Chapter 2
Ginger
Present
God, I was tired. Five straight days of working a double shift were taking a toll on my sleep deprived brain, and my body was holding up little better than that. I should have remembered what Bike Week had been like last year and moved on before this one. But the tips were more than worth it in the end. I was finally able to get ahead on the bills and actually squirrel away some decent money. I thought about the coffee can in my cupboard and the roll of bills that was hidden beneath the grains of coffee.
The truth was that I was tired of moving on. I liked the area, I liked being near the beach, and for the first time in years I felt that I may have finally found a place that I could put down roots. After three years of being on what I considered to be the run, looking behind my back, always afraid that one of Wildman's Devils would catch up to me, nothing had happened. But I was still afraid that the moment I let my guard down would be the moment that danger would strike.
"Just two more hours," Della said in an exhausted voice, all but collapsing onto the bar. She'd been working right alongside me all week. One of the first people I'd met when arriving in Daytona Beach, we'd become fast and best friends. We lived in the same shitty apartment complex. She put a hand at the small of her back and arched with a loud groan. "I'm getting too old for this," she joked.
I laughed, because we were only twenty-four, but I could sympathize with her. At the moment I felt twice that. "I suggest that once this week is over we treat ourselves to a spa day."
"I like your way of thinking," she groaned.
I frowned, giving her a curious look. Her color seemed a little off, and I'd noticed that as the evening had gone on her usual pep had waned. "Are you feeling okay, honey? You look a little pale."
She shrugged, brushing it off. "Probably just overtired."
That was probably true.
"Smiles, girls!" We both rolled our eyes and pasted on our fake smiles for Vinny, the owner of Pirate's Cove. Thank God he wasn't out front very often and stayed in his back office. He insisted that we keep smiles on our faces for the customers. As if they cared if we were smiling or not. All they wanted was fast service and the chance to cop a feel without getting shot down.
"I can't stand that jerk," Della snarled in a low tone. "’Smiles, girls,’" she mimicked.
I knew that she didn't mean it. Vinny was a decent boss, it's just that we were so tired and cranky with the grueling schedule we kept, and he seemed blissfully oblivious, which came off as being insensitive. More than once I'd wished that we could slap a pair of stilettos on his oversized, caveman-like feet and make him work an eight-hour shift in them.
I immediately looked around to make sure that Della hadn't been heard, though. The only eavesdropper that we really had to worry about was Vinny's girlfriend, Stevie, who also happened to be one of the bartenders that were working that night. But a quick glance revealed that she was busy at the furthest end of the bar filling drink orders. The place was packed, as usual, and it didn't show any signs of emptying out as it grew closer to quitting time. It was a bad sign when Vinny showed up out front before closing and he saw how full the bar was. He was money-hungry, and we were waiting for the day when he insisted that we stay open until the last customer left.
"Damn." I saw a hand go up at one of my fuller tables where a biker club from Georgia, and their women, were seated. Thank God they were staying at the hotel across the street and wouldn’t be driving after they left. They were drunk and rowdy and had kept me hopping.
"Want me to help you, honey?" Della asked with a genuine smile.
I shook my head. "No, you need a break too, enjoy it." I made my way to their table in a kind of dance-like series of moves between tables, chairs, and dancers. I was laughing at myself by the time I reached them. "What can I get ya'll?" I prepared myself for the rapid-fire orders that I knew from experience were coming. But to my surprise, it suddenly got quiet.
"Nothing, sweetheart," one of the men said with a grin, catching me by surprise. "We've kept you dancing all night and you done good. You deserve this."
I looked down at the bills that he was holding out, certain that sheer exhaustion was causing me to see triple. I blinked and refocused my eyes on his hand. Nope. Still there. Three one hundred dollar bills. My gaze flew up to his, and then gradually moved around the table, taking in all the smiles. I felt the burn of tears in my eyes and clenched my teeth to hold them back.
One of the women that were closest to me grabbed the money out of his hand and then turned to me. "Take it. I do what you do back home, so we know how hard you work, especially during events."
I took the money from her slowly. "I . . . I . . . thank you so much!" I'd never gotten a tip so big, and was suddenly feeling overwhelmed. It had to be because I was so freaking tired. I took a deep breath, and quickly wiped at the tear threatening to spill.
"We'll be leaving now. Maybe we'll see you next year when we return." As their president, according to the patch on his cut, scooted back his chair, the others followed.
"You just might," I responded, stepping back with a smile. "I hope ya'll have a safe trip home."
My good wishes were met with murmurs and nods, and I watched them leave. Once we’d exchanged the last wave as they plowed through the door to the outside, I swung around to go back to the bar. I tucked the money into my pocket.
"Baby, you g-get that kind of mon-money from m-me, you better get d-down on your kne-knees."
Talk about a glass of cold water in the face!
I was halted by the feel of a hand curling around my arm. Gasping at his crudeness, I glanced down into the man's face. His red, droopy eyes revealed that he was beyond drunk. His friends were all laughing at his comment, but I didn't find a thing funny about it. I'd had enough of sloppy drunks that week, and I was at the end of my tolerance. "Why, did you drop it on the floor?" I glanced down as if that were a possibility.
He threw his head back and snorted, along with his inebriated friends. They were part of the usual weekend crowd who frequented the bar so I'd seen them around before. "No, it's in-in my pants!" He leaned back in his chair and thrust his hips up suggestively.
I glanced at the bar, watching Della shake her head and roll her eyes at me. She realized that I was about to let him have it and was reminding me in her way not to get myself into trouble. I reined in the urge to pick up the guy's half-empty beer and dump it over his head. I looked at his crotch, then back up to his cloudy eyes. "It can't be in your pants," I smiled, pulling my arm away. "The bulge is too tiny."
His face instantly turned red, scrunching up with anger as a chorus of laughter and gaffs erupted around us. His friends weren't the only ones who'd overheard our conversation. I swung back toward Della, shooting her a wink.
I began weaving my way back to the bar when another patron at one of my tables stopped me. "Could we get another pitcher of beer, doll?" It was a table of four bikers, their cuts turned inside out to hide their club patches. I'd noticed that a few clubs were doing that this year, as many establishments had banned the wearing of colors in order to avoid confrontations between battling clubs.
I smiled down into his friendly brown eyes and full-bearded face. "Sure, be right back." I felt the eyes of all four bikers on me as I walked away.
"Guess you put that jerk in his place," Della chuckled when I reached her at the bar. "Good girl!" She picked up the circular tray of drinks that Stevie had just set down and rushed off.
"Pitcher of beer, Stevie!" I called after her.
Lola, one of the younger waitresses we worked with, took Della's place at the bar. "I swear if that prick pinches my ass one more time, I'm gonna snatch off his rug and throw it across the room!" She was royally pissed. "My boyfriend's getting tired of me coming home with bruises."
Boyfriend? That was news to me. She wasn't shy about flirting with some of the guys, and even disappearing with them on occasion. I guess she only had a boyfriend when it came in handy. I couldn't blame her for being pissed, though. We'd all had to put up with the occasional slap on the ass and a grope here and there, but it made for good tips. Unfortunately, some customers got overzealous when they'd had too much to drink, or used that as an excuse for their bad behavior. When we complained to Vinny about them he just brushed it off and said that it was par for the course, and to think about the tips that we got as a result.
So why work in a job where daily abuse was 'par for the course'? We all had our own reasons. I was running, and picking up waitressing jobs was the best, and sometimes only, option when you hopped from town to town. Getting an education in order to do something better wouldn't have been worth it for me, because I didn't have time to spend searching for jobs and doing interviews. When I hit a new location I usually needed a job immediately. Sure, I had a little money saved up, but I pretended that it didn't exist so that I wouldn't rely on it. Besides, it belonged to someone else.
Why was I running? I was running from the Red Devils motorcycle club and their sadistic president, Wildman. They'd held me captive for a while after kidnapping me right off the street. Then I'd been forced to participate in a sick, twisted initiation ritual with one of their new members.
Rebel.
I tried not to think about him, but from the second he'd forced me to peer into his eyes I'd felt trapped, mesmerized by a ruthless outlaw who was too sexy for words. He'd been forced to take my virginity, and then had done all that he could to get me out of there.
I wondered where he was today, if he was even still alive. Much later I'd heard rumors that the Red Devils had been killed off, but I'd been too frightened to believe it. So I now lived my life always looking over my shoulder and waiting for the day that one of them showed up to take me back to them. I shuddered.
"You okay, honey?" Lola asked, seeing my shiver.
I forced a smile and nodded. "Want me to take your pincher?" I asked just as Stevie came over and dropped off the pitcher of beer I'd ordered.
Lola smiled tiredly and I knew what her answer was going to be before she said it. None of us liked giving up a table, because you never knew what kind of tip you'd get.
"No, thanks. We'll be closing soon."
I picked up the pitcher and headed back to the biker's table, the ever-present smile pasted onto my face. "Here ya go." I set the pitcher down in the center of the table. "We'll be closing soon."
"Yeah, this is our last pitcher, doll. We'll be out of your hair in a minute," said the man who seemed to be the spokesman for the table.
I had no doubts. I'd never seen a pitcher of beer disappear as fast as they did at their table. They'd had several of our large pitchers, the evidence of which was still on the table. They hadn't wanted me to remove the pitchers when they were empty, I supposed because they were keeping track. I thought to myself that their legs must be hollow, because none of them seemed overly drunk.
As it grew closer to two o'clock, the place began to clear out. Thank, God! I was surprised to see Stevie begin turning off the neon signs in the windows, an obvious deterrent to keep people from coming in for that last drink. Most locals knew that when the lights were out, the place was closing up or was already closed. Stevie must be feeling the week's punishing schedule, too, I thought. I'd noticed that she'd slipped off her usual stilettos and was wearing a pair of flats. I wished that we were allowed that small concession.
Most of the tables in my section were empty, so I began wiping them down and flipping the chairs on top so that the floor would be easier to sweep. I happened to glance up toward Della's area to see that she was just as busy as I, as were Lola and Carrie. We were all so exhausted, although you never would have known it from the speed and enthusiasm we were exerting as we cleaned our sections. The clock was winding down, and the thought of kicking off our ridiculous heels and putting up our aching feet was a strong incentive to get done fast.
I made my way toward Della. At some point we all began working together, crossing over into each other’s zones in order to get done as quickly as possible. Eventually the remaining customers got the hint, paid up their tabs, and left.
"God, I think you're right, I might be getting sick. I suddenly feel awful."
I looked up from the table that I was cleaning, frowning. Della did look awful. There wasn't an ounce of color in her face now. "I knew it!" I said with concern. "You look pale."
She flopped down into a chair. "I feel nauseous." There was surprise in her tone. Her arm came up and she placed a hand over her tummy. "It just suddenly came on."
God, she was beginning to look green, as if she might throw up. "You better go home while you can still drive," I said. "Before you get worse."
She tried to smile. "Thanks." Then she groaned. "Whatever it is, it's hitting me fast."
"Go!" I encouraged with concern. "I can finish up your section. No problem."
She shook her head. "I'm not going to leave you stranded, I can hold out another half hour." I hadn't forgotten that she was the one with the car.
"I'm sure that I can bum a ride from one of the others," I insisted. "Now please go home! I'll check in on you when I get there."
She glanced up at me with sweat beading on her brow. "Honey‒"
"Go!" I insisted, pulling her to her feet. "Don't worry about me. Get home and into bed." I walked her to the back door and outside to where her car was parked. "Besides," I smiled down at her pale face, "I like you owing me."
She made a pitiful attempt to laugh, but then gagged and slapped her hand across her mouth. Before we even reached her car she had to stop and retch. I jumped back as far as I could without letting go of her. I loved Della, she was my soul sister, but if I got vomit anywhere on me I would be joining her. While I supported her through the episode, I prayed that whatever she had wasn't contagious.
When she was able to walk again we made it the rest of the way to her car and I opened the door. "Do you have any tissue or anything in there?" I asked, settling her behind the wheel.
She reached for something, a bottle of water, and took a swig. I knew what she was going to do without her saying a word, because I would have done the same thing. Once again, I stepped back so that she could spit the water onto the ground. She moaned weakly.
"Oh, God…"
"Will you make it home?" I thanked God that we only lived ten minutes from the bar. She nodded without looking at me. "Good. Call me when you get there so I'll know that you made it okay. Drive careful and I'll see you in a little bit." I closed her door and waited until she had pulled out of the lot and onto the main road.
I spun around to go back inside and then came to a dead stop, my heart in my throat when I sensed that someone was there. It was dark back behind the bar, and the dumpster made it smelly. The few parking spots were reserved for the employees, but once in a while a customer would make his way to the back of the building, usually for a drug deal or to have sex with a hooker that he'd picked up.
A shadow gradually detached itself from the back corner of the building, tall and broad and frightening, because he was moving in my direction. I was too scared to say anything, frozen into place and holding my breath, my eyes glued to the shape of the man as he eventually stepped into the dim, yellow lighting provided by the bar. As his appearance became clearer, I took in the biker attire, the clunky boots, his cut. The top half of his face was still shadowed, keeping me from seeing his eyes, but I could make out that he had rugged features and long hair. I was struck with stark terror as his face slowly came into view.
I opened my mouth to scream, but all that came out was a pitiful, choked sound of desperation.
My past had finally caught up to me.
Rebel had found me.