Star

 

There it was, right in front of Star Bentley: The Twisted Raven. The worst biker bar in the tri-county area.

 

She peered at it through the windshield of her little hatchback, a wreck of car which had just barely been able to limp to the parking lot under its own power. The neon sign had just flicked “OPEN,” and the bar was still deserted. Knowing this place, though, it would start filling up soon. She took a deep breath and wondered if she really was desperate enough to do this, to start cocktail waitressing at such a scuzzy, bottom-feeder dive.

 

The Twisted Raven was notorious throughout the tri-county area. Barroom brawls, burly bikers rolling and fighting in the gravel parking lot, and underage kids buying alcohol. There were probably even worse things going on there, too, if the rumors were to be believed. It was a marvel the place was still open. Star figured it would have been out of business years ago, if it had been inside city limits. The town council would have seen to it. But, since it was out here on the highway, surrounded only by farmland and asphalt, it was a county problem.

 

Star took a deep breath and narrowed her eyes at the rundown, wood-frame establishment. “It's either this,” she said out loud, in a confident voice to the empty car, “or stripping. And, what do you think that kind of place would be like? You've got this, girl. You've got this.”

 

She grabbed her resume folder and purse from the passenger seat and got out of the car. Gravel and dirt crunched under her stylish, but professional, flats as she made her way through the empty lot to the front door.

 

In her mind, she ran through all the poor decisions made by others that had brought her, a beautiful, upstanding woman who should be married to some businessman and on the rotary committee, to a place like this.

 

Her father getting arrested for fraud. He was three states over now, doing ten-to-twenty.

 

Her mother getting hooked on drugs, opiates, and running out-of-state to be with Star's new stepfather.

 

The house? Gone. The cars? Gone. Star's future? Gone, gone, gone. Gone.

 

She should have been holding her breath like this before she stepped into a meeting of the League of Women Voters. Definitely not the Old Crow.

 

This was it. The bottom of the barrel. But what had her dad always said? “Do what you have to do, not what you want to do. Be happiest when they're the same thing, but still be happy when they're not.”

 

Of course, what good was advice from some guy who ended up in prison?

 

She paused at the entryway, took a deep breath, and pulled open the big, steel door.

 

The stench of stale beer and staler smoke assaulted her nose. The lights were low, and there was only one window to allow in the sun. Behind the bar stood a big biker of a man with a Grizzly Aarons beard, his face grim under the red, blue, and green neon lights of the beer signs. He cleaned and polished a beer glass.

 

Star paused just inside the door and took a deep breath, something she immediately regretted as the foul smell hit her. She clutched her resume and its folder to her chest as she fought back an unexpected gag.

 

The bartender wasn't any more appealing than the smell, with his heavy features, long curly hair, and unkempt beard. His eyes shifted to Star, looked her up and down. He didn't show any sign of whether or not he approved.

 

She felt the pit of her stomach drop. She shouldn't have come here. She shouldn't have come to this shitty bar, on this shitty highway, with its scary, shitty bartender. She almost turned around and headed right back out to her car. But, then she reminded herself of what waited out there for her. Bills, destitution, and no help from anyone. Back there was nothing except her friend Patricia's shoulder to cry on.

 

“You okay, hun?” the bartender grated as she started to step forward into the dark, smelly bar.

 

“Me?” she squeaked after his gravelly voice brought her back to the moment.

 

He gave her a perplexed look, as if to say, “Yeah, you, stupid. Who else is there?”

 

This was it. One. Last. Chance.

 

She took another breath. This time, she didn't gag, which was a small wonder on its own. She put one foot in front of the other and crossed over to the bar, her resume clutched so tightly in her hand that she had begun to bend it. She held it out in front of her like a crucifix warding off vampires.

 

“I was wondering if you - well, if your bar that is - is hiring?” she rambled, her nerves clamoring for control of her vocal chords. She gave a weak smile. “I brought my resume.”

 

The man came over and took hold of the resume folder, prying it from her still-gripping hand. He opened it up, his eyes flickering from the sheet to her face, and back again.

 

“Listen, Miss -” he said, genuine regret in his voice, as his eyes darted back to the cover sheet, “Bentley. You seem real qualified and all, and a real great gal, but . . .”

 

“. . . but?”

 

He closed the folder and handed it back to her. “Well, we're all fulled up here. I ain't got another shift to spare.”

 

She hung her head and groaned. That was it. Next stop: Juicy Lucy’s. She didn't want to do it. But, if she couldn't make money with her clothes on, she'd just have to make it with them off. She checked the time behind the bar. She still had a couple more hours before the strip-club opened.

 

“Sorry again,” the bartender said, trying to make his voice sound as consoling as a two-hundred-fifty pound biker could. “You wanna drink or something?”

 

She didn't normally drink, but she'd be damned if a little liquid courage didn't sound perfect just then. She pulled out one of the rickety bar stools and climbed onto it. “God yes. Jager and a beer, please. Any beer.”

 

“Coming right up,” he said as he drew a beer for her and poured two shots of Jager. He set one down in front of her, alongside her beer, and put the other in front of himself.

 

She reached into her purse to grab her wallet, and what little money she had in it.

 

“Nah,” he said with a wave, “it's on the house.”

 

She gave him a lop-sided smile. “Thanks, I guess.”

 

“Life's shit, kid,” giving her a little cheers with his shot glass, “then, it gets worse.” He downed it in one go, flipped it in his hand, and slammed it down on the bar. “So, where you looking after this?”

 

“Juicy Lucy’s,” she said, something that produced a wince from the gnarled bartender. “I'm behind on rent, my electricity's about to get shut off . . . it's either this or . . .” She left the sentence unfinished, letting it hang in the stale, fetid air with pregnant implication.

 

 

# # #

 

Tanner

 

“Goddamn that old piece-of-shit,” Tanner Rainier roared as he slapped the stack of legal documents on his mom's kitchen table. His father had done it again. Even beyond the grave, he'd backed Tanner into a corner and completely fucked him every which way from Sunday.

 

“Now, Tanner,” placated Tova Rainier, Tanner's mom, “don't say that about the dead. And particularly not Pops.”

 

“Don't say it about Pops?” he asked, still pissed. “He knew you'd need that inheritance when he died. He knew it, Mom!” He picked up the stapled stack of papers and gave them a shake. “Did you read through this shit? All that money the old man had, everything he inherited from Gramps, everything you could use. He's got it locked up till I do what he wants.”

 

And he'd be damned if he was going to do what that old, dead asshole had wanted. His Pops may have been the head of the Blood Warriors, Tanner's motorcycle club, and may have been his father. But what he was asking Tanner for, in order to get the money out of his trust . . . that was just too damned much.

 

She shrugged. “Well, I think he did it for what he thought was a good reason. He wanted to have a legacy, since your brother ran off.”

 

Tanner winced at the mention of his brother, Brendon. Once the shining golden boy of the family, he'd disappeared with some whore named Willow. He'd left the family. Left the MC, left his real family.

 

“Sorry,” his mom said. “I know you don't like me mentioning him, but he's still my son.”

 

He ignored her mention of Brendon. Fuck him. “Know what I think? I think the old man wanted one last twist of the fucking knife.” He threw the papers back on the table, tugged a hand down his goateed face. “I mean, look at this shithole he left you with, Mom. It needs more than it's already fucking got. Even with the guys from the MC helping, this place is going to cost a fortune in supplies. New hot water heater, new plumbing, new roof, new foundation. If it had been just me getting screwed on the inheritance, he knew I wouldn't do it. He had to screw his own wife over, too.”

 

Tova coughed wetly, a disgusting and upsetting phlegmy cough. She held up a hand when Tanner went to touch her shoulder reassuringly. “I'm fine, I'm fine. Doctor says there's nothing we can really do about it.”

 

Tanner made a face and shook his head, as he picked up the papers again. “See what I mean?” Tanner said. “If it were just me, Mom, I wouldn't give a shit. I've got the Crow, at least. You? You don't have anything.”

 

“Well, why don't you just do it, then?”

 

Old man Rainier had, unknown to them, put all his money and ownership in various businesses around town, in a legal trust. His part of the Old Crow, his part of a couple convenience stores around town. Even the royalties coming in off the mineral rights on a piece of land just outside the city limits. He'd left it all to Tanner which, on its surface, was a good thing.

 

Right?

 

Wrong. If Tanner, or his mom for that matter, wanted to get to the fortune, there had to be one stipulated condition fulfilled: Tanner had to have a baby.

 

Hell, he didn't even have, or want, a girlfriend. A kid? That was out of the damned question.

 

He shook his head. “You know how I feel about settling down, Mom.”

 

“Well, honey, I just want you to be happy,” she said as she reached across the table and touched his hand. “And, if doing what you want will make you happy, then I'm fine. Don't worry about me.”

 

He placed the paperwork on the table, this time more gently than before. “I'll figure something out, Mom.” He took her hand in his and squeezed, marveling at how frail the bones of her hands felt. Just like a bird. “I promise,” he whispered.

 

Tova smiled and patted his hand. “I know, honey. You've always been a good son.”

 

“Tell that to Pops.” He held up the paper, grimacing.

 

She snorted a laugh. “I would, but séances cost money. Those shysters don't work for free.”

 

He checked the time. “Listen, I gotta get going and meet one of the brothers, okay?”

 

“That's fine, hon,” Tova said as he pushed himself back from the kitchen table and got to his feet. She rose to meet him for a hug. “Talk to you tomorrow?”

 

“Yeah,” he said as he pulled her into an embrace. “Okay, tomorrow. Listen, I'll get this figured out. Everything will be okay, alright?”

 

“I know it will, son,” Tova said, weakly squeezing his shoulder. She lightly patted him on the back. “I know.”

 

Tanner let himself out through the kitchen door and circled around to the driveway. He hopped on his bike, kicked it into life, and took off for his bar, the Old Crow.

 

Thoughts swirled in his head, and concerns about his mom clenched at his stomach. If she'd been doing better, or if his pops had left money aside for her, he'd have just ignored his inheritance. His ownership portion in the bar was more than enough to keep him happy and provided for.

 

Of course, that's why all the money had been tied up in the trust.

 

So, what were his options? Get another job?

 

No, that would just take time from the Blood Warriors, which was why he didn't have a girl in the first place.

 

Find some girl he could knock up?

 

He mentally shook his head. Only girl he'd be able to find willing to have his baby would be some piece-of-trash club girl. Did he want that kind of groupie slut to raise his baby? She'd be leaving that poor kid home every Friday night, just so she could come down to the Old Crow and grope Tanner's brothers.

 

Adopt?

 

That right there was a laugh. What adoption agency in their right mind would give him a baby? Besides, the Will said it had to be his. Old Man Rainier had wanted a living blood heir.

 

Fifteen minutes later, he was slowing down his bike on the stretch of highway that ran in front of the bar, and turning into the parking lot. A little rundown hatchback sat out in front, and Tyke's bike was pulled up near the front door. Tanner cruised up to the entrance and parked. He climbed off and headed inside, his mood still gloomy.

 

He pulled the front door open and stomped inside, the stale air almost comforting as it hit him in the face. He waved to Jethro, their bartender, as he headed past on his way to the back booth that was almost perpetually reserved for members of the Blood Warriors.

 

As he stalked past, his eyes glanced to the right and caught sight of a very out-of-place looking young woman seated at the next booth over. Her head hung, her brunette hair spilling down and forward, as she traced a path with her finger through the water-ring left by her beer. She was dressed nice, like she'd been at an office job. Or church, even.

 

Tanner didn't pay it any more attention than he had to, though. Thoughts of his mom and her needs crowded back in as he collapsed into the booth across from the big, muscle-bound, shaven-headed Tyke.

 

“What it do, man?” Tyke rumbled in his deep bass.

 

“Fucking hell, Tyke,” Tanner cussed before launching into a tirade about his pops' death, about the Will, and about the requirements on the trust.

 

Tyke held up his hand as the Will was mentioned. “Sorry, dude, we gotta have shots and some more brew for this legal shit. You're making me have flash backs to when my old man passed. And, knowing your pappy, this is going to be a way worse shitshow than mine.”

 

“Jethro, buddy,” Tanner called as he hopped up to grab the drinks, “two beers, two bourbons.”

 

Jethro had the shots poured before he even got to the bar, and was already opening the beer bottles by the time Tanner put his hands around the shots.

 

“Anything new today?” Tanner asked, picking up the bourbons in one hand and grabbing the beer bottles by the neck with the other.

 

Jethro shook his head. After a second's thought, though, he decided there was something. “Girl in that booth next to y'all. Looking for a job cocktailing.”

 

“That woman? She looks like she got lost on the way here from Sunday school. Way too nice for this beer joint.”

 

The bartender cracked a toothy smile. “Thought the same thing. Had to turn her away, though. More waitresses than we need, anyhow.”

 

“Shame. She's pretty enough. Probably class the place up, too,” Tanner said as he grabbed the drinks and headed back to rejoin Tyke at the booth. He snuck a glance at the young woman as he returned with their beers and shots, intrigued at why she'd need a job in a place like this. He set the shots down in the center of the table, and Tyke snatched up his without a moment's hesitation.

 

“Alright, sir,” Tyke said as he picked up the glass and gestured to Tanner with it. “May you be through the Pearly Gates before the Devil knows you're dead.”

 

“Back atcha,” Tanner said and they toasted each other before slamming back their shots and clapping the glasses face down on the table.

 

“Now, Tanner my friend,” Tyke said with a flourish, “you may resume.”

 

Tanner launched back into his story, about how badly his dad had screwed them over, and about the requirements put on him to have a baby before he could get into the trust. His eyes raged, his voice was raised, and he slammed his fist on the table more than a few times.

 

Tyke took it all in, but by the end he could hardly control his laughter.

 

“What the fuck's so funny? Huh?”

 

“You, man, that's what,” Tyke said, still chuckling as he took a drink of his beer. “You all bent outta shape about having to knock some bitch up? Like it's a fucking miracle of goddamn nature or some shit? Shit, man, I've done it twice that I know of, and both times by fucking accident.”

 

“What're you saying, man?”

 

“What I'm saying is,” Tyke replied as he leaned forward on his elbows, “you just gotta find yourself one of them . . . what're they called? Sure-gates.”

 

“Sure-gate? A surrogate, you mean?”

 

“Yeah, man. Find some chick who actually wants a kid, offer to pay for it, send it to Harvard, do whatever, then, pow,” he slammed his fist into his hand, “you bang one out, man. Presto. You got yourself a fucking kid, and you got yourself the trust. Just fucking man-up and quit being such a touchy-feely pussy about this shit.”

 

Tyke was right. He just needed to man-up on this. He could run a bar, he could nail a board, and he could beat the ever-living shit out of a man if he had to. Why didn't he just do this? Tanner hung his head. “You're right. I just gotta find some woman who'd be willing to do it.”

 

Tyke's cell rang. He reached down and dug in his pocket, pulled it out to check the ID. “Shit,” he muttered as he climbed out of the booth. “That's Thorne, man. I better get moving.”

 

Tanner went to stand, and the two hugged and clapped each other viciously on the back.

 

“Find you a girl,” Tyke said, “and just knock her up. Easy-peasy, man.”

 

“Right,” Tanner agreed as Tyke headed back out to his bike. “Easy-fucking-peasy.”