled, intending to appear friendly, but I caught the calculating look that entered his pale blue eyes. “Thrilled to meet you, Henny.” He cleared his throat, all business now. “I need to speak to Amelia. It’s important. Is she around tonight?” The way he asked didn’t leave doubt that he knew she never took a night off. She was too much of a control freak, and almost everyone in town could confirm it. Amelia had a reputation as a smart, shrewd, dedicated business owner. She needed a vacation but would never take one.
“What can I do for you?” Amelia asked, appearing before I had a chance to lie.
I didn’t see Josie and hoped Amelia would send her upstairs to my apartment.
I had lived above the bar since the day I turned eighteen. A gift from Amelia at graduation, swearing a young woman needed her own place to start off on the right foot and prepare for thefuture. Josie had a spare key. At eleven, she was smart enough to listen when things got rowdy down here.
“You have something that belongs to us,” Devil began, gesturing to one of the tables. “I’d like to talk about it.”
