Page 23 of When Sparks Fly

“Oooh, yes! Ok, meet me at seven. We’ll drink our dinner tonight.” Her plan is right up my alley.

“Ok.” I grin. “Be a good girl and I’ll bring you a treat.”

Leah meows playfully back. “I’ll catch you later.” An air-kiss follows loudly.

Chapter 12

Maci

When I show up with caffeine in tow, Leah all but throws herself into the Jeep. I give her a once-over under the dome light. Sunday night or not, she’s dressed to party from her black western boots to her wild and free hair, exactly how I always picture her. She swipes the coffee I hold out to her and takes a deep drink, smiling.

It’s a cool evening so I’m a little surprised she chose cut-off shorts and a tank top. A black lace kimono completes the outfit. It looks more like one of Nana’s doily runners with all its holes, but somehow she pulls it off.

I haven’t been to the bar Leah directs me to in about three years. Back when we had all just turned twenty-one, any bar was a good bar. Though, Leah and Izzy have never taken me to the other one in town.

The establishment is split into two rooms. The entrance dumps patrons into a large rectangular space, featuring a dance floor surrounded by a wooden railing on the left. A long bar takes up the better part of the right wall. Pool tables fill a cutout space on the right side of the room that’s not occupied by the bar. The area between the two attractions is filled with high-top tables and stools.

The back wall provides access to the bathrooms, the kitchen, and a smaller room. A few pool tables in the back room are visible through the open door.

Tonight, there’s no bouncer and Leah picks a table near the entrance to the second room, giving us a fabulous vantage point of the main room. Members of the local motorcycle club claim tables near the dance floor—which has exactly zero occupants. Despite growing up around bikes and seeing a few of the members around town, I haven’t interacted with any of them. I don’t even know if they’re a gang or simply local guys who ride together. Only a few other patrons inhabit the bar tonight.

While we drink, I tell her all about the day and the revelations Stephanie threw at me. She meets my story with enthusiastic anger, promising to provide my alibi if I decide to sic my wrath on Alan. Some of my angry energy is expended through the tale and I turn the talking over to Leah, content to listen and enjoy a slight buzz.

I kick my boot lazily against the leg of the bar stool I’m sitting on as Leah tells a story about saving Smokey from a raccoon. When I bring my straw to my lips, I discover the glass is empty. My lips purse in annoyance.

“Want another?” Leah stands, slipping her arm through mine and transitioning into a story about work as we head to the bar. She manages the western store in town and I know she wants more, like something with jewelry, but she hasn’t convinced herself to take the plunge yet.

A single bartender handles an order from one of the MC members whose cut has a ‘Prospect’ rocker on the back. Despite the low headcount, the music is loud enough that we can’t hear his order or much of anything else. He glances absently our way as he grabs the few bottles set before him.

His face is familiar. Maybe it’s his eyes.

I smile when he makes eye contact, a result of my Southern upbringing. It always frustrates me when people don’t return the gesture, a compulsion I can’t ignore. He doesn’t.

He turns momentarily back to the bartender before heading to his friends. The bartender strolls over. She appears sweet. And young. I estimate her to be barely old enough to serve beer, but not drink it. Which makes some of the looks she gets from older customers repulsive.

A battered name tag attached to the pocket of her plaid shirt, which is tied up between her minimal breasts, says her name is Tawny. I refrain from asking if it’s a stage name.

“What can I getcha?” She leans on the bar casually. We place a repeat order and when she slides the drinks across the bar to us, I produce my debit card from my back pocket.

She pauses before walking away, saying, “The guy over there paid for your drinks,” and jerking her chin behind us.

Leah and I follow the direction of Tawny’s gesture to where the MC members are seated. The biker in question, who moments ago stood before us, looks our way as if summoned. We lift our glasses in thanks. His eyes bore into me and he winks in response. I blame it on the three drinks under my belt when I bravely ask Leah, “Ready to make some new friends?”

Her mischievous grin is answer enough and she motions with one hand for me to lead. “It’s usually me pulling this kind of stunt.”

Our drink buyer hasn’t stopped watching us as we approach. His companion looks over, taking us in and grinning at Leah, who purses her lips playfully. When we reach the table, she jerks her chin for him to move over. Without hesitating, he empties his seat for her, taking the one next to him and greeting her with a, “Hey there,” as she plops down.

My eyes sweep back to the purchaser of our drinks. “Wasn’t sure if you’d come,” he says by way of greeting.

I don’t believe him.

Even seated, I can tell he’s tall with dark hair and eyes, complimented by a casual smile. Tattoos cover both arms and disappear under his white t-shirt and black MC cut. At one point or another, every straight woman I’ve known has had a “bad boy phase”. He’s close, but no cigar.

“I’m Colt. That’s Pete.” His eyes don’t shift to Leah and her new boy toy. I hold his gaze. The intensity isn’t unnerving, but I suspect he’s testing me.

“Maci. And Leah.” I keep it short and sweet in return.

He gestures to the stool to his left, across from Pete. Sliding onto it requires me to nearly press my body against Colt as I climb up, due to the MC member sitting on the opposite side, and effectively boxes me in.

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