TWO
Cyrus
"You're working? It's a Saturday night." This disgust came from Sugar who was hoping we could hit the town and find some skirts at Chaz's.
"You're going to make us handle all the pretty girls all by ourselves?" Roderick piped in. "I mean, we can totally manage, but you've never been one to turn down a night out."
"My set is for an hour," I said, shrugging. "Your asses can grab a cup of coffee and wait it out."
Quite frankly, I was glad for the new blood. Pagan had been good for nights out for a while, but then he got shacked up with Kennedy, and all his free time went to her. You know, as it should be. If you're gonna get yourself a permanent type of girl, it's only right that you spend all your free time with her. Otherwise, what's the point?
But with him coupled up, and Laz with someone, before the new bloods, that only left me with Edison and Reeve. And, let's face it, they were not the best wingmen around. First, it was damn near impossible to get their grandpa asses out of the compound past eight on a Saturday night at all. Second, when you did bring them out, they glared (in Edison's case) or looked completely disinterested in everything (in my brother's case) and therefore made the whole thing less than ideal.
Now, well, I had Sugar, who might have been a more insatiable woman-chaser than me, which was really saying something. I also had his buddy Virgin, whose name was completely ironic since he got loads of pussy. On top of that, there was Roderick who was - and I am comfortable enough in my own masculinity to admit this shit - a really good looking dude who had the advantage of all that Spanish charm of his. Once in a blue moon, Roan would come out too, rounding everything out. I was the charming guy with the beard and guitar; Sugar was the slightly dangerous guy who good girls wanted to take for a ride; Virgin was the mysterious one; Roderick was the life of the party; Roan, well, he was the older man, the slightly silver fox, the one who got all the girls with daddy issues to come a-running.
It was a good crew.
We had many a good nights, even when few or none actually went home with anyone.
So their asses could wait for me to finish my set at the coffeehouse before we hit Chaz's for some fun, then maybe took it back to the clubhouse for a little after-party. Besides, doing the set would make some of the girls there, trying to be good, trying not to hit a bar every Saturday, follow us down the street for some drinks and more.
"Are you going to embarrass yourself, and the whole organization again this week by singing some fucking singer-songwriter pop bullshit?" That was from Virgin, the kind of man who would gnaw off his own limb before he would subject his eardrums to the music of John Mayer or Michael Bublé.
I mean, it wasn't my kind of music either, but whatever got the panties wet was what I was going to play. So my catalog went deep.
"I'm gonna sing whatever it takes," I said with a shrug.
"Why do you still do the coffeeshop gig?" Roderick asked, shaking his head.
It was a valid question. I had been with The Henchmen for a while. We made good money, way more than I had ever made at the coffeehouse, even when I worked there most nights of the week. I wasn't sure exactly what the drive was to keep it up. Maybe it was as simple as enjoying playing the guitar, which I did. Or, possibly, it had something to do with liking having an identity outside of a biker. Possibly, it was just a fun hobby.
Whatever it was, I liked doing it. And as long as the girls who owned the joint wanted me, I was happy to be there. Singing John Mayer if need be.
"Just like it," I said with a shrug, it being as close to the truth as possible.
"Who is going to hold down the fort if we all head out?" Virgin asked, always being almost a crazy level of vigilant about the club. One could imagine that would stem from the fact that he had been inside a club since he was still in his teens, had had the rules literally beaten into him from that age.
It was obvious that he was still adjusting to the somewhat more laid-back rules that Reign set forth. In general, if you kept drugs out of the club - and your body - and respected women, he was a happy fucking prez. That being said, the club wasn't so far past the shit that went down when numbers got decimated, and they had needed to rebuild from the ground up, that Reign was breathing easy yet. Hell, Repo's shop had just finished being rebuilt six months before. The memories were still fresh for the older members. As such, there was an unspoken rule that there had to be a few guys around at all times to keep an eye on the clubhouse.
"Go on," Cash said, walking in from the kitchen. "Lo is out of town, so I got nowhere to be tonight. Reeve and Edison are on their way back from the drop. Oh, and Roan is up in the glass room like he does, so we're all set here."
"What the fuck is with him and that fucking room?" Virgin asked something we all silently wondered on more than a few occasions.
He was a hard dude to get a read on, which was likely thanks to a life in intelligence. Yes, like a spy. The dude was a real-life fucking James Bond or Jason Bourne or some shit. He didn't talk about his work days, and everyone kinda got the vibe that they shouldn't ask. So no one did. He was, as far as any could tell, a good brother and a huge asset given his varied skill set.
But, well, the man was a bit odd.
For example, him and that glass room.
If ever you were looking for Roan, especially at night, he could be found in that glass room. Why? No one knew. That was just where he was. With no music, no TV, no books, not even his fucking cell phone. In fact, he didn't actually have a cell of his own except the burner Reign insisted he carried for emergencies. He just sat up there, staring off at the darkness. For hours on end.
Fucking weird.
But, hey, if he wanted to be a loner, it meant the rest of us could party it up.
"You about ready?" Roderick asked, clearly antsy to get out of the clubhouse.
"Yeah, just gotta get the keys to the SUV," I said, going behind the bar. They would take their bikes. But I knew from experience that a guitar on your back while you rode your bike was, well, awkward.
She's Bean Around wasn't a huge spot. There were a bunch of little tables set up that sat maybe two or three people each, a large coffee bar where one of the owners, this night - Jazzy - stood to make drinks, and a very small stage that really couldn't fit more than one person. Hell, even one person was kinda pushing it.
"Jazzy!" I declared when I walked in, my guitar slung around my back, my hand at my heart. "My love, when are you going to dump your detective, and get with me?"
Her detective in question was standing up by the counter, giving me a bemused look, because, well, he knew everyone hit on Jazz, and that Jazz was a flirt by nature too. But he also knew that she was as loyal a woman as there was, so he wasn't bothered by it.
Besides, when you got a woman like Jazzy, you knew you were going to have to keep a rein on your jealousy.
She was just too fucking hot to not draw attention. She was tall and stacked with curves any man would want to sink his fingers into, even if he somehow claimed to be into 'more fit' chicks or some shit. There was no passing on her. It was a biological, primal pull. And, well, she also had the exotic thing going for her with her tan skin, and sultry eyes. Her hair, which she experimented with constantly, was a grayish hue tonight.
"When are you going to hand in your manwhore card, and get yourself a good woman?" she shot back, handing me my coffee.
"As soon as you're single," I said immediately. "Or, you know, seventy. Seventy sounds like the right time for that."
She smiled, shaking her head. "You brought the puppies," she observed, jerking her chin to where three hulking bikers were walking in through the doors, drawing attention from every female inside from eighteen to eighty.
"What? They like the soulful sound of acoustic Backstreet Boys as much as the next person."
"You play Backstreet Boys in my coffeehouse, and you will be paying for that coffee with your balls."
I smiled at that, expecting that response. This was a woman, after all, who put up a sign on the counter proclaiming that no, they would not change or turn down the music, that it was the only thing that kept them from slapping rude customers. And some days, that music was Five Finger Death Punch cranked up to ear-bleeding level, so, yeah, Jazz wasn't a boy band fan.
"Threatening the customers with neutering, Jazz?" Gala, the other owner, asked as she walked in from the back room.
Gala was the opposite of Jazz in most ways. She was thin and pale with a heavy mass of deep red hair that was a mix of waves and curls, and generally just looked like she rolled out of bed without brushing it. Bed-sexy. Her eyes were an almost see-through light blue, and she had a smattering of light freckles over the bridge of her nose that almost gave her an innocent look that was completely deceptive.
"Without me? Why should you get all the fun?" she asked, moving to drop her ass onto the counter, giving me a saucy look, as she often did.
"Admit it, Gala, you just want to see me naked," I said, giving her a smirk right back.
"Sorry, Cy," she said, shaking her head. "You know I don't do the beard thing. My inner thighs get beard burn like a bitch," she added, making my mind flash to seeing those pale, soft inner thighs of hers as I made my way up to her pussy. That was exactly what she wanted me to think when she said it. "But Mr. Tall Dark and Mysterious over there might get a chance to get a tour of my bedsheets," she added, jerking her chin at Virgin.
I turned back to her with a small smile. "I will let him know you're, ah, open to the opportunity," I added, saluting her with my coffee as I made my way to the side of the stage where the first act of the night - a shy seventeen-year-old girl who could barely be heard even with the mic because she was so nervous - was wrapping things up to the chorus of snaps around the room.
"You did good, angel," I said as she moved to walk past me, her entire body visibly shaking.
I wasn't expecting a response, and didn't get one as she blushed, ducked her head, and almost ran to her waiting mother. But, hell, maybe it would give her a small boost to help her push through and do a second show. Being that there wasn't one goddamn shy or insecure bone in my body, I figured it was only right that I pay some of that shit forward.
It happened about forty-five minutes later, as I was crooning my way through a request of some shitty top-twenty radio hit.
The door opened.
And in she walked.
Though, I wasn't sure walked was even the right word. She kind of just opened the door and slid in. Like she was trying to stay unseen. Like maybe she didn't want anyone to notice her.
Why?
Yeah, that was the fucking question.
Because she was the kind of woman who deserved to be noticed.
She was on the tall side with mixed-race skin, long somewhat curly hair, a delicate face, and light green eyes. Her body was slim-to-average from the waist up, but widened at the hips. I imagined she had a fucking phenomenal ass hidden beneath some giant, hideously cute burgundy grandma sweater, and why she would obviously work so hard to cover it was completely beyond me.
But she was gorgeous in a way that I was finding it hard to explain as she walked up to the counter, getting greeted warmly by both Jazzy and Gala like she was a regular. Actually, this was proven when not a couple seconds after she walked up, Jazzy produced a drink faster than she could have possibly ordered it.
See, I had seen, flirted with, fucked, and even casually dated a lot of good looking women in my day. So I knew the different kinds. There was your girl-next-door kind of pretty. There was your exotic pretty, your model pretty, your trying-too-hard pretty, your I-don't-care-if-I'm-pretty pretty... the list went on and on. And I had known them all.
But this girl was something different, something unique, something I couldn't put a finger on.
As I watched, she half-turned from the counter, looking over her shoulder discreetly so as not to be seen checking out the space, likely looking for someplace to sit.
And there were open chairs.
Beside my Henchmen brothers.
Literally.
Each one had chosen a table with an open chair so that when the women came in - and they sure did - they would have to ask to sit with them... or leave.
So Roderick and Virgin had women at their tables.
Sugar had one until one of her other friends showed up, and the two seemed to have plans to head out.
But I had a strong feeling that this woman, this sweet-looking, seemingly standoffish woman, wasn't going to walk up to an intimidating biker, and ask if she could share his table.
No fucking way.
I watched as she took a stir stick - the plastic kind with the hollow insides - and stuck it in the hole of her to-go coffee cup, moving along the counter, and behind the tables to stand against the wall where she stayed, oddly sipping through the stir stick, and as a whole not seeming to let her eyes settle in any one place for more than a few seconds, and not on any of the men in the room at all.
Hell, I was on the stage where most other people had their focus, and she barely glanced my way. When she did, her eyes went to my guitar, my hands, and even my feet, but I didn't catch her once looking at my face.
And, damn, I got a face worth glancing at, man.
But regardless of whether she noticed more than my hands or not, I fucking noticed her. I noticed her way more than I should have. I noticed her so much that the girl who had requested the song, who I would normally be singing directly to, kept checking where my eyes were drifting, huffed, jumped up, and stormed out.
I noticed her so much that I missed out on surefire pussy.
That was saying something.
I didn't know what it was about her, what the pull was. So what if she was pretty? Pretty was a dime a dozen thing.
Maybe there was something more. Maybe I was picking up on something about her that had more to do with than looks.
Honestly, it was so fucking new to me that I didn't have the slightest clue what to call it, what to think of it.
All I really knew was that I had to catch her before she walked out, which she had seemed about ready to do since the moment she had stepped inside, to be perfectly honest. It was clear she wasn't comfortable, that this kind of thing wasn't her forte.
So as soon as my set finished, I stood up, thanked the crowd as well as Jazzy and Gala for having me there, then dropped my guitar next to Sugar.
"Hey, I'm not saving that seat for your guitar," he said, reaching to move it.
But I wasn't paying attention.
Fuck the guitar.
I had one thing and one thing only on my mind.
It wasn't an unusual drive for me - to get the girl. In fact, that was generally what was on my mind. But this felt different. This felt oddly urgent. And not in a 'I haven't gotten laid in two weeks' kind of urgent. It was something else, something deep in my gut, a strange pulling sensation.
So I walked between the tables, half-tripping over some chick's purse handle, in my mission to get across the room before she bolted.
And then I was right there.
Right beside her.