Page 21 of Devil's Marker

“Jesus Fucking Christ.”

“That would be hard. Although I’ve heard…”

“People are gonna think I’ve taken a beat down.”

She laughed. “Darlin’. There’s not a soul here who’s gonna think that. Bikers are more gossipy than old women at a bake sale. Everybody here already knows you’ve been a victim of Boss’s baby girl. Nobody’s gonna think less of you because they all know.”

He gave Carla a pained look.

“I can put a bandage on top of that, but it won’t help the healin’ and, let’s face it, a bandage on your face is not gonna make you more handsome.”

Turning his face from side to side, he said, “How long am I gonna look like this?”

“Good news or bad news first?”

“Good.”

“Because you had an expert on the scene, you’re probably gonna be beautiful again. Though not right away.”

“Bad.”

“Swelling’s gonna last at least three days. After that you should be able to breathe easier, but the bruises…” She shook her head. “That takes time. You’re gonna look like a mess for a couple of weeks. Could take a month for you to look exactly like you did yesterday.”

He took one more look in the mirror and indulged in a deep sigh. “Always wanted to find out what it’s like to not have to fight the ladies away.”

Carla laughed again. “Don’t know what you looked like before, but I’ll tell you this. I’m not havin’ any trouble controlling my lustful impulses. Now I’m gonna give you some pills that’ll help with pain for the next three days. But no drinkin’. Got it?” He nodded. “Repeat after me. No drinking.”

“No drinking.”

“Good man. I’ll be keepin’ an eye on you. At least for the rest of this evenin’. Party’s revvin’ up. You feel like goin’?”

He tried to smile. “Lookin’ forward to trottin’ out my new face.”

Music was playing somewhere in the building. When Carla opened the infirmary door, he got a hint of just how loud it was. Apparently the infirmary door made the room practically soundproof.

“Follow me, chickadee,” she said.

Win followed Carla through a couple of turns before the hallway opened into the communal space. Aside from the fact that the gathering area was crowded with people, the first thing he noticed was that it looked a lot different after dark. The rotating platform the Panhead bike sat on was lined with neon and the giant mirror behind the bar was framed with Hollywood lights. There were about five female bartenders dressed in costumes that were essentially black strings sewed together, putting on flashy Coyote Ugly performances.

The second thing he noticed was the giant screen monitors sitting high up on the walls. Instead of boxing, or MMA, or porn, or even greatest hit clips of action or gangster movies, each of the screens was divided into grids of thirty-two security camera angles, some of the immediate perimeter of the complex, some of the streets surrounding the warehouse.

Win’s first reaction was appreciation of the fact that the club had invested its profits in high tech security. Every one of the two hundred or so people at the party was a line of defense since every direction you faced was a wall of security monitors. In other words, somebody would notice something amiss.

The third thing he noticed was R.C. doing tequila shots at the bar, laughing with a woman standing to her left wearing a halter top and cutoff jeans.

His feet didn’t ask his permission. They just started moving that direction. He moved to the left of the brunette in the cutoffs and got an eyeful of strings that seemed to keep bartender nipples hidden no matter how wildly tits swung back and forth.

One of the bartenders sashayed her thonged ass toward him with a smile. “What you want, sugar pie?” she said.

“Root beer.”

“The kids have all gone home.”

“Well, maybe I’m a kid at heart.”

Her smile fell almost as far as a gape. “You’re seriously askin’ for a root beer for yourself? ‘Scuse me for sayin’ so, but you look like you could use some amber comfort.”

“That your name? Amber?”

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