Page 76 of Kings Have No Mercy
In the meantime, if I can help where I can, why not?
I wipe down the bar counter and scoop up any remaining peanut shells. The heavy cords and riffs from the hard rock music being played on the patio spill into the bar. They’re accompanied by the clash of dozens of voices talking, laughing, and even screaming.
Pretty sure I hear Ozzie at one point yelling something about streaking butt-naked through the neighborhood.
Mick shakes his head, his bushy white brows squished together. “You hear that? That’s what I’m working with.”
I laugh, reaching for the broom to do a quick sweep. “That’s Oz being Oz. He wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“You’re calling himOznow, huh? Yeah, you’re one of us.”
“Ozzie. Oz. Same difference.”
“Sorta like how you’ve started calling Velma Velm and Bushman Bush?”
“Or like how you all call me Syd?”
He tinkles out a chuckle. A sound that reminds me of Pop so much, it distracts me for a second. His deep blue eyes sparkling and bushy brows thick on his forehead, he pins me with a fond stare, and says, “See. You’re proving my point without even realizing you’re proving my point. You give as good as you get, sweets. Which is what makes you perfect for the Kings. You’re a spitfire and we like that about you.”
“I appreciate that you’ve taken me in like you have. You didn’t need to give me a job.”
“That was Velm’s doing.”
“But you’ve done the training.”
“Sweets, you were already spun up. You walked out onto that bar floor the first night and nailed it,” he says with another tinkling chuckle. “If I were thirty years younger, I might be trying to snatch you up as my old lady.”
“Mick, don’t let me find out you’re a biker too.”
He presses a finger to his lip and then rolls up the sleeve of his shirt. On the inside of his forearm is a faded Steel Kings tattoo. The logo’s slightly different than the current form, but under the art piece is his moniker.
Shots.
I study it for a moment, then flick my gaze back up to his with a teasing scrunch of my nose. “Shots?”
“Damn straight. Long story. Maybe one day I’ll tell it to you. But head on out. Go join the others and have yourself some fun. I’ll finish up here.”
I take Mick up on his suggestion only after I’ve finished sweeping the floor.
The party hasn’t slowed down in my absence. If anything it’s gained momentum.
Some of the club girls have taken off their tops and several of the guys lick and suck liquor off their bare breasts.
Rarely one to judge, even I’m shocked for half a second. It reflects on my face, my eyes widening and brows lifting high.
Velma catches me, sidling up from the sidelines clutching another beer. At least her fourth of the night. “Don’t pay them no mind. They’re doing what they do. They’re here to fuck and entertain the fellas. They know what it is—except Sandie, who can’t take a damn hint.”
“You mean with Mace?”
“Girly, if only you knew. She was so happy when he slept with her. Then so upset when he kicked her ass out.”
I tear my gaze away from the titty-licking spectacle in front of us. “Mace and Sandie?”
“A couple weeks ago. Right before you showed up.”
“Oh. That… explains a lot.”
“You mean like how Sandie hates your guts?” Velma asks, bringing the beer bottle to her lips. “The girl was practically in tears earlier seeing you and Mace dancing. I sent her to the house to get cleaned up. She was looking fucking pathetic with them raccoon eyes.”