SIX

Dagne

Seated atop the closed toilet, I stare at the brass claw-foot bath. I don’t belong here. They may be bikers; they’re probably as crooked as they come, but this lavishness? This opulence?

Whoever Sidey is, he’s got one hell of an old lady. More to the point, she must have had one hell of a budget. Suppose funds aren’t so hard to come by when your trade is illegal.

“Here.” Digits edges the door open, walking in with a towel and face cloth once he’s satisfied I’m still decent.

“Thanks.”

“I think there might be some toiletries under the basin; just help yourself.”

“Okay.”

He smiles shyly, and then turns to leave.

“Why did you help me if you knew it would make your president mad?”

He stops in the doorway, one hand on the frame and his back to me as he stares down at the floor. “Don’t worry about Hooch. He’s just got a sore head over somethin’ else.”

“Maybe, but I know you guys aren’t the sort that like people getting involved in your business. I meant it when I said I’ll be gone the minute I’m done.”

“Who cares what he said?” He shrugs. “Stay as long as you like. You wouldn’t hear much that isn’t public where you’re allowed anyway, so nobody’s going to think you’re imposing.” He turns slightly and runs his gaze head to toe. “Heather gives you any trouble, let me know. We’ll probably be in the chapel when you’re done, so hang around in the parlor again until I come find you.” He swallows, and sighs. Something clearly troubles him. “I’ll give you a lift into town if you still want to leave.”

“Thanks again.”

“Any time.”

The door closes with a soft snick after him, leaving me to my awestruck perusal of the bathroom once more. The damn room is bigger than the bedroom I had as a child. I guess you’d call the style some mix of art deco and vintage. Circular mirrors are cut so that they intersect with each other to make one large one that stretches across the width of the basin. The vanity has worn wooden doors, and a wicker basket sits to the side holding spare toilet rolls. The walls, though tiled from the floor up to half way, are topped with wooden panels painted a rustic shade of cream. A single showerhead protrudes from the wall on the right side of the bath, a curtain draped on a stainless rod that curls in ninety degrees around the shower area.

I push off the toilet, first checking the cupboards for anything of use. A half used bottle of body wash, and a 2-in-1 shampoo and conditioner are the only things that seem of any quality. Everything else is either dried up, faded so much that I can’t read the label, or clearly for men. Products in hand, I lean across the shower area and twist the knobs to start the water, leaving the bottles on the floor beside the pattering spray.

The door is locked internally with both a cylinder lock on the handle and a deadbolt further up. Finding some comfort in the fact I shouldn’t have anyone walk in on me, I undress, stilling when I catch my reflection in the mirror. I’ve seen myself plenty in shop windows, occasionally stealing a better look in the fitting rooms at a department store, but the brutal white light in this room leaves little to the imagination.

I’ve gained a golden tan since leaving home, the result of plenty a day spent wandering the streets in the heat of the afternoon sun. My arms and legs have leaned out, probably also from the walking, and my collarbones protrude sharply at either end. Having no way to measure myself other than my shrinking clothes, I can only guess that I’ve lost somewhere between ten and fifteen pounds.

Living free comes with its vices, that’s for sure.

The water is tepid as I step under, using my cupped palms to throw it over my face and shoulders. I drag the curtain around, and then sag against the wall, staring once more at the bottom of that spectacular bath in the gap between the curtain and the floor as my thoughts drift.

Where the hell am I going to go from here? I can’t keep surviving by begging—my clearly defined ribs prove that. I’m going to need more work soon if I plan on staying free and alone. But work always brings questions, ones I’m never ready to answer. What’s my social security number? Who’s my emergency contact? Do I have any references? All those things do is point the way home, and returning to Salem isn’t something I’m ready for at all. Ever.

With a sigh, I lean down and snag the bottle of 2-in-1. It’s the first real shower I’ve had in weeks that isn’t one stolen from a truck stop or hashed together using the outdoor tap at some roadhouse. Lost in the moment, I close my eyes and relish the feel of the suds as I massage them through my locks. I should cut my hair—being on the road without a proper routine isn’t the best when your hair is midway to your waist, but having the long tresses to let fly in the wind some days is the only thing that keeps me feeling girly when my clothes are grubby and my skin dusty.

I finish up quickly, despite the fact that I would have loved to stand under that weak spray forever. Bottles returned to where I found them, splashed water toweled dry, and everything back as it was, I head downstairs. A deep murmur of voices indicates men nearby, but the words are muffled enough that I couldn’t tell what was being said, even if I tried. Soft music plays in the parlor, something country. I head through the archway to find the first girl from the porch wiping down furniture with a cloth and spray cleaner.

“Hey,” she greets, straightening up. “We didn’t meet properly before. I’m Beth.”

“Hi.” I use the back of a chair to physically break us apart and smile. No telling yet if this cheery attitude is legitimate, or if she’s just as conniving as that Heather girl seems.

“They only just went in, if you’re waiting for Digits.” She points at the wall, and I frown. Her smile grows. “Into the chapel, I mean. It’s behind that wall, in the long room under the stairs.”

“Oh.” I laugh awkwardly. “Right. I wondered what you were pointing at.”

“You wanna help?” She lifts the bottle in her hand. “I’m conditioning the leather, but the tables and bar still need wiping down. There’s a bottle over there in the cupboard.”

“Sure.” I follow where she gestured to and find a new bottle of cleaner and a rag from a tub at the bottom. “Should I start anywhere in particular?”

“Nope.” Beth shakes her head, moving to the next sofa. “Wherever you like, just make sure you get all the surfaces.”

“Okay.” I figure starting at one end makes most sense, so head for a lamp table beside the window. “So, um, do you get paid to clean or something?” Maybe there’d be work here for me.

“No way.” She chuckles, placing her ragged hand on her hip. “I wish I did, but the housework is sort of like me paying lodgings, you know?”

“I guess.” I wipe around an ornate table lamp, being sure to catch the dust in each ridge of its base. “Are you an old lady?” I’ve heard the term before, but never actually been close enough to bikers to have met one.

“My, you are full of questions.” She shoots me a curious glance as I do my best to ignore her without looking too badly like I’m trying to.

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” She fluffs a cushion, placing it in the corner of the sofa she just wiped. “I’m not an old lady yet, but I hope to be if things work out right.” Her eyes become faraway and dreamy before she snaps back to action.

“Fair enough.”

“And you?”

“Do I want to be an old lady?” I frown as I glance over at her.

“No, darlin’. I meant, what’s your story?”

“Oh.” I scrub harder at a stubborn mark. “No real story. I drift from town to town.”

“Must be nice seeing the sights, is it?”

“A little. I’ll settle down somewhere, just haven’t found the place that calls to me yet.”

She nods, and we work in silence for the next while, moving around each other to finish our respective tasks. The air between us thins, and I almost feel comfortable enough to give a bit of light banter a try when Heather enters from a door off the side of the bar. She lifts a hand to her hair, sweeping it out from her face as she watches me stash the cleaning supplies away, her lips downturned.

Beth sighs, hand on hip, and frowns at the waif. “Let her alone, Heather.”

“She’s not supposed to be here.”

“Says who?” Beth bites back.

I look for a shadow, a dark corner, anything to hide me. I hate confrontation with other girls; it never ends well.

“Hooch. He told Digits to get rid of her as soon as possible.”

“I’m going as soon as they’re done,” I fill her in. Fuck knows why. It’s not as though I should have to defend myself. I guess more just to diffuse the growing situation than anything else.

“Good. Don’t need freeloaders like you around here.”

“Uh,” Beth interjects, forcing Heather to shut her mouth before she can say anything more, “I think out of the two of you, you’re the freeloader, Heather.”

“What?”

“Wasn’t you I had in here helping me with the cleanin’ now, was it?”

Heather’s icy eyes darken as her face contorts into a furious scowl. She takes a step forward, backing me into the cupboard door. “You sucking up now, too? Think you can charm your way in here?”

“Why the hell would I want to stick around when so far I’ve been grilled by the president, and given nothing but trouble by some psycho stick figure?”

Her nostrils flare, jaw grinding, and I flick my gaze to Beth to gauge her reaction. Maybe I took things too far with that last snipe? Beth smirks at me, her eyes alight with humor.

“Go suck on a carrot stick, Heather. Leave us alone.”

The outnumbered girl stomps off through the entranceway, to where, who knows or cares? Beth steps forward, bumping her closed fist into my shoulder playfully.

“You called her out, didn’t you?”

“I shouldn’t have said that.” For all I know, Heather has an eating disorder that I’ve just exacerbated.

“She had it coming. Girl drives me darn crazy most of the time.”

“Why’s she here, then, if she just annoys everyone?” I think back to the comments I overheard Hooch make to Digits about her.

“Because that girl,” Beth says, thumbing in the direction she left, “is freaky-deaky in the bedroom.”

Eww. Totally didn’t need to know that. Totally makes me see Digits in a whole new light, too, if he’s tapped that. Again, eww.

Beth half skips, half walks over to the bar and pulls out a cold bottle of water. She knocks back the top third, and then gets situated on a stool while I stand against the wall wondering what the hell to do with myself now.

“Where you headed next?”

I look over at her, at how she sits with her legs crossed, and the effortless way she oozes sex appeal. No wonder the guys keep her around. If Heather’s good for the bedroom, I bet Beth is good for making the place look pretty.

“Hadn’t planned it, to be honest.”

“Stick around a while, then.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?” She pats the stool next to her. “You can bunk in my room.”

“Uh, because Hooch made it pretty damn clear that he was barely tolerating me having a shower before I left.”

“Pfft. Don’t pay that bear no mind. He’s always grumpy and depressed these days.”

“Yeah, maybe so.” I take the offered seat. “But he’s also the boss, right?”

“To the guys, sure. He has ultimate say over us, too, but as long as we make ourselves useful he seems to not care what we get up to most of the time.”

“We?” I jam both hands under my thighs, not feeling like it’s my place to get too comfortable leaning on the bar.

“The property girls.”

Jesus. “You call yourselves property?”

“Of course. We belong to the club.”

“Are you free to leave?” What in the fresh hell is this?

“As long as we’re going for good. Like, you can’t just bounce in and out when you feel like it.” She takes another swig of her water. “But if you’re in, you’re in completely.”

“What does that mean?” I twitch a smile and dip my chin. “I’m new to your world, sorry.”

“Don’t worry.” Beth rests a hand on my forearm, ducking her head to give me a warm and seemingly genuine smile. “I didn’t know a thing about it when I first rolled up either.” She spins her stool, leaning an elbow on the bar. “Property girls belong to the club, in that if they get hurt or damaged, the club retaliates. They get looked after, but in exchange for that you’ve got to be willing to abide by the rules. No relationships outside of the club. Always come when you’re summoned. Put the men of the club first. Their needs are your needs. Serve them, make sure they’re looked after, and in return they’ll treat you right too.” She shrugs one shoulder, turning her water around in her hand. “In a nutshell, you should know what the men need before they do. A member shouldn’t have to ask you for anything; you should already be there beside him with it, or doing it.”

“You’re servants.” Borderline slaves by the sounds of things.

“Willingly, though.” She winks. “Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it, darlin’. It may be your thing.”

If it’s anything directly opposed to being free, then I’m afraid poor Beth is totally wrong—it’s not my thing. Never would be. No way in hell am I letting anyone, especially a man, tell me what to do and when to do it ever again.

Come on, Digits. This drifter’s ready to go find where the road leads her next.