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CHAPTER TWO
*Lace*
Slow, sultry music and muffled conversations filter into the dressing room through the saloon walls. A light touch brushes against my arm, pulling my attention from the piles of money on top of the vanity to the attached mirror in front of me. Jess’s green eyes lock with mine in the reflection. “Foster is askin’ for ya.”
Head bobbing in response, my mouth moves in a silent count as I drop my focus and finish thumbing through the last few bills. “Okay, hun. Thank you.” When she doesn't leave right away, my gaze floats up again and meets hers. The Hollywood-style lights cast a soft glow on her heavily hooded eyes and sagging cheeks. She looks about how I feel — worn out. Not just from tonight but from life in general.
I gather each stack of cash, keeping them separated between my fingers, and spin on the swivel stool to face her. “Ready for one helluva weekend?” I ask, bouncing my eyebrows.
Jess bends in close to the mirror, rests her elbow on the distressed wood, and pulls down the skin under her eye. “Damn, I look like a hooker at the end of a long night,” she sighs.
“Story of our lives.” Soft, pathetic chuckles pass between us as I force myself off the stool. “Can Foster wait, or do I need to stop by his office first before making my rounds?”
Jess shrugs, props her hip on the edge of the vanity, and adjusts her cleavage. “No clue. To answer your first question, though, Bike Week can’t start soon enough. Keeps us busy and our purses full.”
More like keeps us distracted from all the worldly shit. “Yeah, I hear ya.”
Her eyes shift toward the other dancers as they begin entering through the paneled swing doors, and she leans in closer, flicking her dark-auburn hair over a shoulder. “The outlaws are gettin’ antsy, ya know? Hell for Leather can’t just keep on comin’ without a slap on the wrist eventually. Better the outlaws teach ‘em a lesson than the other way around. At least that’s the word on the street.”
Three years ago, the locally infamous Rolling Stones Motorcycle Club divided — father versus son.
Beefy hogs versus sleek sports bikes.
Leather cuts versus reinforced jackets and suits.
Comfort versus speed.
Outlaw, veteran, motorcycle club members…
…versus a contemporary, new age club of speedsters and stunters.
No one outside of the clubs knows what caused the initial rift. All the community knows is that Stoney told his son to leave the territory.
Since that divide, Kaldon Griggs shows up every Bike Week with the club he established to spite his father, taking advantage of the bi-annual ceasefire the rally provides bikers from all over the nation. The rivals bump fists and keep things amicable for those few days, with stipulations understood only on a need-to-know basis.
All the Hell for Leather executive officers and I went to the same high school, but I met most of them for the first time a couple years after graduation. Kal and the club Enforcer, Kio, graduated the year before I started attending. Coty, the Vice President, was a senior when I was a freshman.
As soon as Coty and I officially met, he claimed me as his favorite saloon girl. The rest is history. For that reason and more, I have a unique take on Bike Week and am privy to certain intimate secrets. Some. Not enough.
As a result, Jess seldom lets me off the hook. Her mouth curves upward, a faint spark lights up her eyes, and she pokes me in the side. “I saw ya get all googly-eyed thinkin’ just then. Even yesterday wasn’t soon enough for you.”
Heat rises to my cheeks and a tingle of excitement buzzes through me. Ignoring the dig, I roll my eyes, press my lips together to hide my own stupid grin, and step past her. The last thing I hear while rushing out of the dressing room is Jess chortling at my expense.
I decide to get the jump on tipping out, hitting up the DJ booth first then making the rounds to the bar and security before I call it good on my house fee with Foster.
En route to the office, one of our regulars — “Half Cut Hal” as we refer to him since he pretty much stays wasted — flirts with danger, bumping shoulders with me. The stench of spoiled trash and sour alcohol hits me hard. “You getting on stage again tonight, Lace?” he asks, stealing a glance at the nearest bouncer.
“Nope ‘fraid not. Just takin’ care of a couple things before last ca—”
As if my words manifest the moment, the music softens, and the DJ taps her mic. “Well, ladies and gents, time to prove to all these beautiful dancers that you know how to get it up. Last chance to wet yer whistles, then it’s time to blow this joint.”
Several customers and dancers get a good laugh at the double entendres. Part of the fun at Tit for Tat Saloon is hearing how Kris will announce last call. Unfortunately, getting people to leave the warm, dry saloon in exchange for the nasty, wet storm outside might prove problematic tonight.
I give my suitor an apologetic smile and step past him, tossing a wink over my shoulder and keeping eye contact for a few extra steps so it doesn’t seem like I’m brushing him off… even if I kinda am.
Head tilting down slightly, he shoves his hands into his pockets and tugs the front of his jeans forward to give himself a smidgen more room. I return my attention to the dark hallway ahead and quicken my pace before he makes a request and I have to refuse — can’t keep the manager waiting much longer after all. Plus, last call might give enough time for the patrons to get another round of drinks or one more private dance, but I hit my cash goal early and am more than ready to call it a night.
As soon as the rustic, engraved manager sign is at eye level, I drum my knuckles against the wooden door. Shuffling and murmurs come from inside the room, but the creak of a door opening farther down the hallway draws my attention just in time to spot Foster exiting the bathroom.
