Page 2 of Wicked Pickle

Bailey keeps walking toward the front door of the bar.

“Wait up, Bailey!” Marietta calls. She’s sensible in silver flats, so she easily catches up. Bailey still has her soiled veil wadded up in her hands.

Behind us, we hear the slam of one car door, then another. The driver has shut them. Before we can say anything to him, he leaps behind the wheel and peels out of the parking lot.

“Screw him,” Jenna says, typing a review as fast as she can.

I leave her and make it to Bailey, who has stopped by a pickup truck with huge tires. “Hey, you okay?”

She nods. Her dangling earrings twinkle from the light of the neon sign on the bar. “I’m a lot better now that it’s all out.”

“On that jerk’s floorboard!” Jenna says. She stabs her phone with flourish. “One-starred, reviewed, and blocked before he could do anything to me.” She’s pleased.

“I see a trash bin,” I tell Bailey. “Let me take that.” I squeamishly pinch the two sides of the ball of puke-veil and walk toward a rusting barrel. With a quick flick of my wrist, it’s gone.

“Thanks.” Bailey looks down. “I think I missed my dress. There might be some on my shoes.”

I take her arm. “Let’s go inside and get you cleaned up. Then we can call another car.”

She nods. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to drink blueberry Moscato again.”

The four of us head for the bar entrance, a beat-up metal door in the middle of the brick wall.

“The Leaky Skull,” Marietta says, taking in the neon words with the outline of a skeleton drinking a beer. “What kind of bar is this?”

I glance around at the cars. “Lots of pickup trucks.”

“And motorcycles,” Jenna adds.

Marietta’s eyes get wide. “Do you think it’s a biker club like in the dark romance novels? Are we going to get claimed by a gang leader in black leather?” She seems quite taken with the idea.

“Come on,” Jenna says. “We’ll go in, clean up Bailey, and get back on the road.” She pulls on Marietta. “And no asking anyone about their tattoos.”

“Awww, spoilsport.” Marietta pushes through to be the first one to the door. “I’m going to let a broody stranger buy me a drink.”

Jenna and I exchange a glance. It better be sparkling water, or Marietta might sit on an ex-con’s lap.

The moment she opens the door, the noise makes us all pause. Music pulses from a tiny stage where a three-man band thrashes around with drums and two guitars.

The battered wood tables are small and scattered throughout the room, all taken by the kind of men we don’t encounter much in suburban Miami.

“Whoa,” Marietta breathes.

It’s something. There are women, sure, especially close to the stage, sitting with men and sometimesonthe men.

But mostly, it’s very tough-looking dudes. The motif is denim and black. Every man wears heavy boots, dark jeans, black shirts, and leather. There are chains everywhere. On vests. On belts. Hanging from wallets.

Some wear ball caps. Others leather wraps or bandannas. There are more bald heads than hairstyles.

All four of us pause in the doorway like deer in the headlights. Compared to this crowd, we look like we’ve come from a high school prom.

Jenna clutches my arm. “Maybe we should call for a ride from the parking lot.”

I glance over at Bailey. She’s grimacing at her hands. Yeah, she needs a wash down.

“Nonsense,” I say. “We’re the four whores of the apocalypse. Come on.”

I march right through the tables. We’re not going to be scared little ninnies. It’s a bar. There will be a bathroom.

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