Page 103 of Redemption (Brazen Bulls Birthright 1)

The guilt, however, would not be quashed. She’d tried to tell herself that it was early, that she and Eight were still in the trial stage, not sure they’d work long term.

That wasn’t true, though, was it? Exhibit A: her fiery jealousy right now, seeing a girl simply flirting with her man. Exhibit B: Eight had just told her he’d been faithful from the beginning.Eight. Had been faithful.

Exhibit C: that guilt she felt filming the sexy parts of the stupid video. And the fact that she hadn’t told Eight, because she knew he’d be jealous. Because he was jealous of Dash already. She hadn’t done anything wrong, because the making out was work, and she felt no conflict about whom she wanted to be with, but she felt guilty as hell. Suddenly, that guilt was raging hot.

Eight frowned. “Marce? You believe me, right?”

“Yeah.” Marcella set aside all that crap. “I believe. Sorry I came in so hot.”

He grinned and pulled her fully into his arms. “I like you jealous. Never had anybody care that much about me before.”

Yeah, she was going to have to prepare him for that fucking video.

For now, though, she put her arms around his neck and offered herself for his kiss.

He took the offer, and for a moment the frenzied party scene around them dimmed to a whisper. Then he pulled back and smiled down at her.

She thought he had something to say, but he gave his head a brisk shake and then merely said, “Come on. There’s people I want you to meet.”

~oOo~

With his arm heavy around her shoulders, Eight led her in a wending path through the party, stopping occasionally to introduce her to somebody, chatting for a few seconds or a minute, and then moving on, like he had a map and a schedule.

Generally, Marcella was good with names, but in this clamoring throng she was losing them as soon as she heard them. It didn’t help that most of these guys looked vaguely alike—all in kuttes and faded jeans, in hoodies or flannel shirts, most of them bearded and shaggy. She heard names like ‘Maverick’ and ‘Gargoyle’ and ‘Rad’ and had little chance of keeping them all straight. There were normal names, too, but that didn’t help much.

To a man, every single one of Eight’s biker brothers gaped at him and her when he introduced her as his woman. That might have been a factor in her inability to keep most of them straight. Staring at her with their mouths hanging open, they all looked like Halloween masks.

Four of the guys stuck pretty well:

Delaney, who was easily the oldest man in the room. Eight had introduced her first, to Delaney and his wife, Mo, with a kind of reverence Marcella couldn’t help but take note of. Eight cared for these old folks. The way he acted made her think he might have had a mom and dad after all. Ones he’d chosen.

Apollo stuck, too. He was built a lot like Eight but much more classically handsome—Brad Pitt on steroids handsome—and his name was like Ajax’s, inspired by Greek mythology. She didn’t know if it was his given name or his road name, but she’d remember him. She would’ve liked to have talked to him about it, but Eight dragged her off to the next stop in the Meet My Woman Tour.

Caleb and Jazz also made quick impressions for their looks. Caleb was clearly Native American. And Jazz was Black. Hardly the only Black man in the room, but as far as she could tell, the only one wearing a Bull on his back. As far as she could tell just by looking, Caleb might have been the only Native person in the room. But she knew as well as anyone the limits of what one could tell just by looking.

Again, she would have liked to talk to Jazz a bit longer. For one thing, his name seemed a bit on the nose—the only Black man in the club was called Jazz? Whose idea had that been?—and she’d have liked to ask him about it. In her early days, people—club bookers, promoters, other industry types, mainly—had always tried to give her some kind of bluesy nickname she found offensive, like a Black woman singing the blues had to be Mama or Sister somebody.

Plus, Jazz was standing with his ‘old lady,’ Felicia, also Black, and BOY OH BOY did Marcella have questions for her. There was already a Black woman in this biker ‘family’? Okay. That was extremely encouraging. They should talk.

But Eight dragged her off as usual, and she met somebody else.

Actually, Marcella found the women—the old ladies, specifically—to be easier to keep straight. They all had the kind of similarity that seemed to happen in all families, no matter how they were made. That sameness of long familiarity, when people had picked up so many shared manners and habits that they began to feature each other. But they were also markedly distinct from each other in ways their men were not.

Marcella was especially surprised to discover that they weren’t just ‘old ladies,’ ‘biker babes,’ or any other dismissive label. They didn’t merely stand by their men. They were nurses and teachers and business owners. One was even a private detective.

She really, really, really wanted to talk to the women.

~oOo~

It happened when Felicia and Jenny, Maverick’s wife, made it happen.

After Eight had introduced her to about a million people, he led her to a very well stocked bar, where a young Black man in a kutte with only the word PROSPECT sewn on it was taking orders and keeping drinks full. Eight didn’t introduce her to him, but when he shouted at the kid from the opposite end of the bar, she learned his name was Christian.

“So what d’ya think?” Eight asked after Christian produced the glass of Jack and a gin and tonic that Eight had quite harshly ordered.

Before she could answer, Felicia and Jenny came up and wedged themselves between Marcella and Eight.

“Okay, Eight,” Jenny said. “Go play. We’ve got serious business to conduct with Marcella.”

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