Page 18 of Kings Have No Mercy
Thin, tattooed eyebrows. Ruddy skin. Fried blonde hair. Large, botched titties that contrast a very slim waist.
I have no idea who the hell this is except that she hates me. I canfeelit.
“Can I help you?” I ask plainly.
“You’re the one needing help,” she retorts. “You come in here acting like you’re hot stuff on the floor. But nobody’s lower than a barmaid. You clean up freakin’ puke.”
I turn all the way around, both hands notching on my waist, my rag still clenched within my fingers. “I’m sorry… who are you again?”
“Sandie,” she says with a haughty air as if she’s the Queen of England. “I’m a club girl. Tits on Heels. Know your place.”
Club girl.
I don’t know much about motorcycle clubs. But even in my limited knowledge, bits and pieces I’ve picked up, club girls are the ones who fuck the bikers. They’re around for a good time only. Just party girls that socialize with the club for a while ’til they either get tired of the club or get discarded by that club.
Yet Sandie eyeballs me like I’m beneath her. In her mind, she’s above me as a club girl.
My temper threatens me, prickling my skin, but I resist its temptation. Flashing her the same easy smile I’ve used all night, I decide to act unbothered.
“I know my place,” I answer in a calm tone. “It’s doing honest work to earn honest money. I’m above other things like being passed around by a group of men who only want me for sex. Excuse me, Sandie. You’re in my way.”
The blonde can’t hide her scowl as I strut past her, so close Ialmostbump into her. I don’t need to touch her to make my point—the close call is enough.
My words were. She’s got the message loud and clear.
Don’t fuck with me.
I check in with Mick at the bar and finish wiping down the rest of the tables.
“You’re cleared off, babe,” the old man says, shooting me a yellow-toothed smile. “You’ve got no idea how big a help you were tonight. Damn game changer.”
I leave the bar uncertain where I’m even going. Velma said to seek out the house behind the bar. As I gather my suitcase in the backroom, I second guess accepting her offer. Do I really want to put myself in a position where I’m living under the Steel King’s roof?
As if working for them isn’t bad enough…
My hands tighten around the handle before I make my choice.
Turn left to leave the saloon and find lodging elsewhere. Right to take Velma up on her offer.
With a slow sigh, I go right.
The house Velma spoke of is a typical two-story American Craftsman—the porch in the front and the pitched triangular roof up top. Surprisingly wholesome for a home housing bikers.
I enter with a knock.
Velma happens to be walking by with an armful of linens. She beckons me to follow her. We head down the first floor hall, where she shows me to what appears to be the den. The couch pulls out into a bed and there’s a TV with cable.
“Costs us eighty bucks a month, but Tom refuses to cancel it,” she says, rolling her eyes. “He’s… uh, not around right now. But you’ll meet him when he gets out.”
I pick up on the context clues of where Tom could be and take her word for it.
The moment I’m left alone, I feel like I can embrace the real me for the first time in hours.
Be myself.
No act. No pretenses. No ulterior motives.
Sydney Singer without all the secrecy and spying.