Simon didn’t wear cowboy boots or pearl-buttoned shirts. He didn’t, and would never, own a cowboy hat. He couldn’t stand country music. He sure as fuck didn’t dance to it. The Crazy Rose wasn’t the kind of place he’d have sought out on his own, but most of his brothers were country boys, and they liked it.
A decade and a half living in Tulsa had inoculated him against most strong reactions to the drawl and twang of country singers and steel guitars, but he was a city boy, born and raised in Chicago, and his musical taste was Rush and Queen, Black Sabbath and AC/DC. Not George Strait or Conway Twitty or who-the-fuck-ever else.
He’d been in high school during the Dark Days of Disco, and he remembered his senior prom, standing on the sideline of the high school gym in his white tux and ruffled turquoise shirt, arguing with Karen Gorecki because he wouldn’t go out on the floor and do the Hustle or the Bus Stop or whatever stupid, soul-sucking horror of a dance she’d wanted to do. Everybody was lined up in rows, not partnered, so it hadn’t even mattered that he wouldn’t dance with her, but she’d made a scene anyway.
She’d dumped him right there. While he stood in the fucking clown suit that matched her flouncy dress. Because he wouldn’t play like he was John Travolta. She’d dumped him and spun on her heel, Dorothy Hamill hair flying, and stalked off to join the dancing herself.
Watching the people at the Crazy Rose, stomping and turning and clapping like some overage high school color guard, Simon thought of Karen Gorecki and his turquoise ruffles and shook his head. The Rose was most definitely not his kind of place.
That said, the pussy here was top notch, especially on Ladies’ Night. As he put his bottle to his mouth, letting overpriced Budweiser wash down his throat, he tipped his chair back and studied the wiggling asses on the dance floor.
Lots of leather pants out there. Hugging Pilate’d asses. Nice. He was an ass man—liked to get his hands around some firm meat. Deb was too skinny and didn’t have much of an ass, but it had a great shape, like a little upended heart, just right for the kind of jeans she wore, which rode low across her hips.
She liked to have him up in that little ass, too. That was a rare thing—a woman who not only would let you have her ass but wanted it, got off on it, fucking asked for it. Damn, she was a good lay.
He dropped the front legs of his chair back to the floor. Son of a bitch, he needed to stop thinking about Deb. She’d been knocking his brain cells around all week. In a year and a half of fucking, he’d never thought of her this much before.
“Beer’s not gonna cut it tonight. Anybody up for a bottle?”
A distracted set of nodding heads gave him his answer; they were all watching the dance floor. Except Griffin, who glared around the room, his arms crossed over his chest. Ox, who had money on the table from the last round, pushed the bills toward him, but Simon ignored that and went up.
They ostensibly had a server assigned to their table, but they’d been on their own since Patrice had seen Griffin. She’d since been avoiding them with the focus of a cat creeping past a sleeping Rottweiler, and it seemed she’d put the word out to the other girls that their table was trouble.
Shame, because they were good tippers.
The music stopped, and a voice came over the PA, announcing that the live band would be up in ten minutes. Up at the bar, he stood behind the row of occupied stools and raised his hand, getting the bartender’s attention. When he had it, he ordered, “Bottle of Jack, six glasses.”
A hand rested on the small of his back. “Got a party goin’ on?”
Simon looked over his shoulder and down. A little blonde with a metric ton of shampoo-model hair batted long eyelashes at him and hit him with a bright white smile. She was hot, but she’d done that thing with her lipstick where the outline was darker than the rest. He hated that. He hated lipstick, period; it tasted like rancid floor wax or something and felt like slug slime on his skin.
The sweetbutts in the clubhouse all wore lipstick, but they were there at the pleasure of the patches. He didn’t have to spare their feelings, and he could, and did, tell them to wipe it off before he’d let their lips anywhere near him.
Deb didn’t wear it. She didn’t wear much makeup at all, as far as he knew.
Jesus fucking Christ! He hit his head with the heel of his hand, trying to knock Gunner’s sister loose.
“You okay?” the shampoo model asked, slipping her hand under his kutte and t-shirt to rub his lower back.
“Yeah, yeah.” He shut down his idiot head and manufactured a smile for the hottie with her hand on him. He hadn’t gotten laid since Deb. What he needed, desperately, was an anonymous fuck, and there was one queued up right beside him. “Get you a drink?”
Her high-beam grin turned sly; yeah, she was primed. Proving his read, her fingers slid into his waistband and hooked in. “You ordered a bottle. Maybe just get me a glass of my own?”
He wasn’t bringing Miss Clairol over to the table. “I got five thirsty friends over there. But I bet we could spare you a glass’s worth.”
The bartender brought his bottle and glasses—he set seven on the bar, already reading the scene between Simon and the chick. Simon broke the seal and filled two glasses. “Hang on, sweetheart. I’ll be back.” He took the other five glasses and the bottle to the table. The Jack would likely be gone by the time he was done with the chick, but he’d decided that he needed a fuck more than a drunk. Drunk would be stupid tonight, anyway. A buzz would do.
“You pulled already?” Gunner asked as he took the bottle from him. “Fuck, bro. You been gone three minutes.”
A weird bolt of guilt pinged against the back of Simon’s head, but he grinned and shrugged it off. “I won’t be far. You boys play nice while I’m gone.”
Patrice passed nearer their table than she had in a while, and Griffin’s head swiveled after her. She didn’t acknowledge them at all. They might as well have been statuary.
The waitresses at the Rose, like cocktail waitresses everywhere, wore skimpy uniforms—cowboy boots with little denim Daisy Dukes and rose-patterned western shirts that tied just under their tits. Patrice had the kind of body that inspired great art and good porn, and she filled out the shorts and the shirt extremely inspirationally.
As far as Simon knew, she was the only African American waitress at the Rose. As far as he knew, she was the only African American person at the Rose. Ever. He did not understand why the hell she’d want to work here, and Griffin didn’t know, either. But there she was, and the Bulls’ eyes were not the only eyes on her. She and her dreadlocks left a wake of swiveling heads and gaping mouths, male and female alike.
Simon was the ranking Bull in the group, so any trouble would land on his feet. He leveled a look at Griffin. “You keep your chill, Griff. You’re watching out for trouble, not starting it, got it?”
Griffin didn’t answer. Just slid his eyes over for half a second, then went back to glaring after his girl.
“I got him, Si,” Ox said.
“Yeah,” Slick agreed. “We’ll keep him in his seat.” Wally nodded his agreement.
Gunner laughed. “Go get your pussy before it gets cold, man.”
Satisfied that his brothers had Griffin in hand, Simon went back to the bar, where Miss Clairol stood, one manicured hand on a curvaceous hip, watching him.
“Was beginnin’ to wonder if you were gonna blow me off.”
She looked and acted like an ultra-high-maintenance chick, but that wouldn’t be a problem for a bathroom-stall fuck. Shouldn’t be a problem, anyway. Irritation beat on the back of Simon’s eyes. Some chicks dug their claws in right away, and he did not have room in his mood for that crap.
Not ready to bail on the prospect of the bathroom-stall fuck—which would be positively therapeutic, considering the mess his mood was in—he picked up his glass, drank the whiskey down in three swallows, then slid into the smile that chicks liked best. “Now why would I do that, when you’re standing here, all pretty and sweet and waiting for me.”
“Was wonderin’ that, too.” She quirked a coy smile at him and held out her hand—dark red claws, gold chains dripping from her wrist. “Charlene.”
What he wanted was an anonymous fuck, not a date. He stared down at her hand. “Do we really need names?” His name was sewn on his kutte, so she could know it if she cared to look, but it was the principle of the thing.
Her hand sagged, as did her smile. “That’s pretty cold. You think I’m gonna hike up my skirt for you because you gave me a glass of fucking Jack Daniels?”
“I think you moved on me because you saw the Bull on my back and you want a ride on the wild side. I don’t need to know your name to take you on that ride.”
She blinked, clearly shocked, but she didn’t slap him or storm off or anything else he might have expected. He didn’t know why he was being such an ass. It wasn’t his style to treat women like shit. But he was pissed, and every second spent standing with her made him angrier.
If he was getting his hackles up because she was looking to fuck a Bull, then he really would need to get his testosterone levels checked. What the fuck was his damage?
“You’re an asshole,” Miss Charlene Clairol muttered. She set her empty glass on the bar. But she still stood right there, in front of him. Did she expect an apology?
Honestly, he probably owed her one.
The band started warming up, and Simon looked over that way, trying to get the bit back in his temper’s teeth.
He needed another drink. “You know what, sweetheart? I’m in a shitty mood tonight. I don’t mean to take it out on you. I’m going to buy you another drink and head back to my brothers.” He called the bartender over and dropped a twenty down. “Another Jack for the lady. The change is yours.” Finding that smile again, he turned it on Charlene. “You have a nice night, now.” Then he turned toward the Bulls’ table.
“Wait.”
He turned back, weary of it all. “Yeah?”
“I don’t need to know your name.”
Well, that was sad, wasn’t it? After all this? And it pissed him all the way off—which was stupid, and insane, and hypocritical, but nonetheless true. He even had the fleeting impulse to strike out at her. What the fuck?
He kept his hands to himself but let his tongue loose. “Sweetheart, have some self-respect.”
That did it. She picked up the drink he’d just bought her and threw it in his face, and then, at long last, she spun on her stacked heel and stalked off, waves of blonde hair billowing and great ass swaying to and fro.
He blinked the whiskey from his eyes. That was a really great ass. Her tiny denim skirt showed legs that went all the way up, and he could tell by the shape of her thighs that perfection sat on top. Fuck. There went the anonymous fuck he’d been after, and a hot one at that. He was out of his fucking mind.
Patrice came up on him while he was wringing Jack from his beard. She handed him a clean bar towel. “Well, goddamn, Simon. You’ve been hangin’ out with Eight Ball lately?”
Eight Ball’s prehistoric attitudes about the fairer sex were the stuff of club legend. He hardly called a night on the town complete unless he’d been slapped or drenched or something by at least one chick. Delaney had confined him to the clubhouse once or twice for starting shit by pissing off the wrong woman. But he preferred the sweetbutts, anyway.
Simon wiped at his face and then made a pass at his shirt. Miss Clairol—what was her name?—had ordered a double, and he’d taken the whole thing head on.
Patrice clucked and grabbed his arm. “Come on. There’s t-shirts in the back. You reek like a distillery.”
“It’s your first night. I don’t want you in trouble.”
She turned and cocked an eyebrow at him. “Right. Like you care if I’d get fired. Come on.”
He followed after her, still shaking whiskey from his beard. She took him past the swinging kitchen doors and through another door marked STAFF ONLY. It was a storeroom, stacked with booze and big bags of peanuts, tortilla chips and other bar supplies. One corner of the space was obviously devoted to the employees, with a stack of small lockers, a round Formica table and several vinyl chairs, and a little fridge and microwave.
Patrice nodded at the side wall. “You can wash up in there. Take your shirt off. What are you, an extra large?”
Usually, he wore double-X; he liked room in his clothes. But beggars shouldn’t be choosers. “Yeah, thanks.” He went into the little bathroom and pulled off his sodden shirt. At the sink, he ran the taps and filled his hand with soap from the wall dispenser, then washed his face and beard as well as he could. Drying with the paper towels from the dispenser took some time.
When he came back out, Patrice was holding a bright pink t-shirt. “All we have in extra is pink.”
No, he would not be wearing a neon pink t-shirt with a rainbow-colored rose on the chest. He looked down at his whiskey-soaked shirt.
Patrice chuckled. “Hold on. I think there’s black in large. Will that work?”
“Sure.” He liked his t-shirts roomy, but he’d take snug over pink every day of the week.
While she rooted around in the back, Simon scanned the room. His eyes landed on her name written in fresh Sharpie and taped to one of the lockers. “Hey, Patrice, can I ask you something?”
“Sure.” She came over and handed him a black shirt.
“What are you doing working here?”
Her hands went to her hips. Nothing good ever came out of a woman standing like that. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Come on. You know.” He snapped the plastic loop on the price tag. Twenty fucking bucks for a cheap-ass t-shirt.
“I want you to say it. Out loud.”
“It’s a country bar.”
“I like country music. My mom raised me on it. That’s not what you mean. Say it, chickenshit.”
His choices here sucked. He could risk pissing her off more by dancing around what they both knew he meant, or he could say it outright and piss her off for that.
No wonder Griffin had wanted backup.
He found what he hoped was a middle ground. “It’s a redneck bar, sweetheart. Your neck’s not red.”
She laughed with such acidity that her mouth coiled into a snarl. “Clever. So this place pays well and offers health insurance, but I’m not supposed to work here because I’m not the right color? Fuck off, Si.”
His rapport with the ladies was all kinds of wrong tonight. “Hey, hey. That’s not what I mean.” Remembering the shirt in his hand, he pulled it on. Silver rose on this one. Not great, but better. “Griff’s worried you’re going to get hurt. Guys around here can be real bastards.”
“I bet the woman who just gave you a Jack Daniels shower would say the same thing. I can handle myself. Griff’s got nothing he can say about what I do with my own life.” She let loose a gale-force sigh. “You’re taking up my whole break. Shirt’s twenty bucks.”
He pulled his wallet and handed her a twenty. “Thanks for helping me clean up. Didn’t mean to piss you off.”
“You should go home, Simon. You’re being a pig tonight, and that’s not like you.” She folded up the bill and tucked it in her tiny shorts. “Take Griffin with you. I don’t need a herd of Bulls glaring at me all night. I am fine. Griff’s just thumping his chest, like he always does.”
Simon almost laughed at the idea of Griffin, their mellow hippie of a brother, thumping his chest, but he was not a stupid man, and Patrice was obviously in no mood to find the humor in any part of this exchange. And clearly, she brought out the Kong in her man. “I’ll see if I can round up the guys.”
“No if. Do it. Or I’ll tell the bouncers you’re hassling me.”
His sense of humor died a quick death. “That would be stupid as hell, Patrice.” Siccing the bouncers on them would start a full-on brawl. There would be blood.
Finally, that contemptuous sneer left her face, and she nodded. “Please. Get him out of here.”
“Alright. Take care of yourself.”
She nodded, and Simon went back out to the bar. There was some complicated shit between those two, and he was beginning to think that it couldn’t be shrugged off as their own business.
~oOo~
It didn’t take much to get his brothers moving. Gunner and Ox weren’t into it anyway, and Wally and Slick were too aware of the lack of wear on their new patches to put up a fuss. Griffin fumed that Patrice was ignoring him, and Simon had to get in his face a little to keep him from hunting her down before they left, but otherwise, they all understood that the night was a bust. They left half the fifth on the table and blew.
Less than an hour after he’d yanked his head through the neck of a Crazy Rose t-shirt, Simon pulled up to the stop sign a few blocks from his house. The car across from him pulled through, and from the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of wood siding as it went by him.
He choked off the thought of Deb before it could get enough breath to start yammering at him, and he pulled through the intersection.
In his driveway, Simon parked his bike and headed to his front door, still feeling the unsettling burn of bad mood and worse temper. What a shitty night. What a shitty week. Considering the dark sludge the club was hip deep in lately, it had been nothing, but his head was sourer than it had been in as long as he could remember.
A slip of paper had been wedged into his door, just above the deadbolt lock. Too small to be a flyer from the Mormons or the Watchtower folks, or somebody offering deals on takeout. He snatched it free—it was a torn piece of envelope—and opened the fold.
Hey. Hung out with Aly tonight, so I was almost in the neighborhood. Thought I’d see if you were around. Feels like we need to talk. Do we? Deb.
He thought of that wood-sided car that had passed him five minutes earlier. Had that been her? He stepped off his porch and stared down the black road. Had he missed her by a few minutes? Goddammit.
He read her note again. She wanted to know if they needed to talk. Did they? He hadn’t called her all week, and she hadn’t called him. That wasn’t unusual, though. What was unusual was that he’d wanted to call her several times and had refused himself. All this fixating on her the past few days had him thrown, as did his hurt feelings from the last time she’d been over. He’d been on simmer for days.
Did they need to talk? No. Absolutely not. What he needed was to back the fuck away from her and get his head straight again.
He crumpled the note up and tossed it into the empty flower box on the side of his porch.