Page 3 of Dizzy

I pad down the hall past the offices, heading straight for the kitchen. My stomach is pretty much gnawing on itself at this point. The clubhouse was a ghost town last night, so I couldn’t crash the party like I have been—defrost, chow down, lift cash from whoever passes out.

It’s so blessedly, beautifully warm in here. My frozen skin prickles, burning as it thaws. I ain’t gonna last much longer sleeping rough.

I’m still wearing the clothes I was wearing when Chaos left—a short-sleeved belly shirt that saysCute But Psycho, jean shorts cut up to my ass, and combat boots. Thank goodness I was able to snag a wool horse blanket that was covering a bike out in the garage, or I’d have frozen to death days ago.

Luckily, I’ve only had to “head on home now” for a few hours each night. Steel Bones parties hard; they start early, and they go late. Last night was a fluke. If happens again, I’m gonna have to fuck a dude to get a bed. It’s getting too cold. That’s a last resort, but I’m a practical girl.

That’s tomorrow’s trouble, though. Right now, I’m in heaven: an industrial kitchen, clean as a whistle, pantry stocked full. I swing open a cabinet. Oh, yeah. Bread. Peanut butter. I pile my arms up and move to the fridge. There’s jelly. Grape and strawberry. Every condiment you can image. A whole row of mustards. Glory day.

I grab what I need and head for a counter, slapping down ten slices like I do making lunches for the kids at home. I spread the peanut butter thick and glop the jelly on with a spoon.

I rummage through a few drawers, but there’s no wax paper I can find, so I stack the sandwiches and put ‘em in a plastic grocery bag. Whoever runs this kitchen, she’s got those cutesy sacks where it’s sewn to look like a cat with a big ol’ skirt, and you pull the bag out of the cat’s ass. Adorable.

I use the heel of bread to wipe the last of the peanut butter out of the jar and eat it as I root through the cabinets. Tuna, pasta, mayonnaise. No good. Chips, pretzels. I pop a bag open and munch as I scan the shelves. There’s a bag of mixed nuts. Jackpot. That goes in the bag. I grab some beef jerky and a box of snack cakes, ‘cause I’m only human, and I head out, snagging a few bottled waters as I go.

I should go walk the woods for a spell and come back in the afternoon. Wait in the tree line for a car load of sweetbutts to roll up and slide on in with them. But the feeling is just coming back in my thighs, tingling and sharp. And the woods are spooky as hell when you’re alone.

Besides, the clubhouse is dead. From the hallway, I can see the commons—the bar running the length of the converted five-bay garage, the pool tables and jukebox, the vintage doors that slide open on tracks. There’s no one in sight. Not even a dude passed out on the ripped leather sofas.

This is a first.

I do a lap around the commons, checking once again for the phone I lost that first night. You never know. Maybe it fell down a crack. As I root around the bar—no phone—I grab a bottle of vodka. That’ll help me pass the day. I should count myself lucky and scurry back to my makeshift camp until tonight.

Or I could go upstairs. Find an empty bunk. Get a shower. Sleep in a bed.

Do I dare?

There’s a dozen or so rooms in the annex. As I’ve learned this past week, only five brothers actually live here full time. Heavy, the club president. He’s a giant beast of a man with a voice like the crack of doom. He stomps around, sending folks fleeing in his wake.

There’s Wall. Bodybuilder type. Says ma’am. I think his wife put him out. He’s a nice guy.

Then there’s Nickel and Creech. They are not nice. Nickel’s a brawler. He’s gotten into a fight every night I’ve been here, and he hasn’t lost once. He’s not interested in the ladies that I can tell. Not so Creech. He’s a tattoo artist. Inked head, full sleeves, gauges. Grabby, pervy, and a huge asshole.

An older guy lives here, too. He looks like Superman if Superman had gray hair, a stoop, and a two-pack-a-day habit.

Five guys. A dozen rooms. Those are good odds. If it were the Lotto, I’d be emptying my pockets.

I listen hard, holding my breath. No signs of life. Maybe the guys are out on a run? It’s a work day, but you can already tell that the weather’s gonna be gorgeous and clear.

I tiptoe to the stairs, holding my bag of sandwiches and vodka behind my back. If I get busted on the second floor without a brother, I’m gonna look guilty as hell, but I’ve gotten away with bolder shit by battin’ my eyelashes and keeping it movin’.

As far as I can tell, the guys who live here have the bigger rooms at the end of the hall. I take a gamble on the first door I come to. It opens no problem, and I slip inside, quickly shutting the door behind me.

Empty. Score.

This must be a crash pad. There’s a twin bed. Faded navy fitted sheet, nothing else. A low dresser with an old, filmy mirror. No bottles or knickknacks. An overflowing ashtray on a wooden stand like my Meemaw had. And an empty bottle of Southern Comfort on its side on the floor. I can see a toilet through an open door past the dresser.

Dare I dream? I hustle over. There’s a shower stall! And a worn towel hanging from the rod. No soap or anything, but it’s clean enough. Oh, it’s on.

I rip my shirt over my head as I kick off my shorts. My fingers are still a bit numb from the cold, so it takes me the longest time to untie my shitkickers.

My panties come off last. Whew. Shameful. I rinse them in the sink, wring them out, and hang them to dry. Wet panties are gonna suck if I have to go back outside. Maybe I’ll leave ‘em here, and come back for them later tonight.

I run the shower as hot as it’ll go, and the small room fills with steam. I hop in, and oh, the Lord loves me. Water pressure! The water drums on my back, sore from sleeping on the hard ground, and streams down my body, warming me through and turning my skin a rosy red.

There’s even a bottle of shampoo. It’s practically empty, but I add some water and shake, and there’s more than enough to wash my skinny self and lather up my hair.

This is amazing. My hair is long and straight—I had aspirations of growing it as long as Crystal Gale when I was a kid, but it won’t grow past the small of the back—so it doesn’t show the dirt when it’s unwashed. My scalp, though, itches like hell. I use my fingertips, scrub real hard. I love the feel of suds slipping down my bare back.

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