Page 13 of Kings Have No Mercy

“You ever spend time in a biker bar?” she asks instead. She’s set down the dirty shot glass and folds her arms, her tonemarginallyless frosty.

“I’ve spent time in plenty of bars and clubs in Houston. Nothing you spring on me will surprise me.”

Her gaze rakes over me again, and she purses her lips. “The waitresses don’t have to sleep with ’em, but the ones that don’t never last long.”

“We’ll see about that.”

“Nobody’ll force you, but with tits and ass like you’ve got—theywillcome on to you.”

“Sounds like every other bar and club ever.”

She takes half a step back and gives me yet another long look. “You’ve got some balls. I like it. You know what? Fuck it. You want the job? You’ve got it. What’s your name?”

“Sydney. Syd for short.”

“What’s your poison?”

I try hard not to show my relief on my face. “It’s been a long day. Just give me a shot of whiskey.”

She nods her approval. “I’ll take one with you. Then we can go over the job and I’ll show you around.”

* * *

The afternoon speeds by. The beehive-haired woman introduces herself as Velma and takes me around the saloon so I can meet the other waitresses on shift. I meet the bar manager Mick and a few of the club members too. The old ladies come across as the hardest bunch to win over.

But I hardly pay them any mind. I’m not here to bond with the girlfriends of bikers.

I’m here to find out what happened to Pop.

Velma and I take another shot as our tour comes to an end. She’s telling me some of the club history and asking questions about my past—most of my answers I come up with on the fly. My fake backstory is simple.

I’m a divorcee that was left penniless, and I’ve traveled the state in search of a cheap town to start over.

“Men,” Velma scoffs when I explain. She tosses back her shot. “My first marriage ended like that. We had it all. A thriving bike shop and dough we were raking in. Then things went left. The bastard beat me black and blue and gave me a concussion. I had enough. How do you think I ended up here? The Kings took me in. You know what they did to him?”

By the time Velma finishes the violent tale,I’masking for another shot myself.

“We’re like a family. Anybody gives you shit. The guys’ll have your back.”

You mean the men who murdered my father…

It takes every ounce of restraint I have to keep quiet and bite my tongue.

A thunderstorm of rumbling engines fills the air. Everyone seated in the bar jerks their heads toward the rear entrance. Velma taps my arm with a wide smile on her face.

“They’re back. Most of the other guys. I’ll introduce you.”

It happens faster than I’m ready for—the vacant bar filling with almost twenty leather-clad, tattooed, mean-mugging men.

My heart beats out of sync as I stand by Velma’s side, and for the first time since I arrived, I feel a knot of fear.

It might not register on my face, but it’s there, buried deep inside. I pop a hand to my hips, push my breasts out, and lift my chin in defiance.

Act tough. You’ll feel tough. Hopefully…

The guy in charge makes himself known. He strides ahead of the other men with a walk that drips authority and dominance.

I suck in a quiet breath, unprepared for the six-foot-three glass of sexiness headed my way. He’s striking in how much of a contradiction he is—angry dark green eyes contrast pale skin. His straight slope of a nose juxtaposes the full lips that look suspiciously soft for a president of a brutal biker club. His buzzcut fade is so short that it’s almost easy to overlook the natural reddish-brown tint to his hair. The style’s clearly for ease and functionality versus the sheets of hair like some of his fellow members. If anything, it makes his chiseled, masculine features stand out even more.

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