Page 28 of Kings Have No Mercy
She cranks out another cackle like an airhorn. “Might as well be. You don’t wanna know what I’d do being as young as you with a body like that. The fellas wouldn’t know what hit ’em—I’d have ’em worn out on the floor by the time I was through. But what Ireallymeant was the other day. The club meeting.”
My usually confident demeanor diminishes. Only because the memories of what Mason said and how he treated me are still fresh—it’s been years since I felt so humiliated.
So cut down.
“I shouldn’t have gotten involved.”
“I’d advise against it,” she admits, blowing more smoke. “But this might be a one-time exception. You were amazing.”
“I… was…?”
“Your idea? The community fundraiser? It was old lady worthy. The current crop we’ve got are all lazy wannabe princesses. Not one of ’em wants to plan anything. But here you are, thinking up new ideas and trying to breathe life into the club.”
“I wasn’t trying to act like an old lady,” I say quickly. “That’s not what I want.”
Velma casts me a skeptical side eye, her cigarette between her lips and a forkful of cheesy eggs between her fingers. “Girly, whatever your motive, you’re helping big time. I’ve got a bomb to drop though. You know the bike display? The one that’ll be set up in front of the Chop Shop?”
“The display you and Mason will be setting up? What about it?”
“I’m dropping out. I’ve got too much crap on my plate. Don’t look at me like that—I’ve got my hands full. I’m manager at the Chop Shop. I’m head old lady, which means I’m dealing with shit from all the other whiny old lady bitches. Then I’ve got Tom on the back burner. He might be serving five to ten, but we’ve got some conjugal visits planned if you catch my drift…”
I almost shudder at the thought. Not that Velma is unattractive—for a late-forties woman who regularly drinks, smokes, and lives a fast lifestyle with bikers, she’s a catch—but the thought of her and Mason’s father getting down in some trailer at a prison is too much so early in the morning…
I gulp down several mouthfuls of burnt coffee to make up for it.
“Anyway,” Velma goes on, “I need you to take it on. You and Mason.”
“Nope,” I answer immediately, shaking my head. “Nope. No…ope.”
“Girly, either it’s you or it ain’t happening. I tried asking the lazy wannabe princess old ladies. Nobody took the bait. So either you do it, or there will be no bike display.”
I heave a deep, miserable sigh. “This is extremely cruel of you. He hates me.”
“He doesn’t hate you.”
I raise my brows. She releases yet another witch cackle, almost choking on her cigarette.
“Okay, alright. So, he’s… not your biggest fan.”
“Mason isn’t… he’s not…” I pause. “There are club members from other races and backgrounds, but he’s not…you know… is he?”
“Mason? Girly, his celebrity crush is Rihanna. He loves that she’s a bad girl with some tats. But, no, he ain’t. He just… he doesn’t trust you… for whatever reason.”
“I can’t control that, Velma. I can’t make him trust me.”
“You two need to spend more time together. That’s what it is,” she says, blowing cigarette smoke, then topping it off with a bite of eggs. “Which is what makes you taking my spot for the display so perfect. You two will figure it out.”
I don’t answer her, bringing my coffee mug to my lips. I couldn’t disagree more.
* * *
Because the club profits have dipped so dangerously low, and it’s the height of summer, we rush putting together the fundraiser. We go from the club meeting where I propose the idea to dividing amongst ourselves to plan and put it together.
In the span of a week, we’ve set a date, begun solidifying the details, and started advertising around town.
Mason makes it no secret he’s pissed about working the bike display with me. I even overhear him trying to trade spots with several of the other guys—he swears up a storm when they apologize and turn him down.
“I don’t want to be working with you either,” I say one evening. “Just FYI.”