Page 24 of Brew
Sawyer, always a flirt, crosses his arms over his chest. “Who says we’re a bunch of pushovers? Maybe I’m savin’ myself for marriage.” He winks at Diamond.
“Make eyes like that at me, I’ll make you into pot roast,” Diamond fires back.
I slap Sawyer on the back. “Looks like it may be safer to check in at the motel.”
“Not scared of a bunch of girls, are you?” Diamond mocks.
“You make border protection look like Strawberry Shortcake,” Sawyer chuckles.
I give her a chin lift. “Thanks for the offer, we might wash up and rest before headin’ back.”
Diamond grins. “Someone’s optimistic,”
The Stiletto’s clubhouse is nothing like ours. For one, most of the women work day jobs, and they aren’t partying at all hours of the day and night. Their MC is based on charity work and the occasional vigilante justice; like catching criminals. What is life in a motorcycle club without a little mayhem?
Diamond runs a tight ship, and while her pioneering efforts at the helm of this club may be a little unorthodox, they seem to do just fine.
“Have much to do with the cops around here?” I ask, switching the subject.
“If you’re asking if we’re in anyone’s pockets, the answer is no, but the same can’t be said about the Saddle PD being in ours.” Her eyes dance with humor. “Ruby is an excellent hacker, you’d be surprised what she can find in a small town.”
The club members are named after precious and semi-precious stones: Diamond, Ruby, Pearl, Sapphire, Garnet, Topaz, Jade.
“I’ll bet you have everyone around here walking on a tightrope,” I say. “Not a bad thing, long as you keep ‘em all in line.”
“You lookin’ for a job?” she tosses back.
“Got enough on my plate as it is, so that’s a hard pass.”
We head to the Stiletto’s clubhouse. It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen; the sweeping landscape expands over a huge property owned by Diamond with a restored farmhouse.
We’re definitely not in Kansas anymore. This is nothing like New Orleans.
Where we have concrete floors, they have polished wooden oak. Where we have a long, free standing bar and pool tables, they have a decorative open room with a long meeting table and a saloon behind. On the walls, there’s all kinds of photos and trinkets. Clearly, Diamond loves her horses because there’s practically a horse museum on one wall, including a giant copper mural of two horses running. It’s impressive.
“You ride?” Diamond asks when she sees me eyeing the artwork.
“Only thing I ride is a Harley,” I reply.
Sawyer slaps me on the back. “That’s not what I heard.”
I shove him off. “Asshole.”
“Clubhouse is pretty quiet during the week. Most of the members are at their day jobs, or runnin’ errands. Meetings happen on the weekend, Sunday is a day we get together and eat as one big family.”
“Who does all the cookin’?” Sawyer asks.
“Well, we don’t have a Manny,” Diamond says matter-of-factly, she’s referring to the Rebels’ chef. “But Pearl is an excellent cook, and she and her Momma usually cook up a feast.”
“Pity it’s not Sunday,” I mutter.
“Well, make yourselves at home. There’s a bathroom at the end of the hall, and several rooms with bunks.”
“Nice of you to be so accommodatin’.” Sawyer tips his non-existent hat.
“I just hope you get some intel on The Grid soon,” she says. “Whatever I hear, I’ll pass onto you.” She hesitates, choosing her next words carefully. “You know how deep this runs, don’t you?”
I pique a brow. “Lawyers. Doctors. Politicians. Cops. Entertainers? Everyday people? I can safely say nothing ever surprises me anymore.”
