Page 2 of Biker's Collar: Property of Scrap

“I’ll be out in five minutes. I’m going to meet the dealers.”

No response is a good response.

I leave my changing room and knock on the door to the dealers’ room. The girls fall silent. I say girls and I mean it. I’m the oldest one here – twenty-one – and the youngest girl I’ve met who keeps lying and saying she’s eighteen is actuallyfifteen.She’s just scared to death of Hakeem. Like most of them. Like everyone except me.

“It’s Vickie.”

Chatter resumes on the other side of the door as I open it up and my stomach tightens in a knot at the uncomfortable scene. I hate being a part of this. The underage girls are all dressed in tight, revealing white costumes. They all balance their skinny asses on sky-high clear heels. I feel like their mother, even if I’m only a few years older than them.

I wish I could take them all with me. But I can’t. I worked on this plan for weeks and the only way it works is if I keep it to myself and just…run.

“Y’all ready tonight? We have eight tables with a two hundred thousand dollar buy in for each one. These are high-rollers and it’s our job to make them happy tonight. Understood?”

False enthusiasm rumbles through the room. We have to convince ourselves thatsomepart of our lives is fun.

“You know how it is. Drink as much as you want as long as you don’t compromise your faculties, and if there’s a client who wants a little extra… you come through me first.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Ma’am. These girls are all so young and southern that it hurts to send them out there. But it’s my job to run the room, watch the dealers, and keep this shit running for Hakeem. Most of the girls in this room still think I’m his girlfriend, but Hakeem hasn’t been back to the apartment we share in Vegas for weeks. Not like he doesn’t have people watching almost every move I make, but he doesn’t sleep there.

I don’t know where he sleeps although I occasionally catch wind ofwhohe sleeps with. When I get the fuck out of here and back to civilization, my next move will be peeing in a damn cup. I can’t believe I ever trusted this man. I can’t believe I won’t even get revenge for what he did to me.

I follow the girls out into the club room and look around at the gambling addicts leaning over the poker tables. I scan the tables and notice a few regulars. There is a clique of Russian oligarchs banned from most of the popular Las Vegas casinos. The four of them are spread across four separate tables. Seven bikers from a local club occupy a few seats.

Blood Riders has several members who show up at this place with money to gamble, but they also deal drugs in Jim’s downtown nightclub. There’s a kid at one of the poker tables, which I don’t agree with, but apparently he’s the nephew of some big shot celebrity, so we turn a blind eye to a seventeen yearold drinking and gambling with Russian oligarchs who may be responsible for slaughtering entire villages.

The girls draw straws for their table tonight and I begin my nightly surveillance of the room. I’m more of a show piece than anything, since Jim has cameras pointed at every angle of this room. He’s paranoid. Which is why I need to find a mark. Quickly. All these months I’ve been good. Never lied. Never cheated. Never threw a tantrum. I used my smarts and that’s why I’ll get out.

I walk around all the tables until I come to the last one in the corner. I feel strange as I draw closer to it, like the men at this particular table are worse than the others. There’s a heavy smell coming from the cigars they have poked into their mouths and when I get close enough to make out their facial features, I recognize most of the men at the table as regulars.

One player stands out as not just new tonight, but different from all the rest.

Two

Scrap

Present Day: The Gambling Room

Southpaw: SOS

Bear: In KC.

There’s only one reason for a Shaw to be in Kansas City. We all have various shades of the problem. Southpaw might be the best one out of all of us since he quit gambling. My brother, the leader of the Rebel Barbarians rarely has a reason to put out an S.O.S.

But I’m suddenly alert. My brother has me stationed at Oske’s trailer watching the most demented shit go down. I almost miss Oske’s voice calling me “Owie-Owie” when she was begging me for weed money. Owen doesnotneed a nickname. I have a club nickname, which she was more than welcome to use.

Bear’s confession that he’s in Kansas City pretty much confirms he’ll be useless and I’ll end up doing whatever bullshit our brother wants from me.

Scrap: Degenerate.

Southpaw: Meeting. Sending Location.

He sends a set of coordinates.

Bear: What is your thing with the Indians?

Southpaw: I’ll explain. 7 p.m. tomorrow.

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