Chapter 2

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The neon light behind the bar cast the immediate area in a red hue. Clara stepped back and leaned against the counter. The light blurred.

"What's wrong, sis?" asked Gracie.

Clara sniffed and blinked hard. "Do you think Dad would be happy, knowing what we did with his money?"

"Buying the bar?" Gracie set the extra bottle of Fireball and Rum on the shelf. "I think he'd ask a lot of questions, but after Dad thought about it for a while and could see what we've accomplished, he'd be proud of us. He was always a big believer in making an honest living that would support a person through hard times, downturns with the economy, and whatever other influences affected business. Everyone knows no matter how poor a person is, people don't stop drinking."

"True." Clara inhaled deeply. "Though we wouldn't be here, owning a bar, if he were alive. He'd question us on why we wanted to move back to St. John's and probably stop us. He moved us away to protect us and let us grow up without being scared all the time."

"That's not the point anymore. Dad's dead." Gracie raised her brows. "He should've told us himself about mom."

"That's not fair."

"Is it fair that both our parents are buried together at the cemetery in town? Is it fair that we're trying to move on with our lives? Is it fair that you're feeling guilty when you should feel proud of yourself?" Gracie reached out and squeezed Clara's hand.

Clara looked into eyes that took everything in and processed it one fact at a time with no emotions fogging her thinking. Usually, Gracie's ability to separate herself from emotional decisions gave Clara confidence, made her stronger, when all she wanted to do was feel sorry for herself.

Her sister was right. The shadow that followed them after learning the truth about what happened to their mom would always darken their life. She had to look forward and keep level headed, or fear and hatred would get the best of her.

"I miss Dad." Clara wiped underneath her eyes. "You'd think after two years I could talk about him without tearing up."

"Nothing wrong with crying," said Gracie softly.

Their personalities complimented each other. Clara helped Gracie dream, laugh, and do spontaneous, crazy things like buying a bar and watching stupid movies all night long. Gracie dealt with reality and faced problems head on, and most of all, she accepted life and all the challenges that came her way with a tenacity that amazed her.

"People should be coming in soon." Clara tucked her Tee into her jeans. "Maybe now that the kitchen is open and Paxton has proven himself as a brilliant and talented cook with the lunch he made us, we'll gain more customers."

Gracie pushed away from the counter. "That reminds me. I need to go out and staple the flyers for the bar up on the light poles around the block."

"Did you check to see if that's legal?" Clara tied the apron around her waist.

"Everyone else has done it, so I'm sure it is."

Clara laughed. "If you get arrested, I'm going to let you spend the night in jail before bailing your ass out. While you're wearing orange,  you can say goodbye to your pint of Blue Bunny S'mores ice cream you hid in the freezer that I'll be eating."

Two men walked in, and Gracie gulped loud enough for Clara to hear her. She studied her sister, amused to find Gracie gawking. She stepped closer. "You take care of the customers. I'll plaster the papers around the block."

"Make sure you have your pepper spray with you. I don't care if it's broad daylight," said Gracie.

"Got it in my pocket." Clara leaned closer. "Check out the guy with the Henley on."

"Uh huh. I see him," muttered Gracie walking around the end of the counter, focused entirely on the men.

Clara shook her head in amusement and walked to the small office in the back of the bar. She grabbed the stapler, the papers, and left out the back door that led to the alley. Since signing the closing papers on the bar and getting the keys from the previous owner, she hadn't had two seconds to enjoy being outside. She spent every waking moment at the bar, and at the end of her day—the middle of the night—she went straight to the townhouse her and Gracie bought together.

She slowed her walk through the alley. It was good to see Gracie noticing men. Both of them hadn't had enough time in the last two years since getting the call that their dad collapsed at work to have a social life. Nothing prepared them for the loss they'd experienced.

Stopping on the sidewalk at the first pole, she read the other advertisements already plastering the wood and picked a spot over an old garage sale sign from four months ago. She stapled the corners and moved on down the sidewalk, hoping Gracie was right and she wasn't going to get in trouble for decorating utility poles. Things were different in St. John's. More populated, more urban, faster paced than their life in Bozeman, Montana. St. John's being a hubbub of Portland, Oregon, meant more people, more stores, more nightlife.

The busy atmosphere and enthusiasm from everyone around attracted her back to the area. Having never had the opportunity to visit clubs, go to concerts, and go out dancing, she got excited believing the bar would soon be one of the hot spots that attracted customers. From an entrepreneur's position, it would be that happening aura that kept the bar in business. It was the change she needed in her life.

At twenty-nine years old, she'd started to feel like she'd missed out on being that reckless twenty-something year old who lived to party, meet people, and do things she'd talk about or at least think about in her old age. Or, maybe it was her dad's death that gave her a wake-up call to finally do something daring and exciting. Whatever the reason behind her new passion for life, she wanted to push forward and make a success of the bar and find her corner in the world while closing a long chapter in her past.

Reaching the corner of the block, she stopped, looked behind her and in front of her, and quickly hung the poster on the pole. A car passed her, and the traffic noises grew. She hurried her steps and the rumbling intensified.

Four motorcycle riders rounded the corner. She relaxed and removed another poster from the stack under her arm and stapled the paper in a vacant spot on the light pole. Looking behind her, she read the back of the bikers' vests as they rode away.

Notus Motorcycle Club.

She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. It was one thing to talk about the bikers, but to actually be in their presence both frightened her and made her feel safer at the same time. She hurried and finished the last two poles on the street and rounded the corner to head back to the bar. Her boost of energy and seeing the bikers had her almost jogging to return to the bar to see if they'd stopped in for a beer. She turned at the end of the block and found all four motorcycles parked at the curb in front of Vavoom's.

Not wanting to enter from the front, she walked down the alley and went through the back door. Washing her hands in the kitchen, she put on an apron. A trademark toward Vavoom's that she and Gracie had created because aprons kept the male customers' eyes off their breasts and on the material tied to their waist. It helped that Gracie was a wiz at sewing and made the skimpy piece of material sexy and appealing. Today's apron was black with white lace and had a red heart strategically placed on her hip with the word Vavoom's in the center.

They'd decided to keep the original name of the bar because it had no meaning to the previous owners who inherited the name from the sellers before them. The history of the bar went back to the early fifties, and it was important for the customers to continue their habit of stopping in while they adapted to new owners who would be on site.

She walked into the bar and waited behind the counter for Gracie. Spotting her talking to the bikers, hands on her hips, she used the time to study each of the men.

The one who'd talked to her before stood out among them all. His scruffiness came off as sexy rather than laziness. A few days growth of whiskers on his face highlighted the strong jaw line. His eyes reminded her of dark ale in a dim bar, tempting her into the corner to do wicked things. He wore his thick, dark brown hair too long, but the ruffled rebel-look worked for him because he'd trained his hair to sweep back from his forehead and fall into place.

She raked her teeth over her bottom lip. Though, seeing him sitting in the booth had her second guessing their decision to get rid of the tables when she caught sight of how little room he had between his broad upper body and the top of the table. He even sat with his leg outstretched and his boot sitting in the walkway, because his height demanded the extra room.

Raising her gaze, she looked at his face again and found him frowning at Gracie. Clara's neck warmed, and she shifted slightly and found the biker with blond hair staring at her. She smiled having been caught looking and kneeled down below the bar, pretending to organize the supplies on the shelf. Used to others studying her when Gracie was around, she usually never let their curiosity bother her. But, the bikers were hard to read.

After last week, she'd envisioned more of them coming and taking over the bar. Something her and Gracie didn't want to happen. Biker bars were a whole other endeavor, and they wanted the freedom to cater to everyone who stepped through the doorway while continuing to make sure Notus Motorcycle Club kept coming back.

Gracie's legs appeared beside her. Clara looked up. "What's wrong?"

"Those men and I use that term lightly, more like stubborn assholes who think they can pull one over on me, think I give out free beers," whispered Gracie. "What am I supposed to do? We wanted to remain friendly with them, but we also have a business to run. If we lose money, we won't have enough cash to do what we came here to do."

Clara stood. "But, we do owe them free beer."

"What do you mean?"

"Remember, I told you they stopped here last Friday when I was helping you interview for a new cook. I might've forgotten to mention, I offered them a free beer because they had to wait for service. But, they left before they could take me up on my offer." Clara smoothed her apron. "I'll take them beer and try to get them to stay."

"Great," muttered Gracie, taking out her tablet. "Now, I'll have to apologize."

"Were you rude?" Clara grinned, holding the mug under the tap.

"No, but that guy with the dark hair sitting in the booth kept giving me some weird looks like I had dementia. That's not something I want any of them to think. They need to believe we're upstanding citizens and sane. But, I..."

Clara stopped filling up the fourth mug and looked at Gracie. "What did you do?"

"I might've demanded they pay for the drinks they wanted." Gracie pulled back her shoulders. "I should've realized what happened when he kept tilting his head and frowning at me."

"Eh, it's been a long time since we've been somewhere that nobody knows us. Everyone will learn." Clara lifted up the tray. "Did they order dinner?"

"Yeah...thankfully." Gracie held up the tablet. "I'll have Paxton get started now. Maybe the food will make everything right again."

Clara carried the drinks over to the table, smiled at the men, and sat each mug in front of the bikers. When she straightened, she addressed the man who'd spoken to her last time. "Sorry about the mix-up. I am Clara. The other one you talked to is my sister, Gracie. I forgot to mention to her that I owe you guys a free beer."

The man raised his brows, leaned to the right and looked behind her and then up at her again. "Twins?"

"All our lives." Clara grinned. "Stick around more, and you'll be able to tell us apart."

The man stuck out his hand. "Wayne Shaw."

Taken by surprise at his offer to forget what happened, she shook and felt her hand get swallowed up in a large, rough grasp, that had her snapping her gaze to his eyes. "Nice to meet you, Wayne."

"I'm relieved there are two of you." He let go of her hand. "You sure look like each other, but my conversation with your sister didn't feel the same as the one I'd had with you last week. For a minute, your sister—"

"Gracie." Her heart raced at interrupting him. "Her name is Gracie."

"Right." Wayne wrapped his fingers around the glass handle of the mug. "The conversation with Gracie made me wonder how I'd gotten drunk without drinking."

"I've heard of that happening. The bar, the fumes, the atmosphere." She laughed. "I'll let you guys get to enjoying your beer. Your dinner will be done soon."

The blond biker stopped whistling and held out his tatted hand before she could leave their booth. "Nice to meet you, Clara. I'm Glenn Steele."

"Oh." She hurried to shake on his introduction. "I might as well meet everyone and not be rude, huh?"

"Chuck Milburn," said the man with a shaved head sitting on a stool beside her.

The deep voice temporarily stunned her. She quickly smiled, nodding her head before turning to the last man sitting at the booth. "And, you're...?"

"Thad Bowers." He winked, which barely softened his lethal, baby-blue eyes. She could practically hear him growl before he dipped his chin and continued. "Looks like you'll be the one who has to remember names now."

"Definitely." She raised her shoulders. "It looks like the game is on. Who will remember who first?"

The men looked at her in silence. She blew out her breath, not knowing why she'd thrown out a stupid comment. The bikers made her nervous. "I'll be with you shortly."

Hurrying away, she stopped and checked on the other two men eating dinner at the next booth—who calmed her, because they were normal, non-threatening, and probably married going by their manners. Once she was sure everyone was set to enjoy their stay, she walked straight through the door into the kitchen. Her warm body needed cooling down. That was a lot of hot testosterone floating around booth number three. But not all of them made her self-conscious.

Wayne Shaw.

She spoke his name silently. There was something about the way he'd looked relieved when she'd approached the booth that settled low in her stomach. As if her showing up made him happy. Her reaction probably came from her lack of working with the public.

Before buying the bar with Gracie, she'd worked in the administration office of a large restaurant and never dealt with customers, only employees. Now she'd be going out of her way to converse with others and make them feel comfortable. She had to get past the awkwardness and settle into being part of the bar and provide a relaxing atmosphere for the customers.

And, Wayne.

She liked Wayne's attention. Though she hadn't set out to pressure him to keep coming to the bar, he'd returned. He'd remembered her. He'd shaken her hand.

Gracie approached her carrying a tray with four filled plates. "Wish me luck."

"Good luck." Clara followed her out to the main room, staying back while she attended to the bikers.

The door swung open, and three couples strolled in, looked around, and headed toward the vacant booths. She gave them time to settle in, and when they looked up, she approached the table. Five minutes later and a conversation about their job building a new apartment complex up by Lloyd Center, she delivered their dinner order to Paxton to cook.

Already, they'd served more customers at one time than they'd had since taking over the bar. She passed Gracie and high-fived her on her way out to the bar. Tonight, they'd go home satisfied and full of hope that they could pull off what they came here to do. That's all they wanted out of their new business. Following their dad's opinion that satisfaction came from working hard, honestly, and with your heart, she smiled out at the room.

Naturally drawn to Wayne, she failed to hold her surprise at finding him looking at her. He pointed to his plate and winked with a nod of approval. Her smile exploded, and she bunched her apron in her hands as pleasure warmed her. She definitely liked getting Wayne's approval. For more reasons than one.

From the entrance of the alley, he watched for any sign of the twins. He hoped one or both of them would come out the back door now that the bikers were inside. It was easier to watch them with nobody around. Though even the Notus Motorcycle Club failed to see him when they practically ran him off the sidewalk earlier. They never noticed him leaning against the front of the brick building. Never noticed the way he wore a coat in eighty-degree weather. Never noticed the knife tucked into the front of his pants.

They only looked through the glass windows as they approached the bar. Probably looking at the twins. He hated the attention the women received from other males. They belonged to him.

He paced the width of the deserted alley. The bikers only delayed the inevitable.

He turned and walked down the street. He'd parked his car two blocks away by an apartment building. He'd come back to the bar when the bikers were gone. Maybe tomorrow would be his lucky day.