The club is eerily quiet. Everyone’s asleep, passed out on couches and the floor. It’s a big ass biker slumber party.
Creeping through the main room, stepping over sleeping bags, I make my way into the kitchen in search of coffee. I need coffee after the night I had. Desperately need it.
In the kitchen, I find the coffee maker with dried out coffee grounds in a filter that I’m sure has been used more than once, crusted to the coffee maker.
“Gross,” I mutter, peeling it from the sides and chucking it into the garbage can. The thing lands with a thud.
It takes some digging and searching, but I find the new filters and the coffee, both on opposite sides of the kitchen, nowhere near where they should be.
Dumping the grounds into the filter, I plop it in, pour in some water and start the beast up.
Sitting down at the bar, a donut in my hand, I breathe in the alluring aroma of fresh brewed coffee. If King is heroine, then coffee is coke. I’ve got addictions, with coffee and King being two of them.
Elbows on the bar, I practically come out of my skin when someone says, “Princess” near my shoulder.
“Shit!” I yelp, hand on my heart.
“Jesus, girl, calm down,” my dad chuckles, scratching at his beard. He just woke up, and he’s wearing his hangover proudly, with bloodshot eyes and a massive five o’clock shadow.
“You scared me.”
He laughs, walking around the bar toward the kitchen. “Want me to grab you a cup?” he asks, looking at the coffeemaker, and then at me.
“Yeah, please.”
I watch him fill two cups—one black, and the other a creamy shade of perfection. “Don’t know how you drink this sweet shit,” he mutters, handing me my cup, a grimace on his face.
“Addiction,.” I shrug, taking the piping hot mug, wrapping my hands around the ceramic and inhaling the sweet scent of familiarity. Coffee smells like my dad. Coffee and motor oil.
Sitting down next to me, he says, “So you stayed last night.” He looks at my oversized T-shirt, disastrous hair and messy makeup.
Rubbing at my forehead, I sigh. “Yeah. It was a rough night and I had to. Someone blocked my car in,” I grumble, eyeing him.
Feeling the effects of alcohol and King, I listen to my headache beat along to the rhythm of my rolling stomach.
I can’t believe I let King fuck me. Again. I’m stupid. Beyond stupid. The man is heartbreak in a cut.
My dad just nods, understanding. He knows I’ve been a mess. A disaster, really. My life has been anything but normal my entire life, and these past few months haven’t been much different. “Who’s shirt?”
I lie. I know he’s assuming it’s Tags’, even though we’re over. My dad knows we’ve been back and forth for a while, and as much as I don’t like him much anymore, I almost wish it was Tags I was with last night. It would be easier. “It’s Tyler’s. Stayed in his room last night.” That’s not a lie. Not his shirt, but I did stay in his room.
“He didn’t sleep here last night?”
“Nope.”
My dad rolls his eyes. “Must’ve taken off with that bitch wearin’ that short skirt, her ass-cheeks hangin’ out.”
That makes me laugh. My dad’s a biker. Rough and crude, but every now and then, the disapproving dad he tries to hide comes out. “Was she something special?” I didn’t see her. I didn’t see my brother either, not that I’d expected to. Tyler’s always on the go. Never in one place too long.
“His usual.”
“Gross.” I shudder, sipping my coffee and picturing his “usual.” Bleach blonde hair with dark roots out to there. Short something or other, either showing serious underboob or ass cheeks. Hair reaching the heavens and makeup from the dollar bin. His ‘something special’ is nothing special. I wish my brother would find something real, something sweet, and settle down, but that’s not T.
Shoulder to shoulder, we drink our coffee in silence, until my dad says, “You saw King, yeah?”
My stomach rolls just hearing his name. I hate that my dad doesn’t know about us. Hate hiding things from him, but I’m not brave enough to tell him. Pretty sure I never will be. “Yeah?” I answer carefully, not sure where this is going and what he’s about to say.
My dad sets his cup down and turns toward me. Must be serious. Maybe he does know. Shit. In my head, I start coming up with excuses and explanations, until he says, “Now before you lose your shit and cop the attitude, hear me out, okay?”
I roll my eyes. “I’m not that bad.”
He barks out a loud laugh. “You’re bad, baby.”
“Whatever.” I’m not as bad as they make me out to be, but I just wave him on anyway. I’m not about to argue with him this early in the morning, and without a second cup of morning cocaine. “What about King?”
“He’s here for you.”
Excuse me?
I almost choke on a mouthful of coffee, damn near spitting out the warm liquid. “Why?” I cough, swallowing the coffee and wiping at my mouth.
“That motherfucker that’s been giving you a hard time is provin’ to be a little more than just your run-of-the-mill asshole. He’s been givin’ us the runaround, and with national run here, I need someone who can focus on that shit. Get it under control.” What my dad means is that he’s busy and needs this stalker dead and buried before the weekend rolls around. I trust my dad can handle the issue, but I also know if someone needs a body dead and gone quickly, King’s the man for the job.
King never stays longer than a day or two so… “How long will he be here?”
“However long that shit takes.”
“Yay,” I mutter around my mug, eyes closing in pain, but my dad levels me with a sharp look. “Don’t give him shit, Sammy. He’s here to help. Stick close to him. Be nice.”
“I’m always nice.” As I nice as I can be.
It’s my dad’s turn to roll his eyes. “Right. You’re a ray of fuckin’ sunshine. I love you, baby girl, but you’re a pain in the ass and you know it.”
Finishing my coffee, I get up, leaving my cup on the bar. “I’ll be an angel,” I tell him, kissing his cheek. “The sweetest.”
He chuckles. “That’s what I’m worried about.”
Holding up my hand, I say, “Scout’s honor.” I walk away, smirking. King lied. He lied to my face and he knows better.
“You were never a scout,” he calls after me as I walk off, laughing.
Before I disappear through the door, I yell out, “But I could’ve been.”
Laughing, he shakes his head. “Scouts are for people with dicks.”
“Whatever.” I don’t care. What I do care about is killing King.