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Austen peeks at me through her fingers. She likes knowing about my life, though the condom stuff was probably too honest.
“What about your family?” Suzanne asks. “The people who named you Martin, I mean.”
“They are dead,” I reply and add, “To me, anyway. I see them around the Valley, but I don’t engage with them.”
“Why?”
“You know how some religious people will tell you how fun it is to love God and be part of a community of likeminded believers?” When Suzanne nods, I explain, “My parents aren’t that kind of fundies. They’re mean. They picked on me when I was little, despite me being so damn cute.”
“You were a cute child,” Goose says and smiles.
“I wanted to have fun like any kid, but they were always giving me weird, often cruel lessons. I never got around to liking them. But as a little kid, I didn’t have much choice about where I lived. So, I stuck around until I was old enough to bail. I don’t think they miss me, but I know my biker lifestyle embarrasses them. That part makes me happy.”
Goose and I chuckle while Austen stops peeking and just stares right at me. She’s so sexy when she doesn’t hold back.
Suzanne refuses to give away her thoughts. I sense she’s playing with me like she does most people. However, she’s definitely aware of her daughter’s interest in what I’m offering. If that bothers her, she reveals nothing.
After breakfast, I don’t get a single minute of Austen’s time. Her mother directs her away while instructing Goose and me to deal with the Backcountry Kings.
“Austen won’t be able to consider her future until this trouble from her past is handled,” Suzanne explains, holding her daughter over my head like a prize.
I haven’t had to deal with a parental figure in a long time. Suzanne isn’t like my own mother who has that big cross-shaped stick jammed up her ass. I also need something from this woman like I never did from my parents. So, I keep my mouth shut and follow Goose to the SUV.
Midmorning traffic isn’t as bad as last night’s. We arrive at the mostly empty parking lot at the two-story Above Snakes Bar & Grill. As soon as I step out of the vehicle, I spot two shiny new motorcycles very similar to the color and style of Goose’s and mine. I rest a hand on her shoulder and gesture toward them.
“Could be a coincidence,” she mutters as we walk toward the front door.
“I don’t think our bikes were salvageable after they were firebombed.”
“Let’s not get sentimental about our fucked rides. Just stay frosty,” she says, sounding overly agitated.
Goose isn’t a particularly warm woman. She realized long ago how people would hassle her less if she wrapped herself in hostility. At the Pigsty, she can relax enough to get silly and soft. Away from home like we are, she unleashes her claws in even my direction.
I follow Goose through the double, front doors. Inside, a good-looking brunette stands behind the bar. She’s leaning forward to talk to Sync, who drove us home last night. As her blue-eyed gaze finds me, he makes a clicking sound.
“Go around back, Siobhan,” the biker says while holding my gaze.
She gives him a little eye roll before disappearing through a door behind the bar top. A dozen men sit around the dining section of the bar.
As I scan the room for possible targets, Sync tells me, “Don’t get any ideas. Siobhan doesn’t date bikers.”
The men around the room chuckle at his words, but Goose isn’t amused. “Are you talking to me?” she barks and narrows her eyes. “I feel like you’re fucking with me.”
“No, gal, I meant your pretty friend,” he says and gestures at me.
“Don’t you worry,” I reply while patting Goose’s back. “I have a thing for rich redheads.”
Catching my drift, the guy nods and looks back at the same guy everyone else is staring at now. The shaggy-headed blond reminds me of a younger, bigger Ruin. Except my president wouldn’t get shy about a damn thing like this guy currently does.
“Tack suffers from the same affliction,” Sync replies as the others grin at the guy apparently crushing on Hunter.
An annoyed Goose settles on the barstool and asks, “Can you get the hot chick back out here to get me a whiskey sour? I’ve gone too long without booze.”
The biker who offered Coco his shirt last night jumps up. “I know all the same cocktails.”
“Why are we here?” Goose pushes as Bear stands up and saunters this way.
“Because we needed to speak in a private setting,” he says, “and no one will meet us alone anywhere rural anymore.”
