Page 5 of Iron Hearts

Walking up into the Iron Horse with their colors on may or may not have been an act of rebellion for the odd biker or two who came fresh into town and not bothering to read the sign, but for these guys? Oh, theyhad to know.There was no mistake. Theyhad to fucking knowthat word would get back to the Royal Bastards and that it would be a declaration of all-out war or some shit.

I honestly didn’t give a flying fuck what these whack jobs did or didn’t do in their off time with their dick-measuring contests. I just didn’t want to be here when the shit went down, and another battle in their ongoing war went down in the bar.

“Jesus Christ,” Gemma murmured, coming up near me to watch as these assholes bellied up to the bar.

“Smile and serve, bitch. Duck and cover if we have to. I have no idea what the hell Charlie is even doing, allowing this shit to go down. And what the fuck? Where’s Big Dawg and Grappler?”

“This many Bloody Scorpions?” she said incredulously. “Probably hiding.”

I snorted in disgust. “Big Dawg doesn’t hide from anything or anyone,” I said.

“I don’t know,” she said.

“What can I get you?” I asked the first one up.

“Jack and Coke, sweetheart.” He grinned at me and was missing his bottom two front teeth. The rest of them were brown, likely from a combination of smoking cigarettes and a major lack of hygiene.

“Coming right up,” I said without smiling. Tonight was definitely going to call for a firm hand and my resting bitch face to be out in full force.

While I loved working at the Iron Horse, and I didn’t mind it when the regulars and riders came through, these dipshits in the one percent tended to grind my gears. They were usually lewd, rude, crude, and – well, the tattooed part I never minded, actually. What I did mind was when they tipped like shit, or the only tip they gave me was one of their red handprints on the cheek of my ass, unasked for and unwelcome.

These yahoos had a reputation foruncivil behavior,and the guys with the Royal Bastards, while they had the reputation, they had at least obeyed the rules. To tell you the truth. I wouldn’t be able to tell you who they were or one from the other because, again, theyfollowedtherules.

Respect.

Some men had it, others… didn’t.

It was a frustrating and interesting dichotomy.

“Switch to plastic,” I told Gemma, and she nodded.

With these guys here, glass just seemed like a bad idea. Honestly, if I could get away with it, I’d probably hand one or two of these troglodytes a damn sippy cup.

As the night wore on, and these fools got drunk and drunker still, shit straight up started devolving into madness. Locals and regular customers started filtering out, and our security team and Charlie seemed disinterested in taking issue with the biker gang’s rowdy and distasteful behavior – let alone their flouting of the rules in that each and every one of themstillwore their colorsinsidethe bar and no one seemed to want to say a word about it.

I tried, pointing out the sign to just about every one of them coming up to my bar to order another round. All I got was laughed in my face for it, which ground my gears even more.

Gemma was doing her best to placate one of them, who had their arms around her. Rolling her eyes clearly at me, she mouthed for me to get help.

I threw down my towel and went and found Big Dawg.

“My dude, either you get up off your big ass anddosomething to help Gemma out, or I’m fixin’ to cause a scene,” I snapped at him. My southern drawl was in peak performance with the temperature of my anger rising.

“Aw, shit,” he muttered, looking in Gemma’s direction. She was pressing both hands to the dirty rider trying to force a kiss on her and desperately calling for Big Dawg to come help her. He finally lumbered off his stool and, with a big, unhappy sigh, marched across the deck in the direction of Gemma and her brute.

He went over and calmly tried to defuse the situation, but shit went sideways pretty quick.

Faster than was almost even possible, the drunk biker thrust Gemma aside, and one of those collapsible batons materialized in his hand. I shouted a warning, but he brought it up, crashing into the side of Big Dawg’s face.

Big Dawg hit the deck, and Gemma screamed. No sooner did she let out her bleat of panic and terror at watching our big friend and colleague drop like a sack of potatoes, the same bikerspit on my friend.

I lunged, screaming at him to get the fuck out of my bar, and his hand flashed out of nowhere. It was lights out for me, too.

I’m afraid I missed the rest of whatever action took place because the next thing I knew, I had a medic who’d come out of nowhere shining some kind of penlight into my eyes, first one, then the other.

I blinked and winced, groaning. He asked, “Do you know how long she was unconscious?”

It was a whole lot of fuss after that. The world swimming in streaks and streamers as I felt like I was going to throw up.

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