Page 98 of Chad's Chase
SEVENTEEN
A life of joy and peace…
Idrove around like an indecisive nutcase for hours, aimless, pointless, mindless.
As the sun hunkered down behind the small hills and lush, tall trees of the green yet affluent town, I braked up outsideAlpine Inn,spinning the LFA to a dusty, hazardous stabilization in an unpaved dirt lot.
The place was a cozy, wooden square of a box, off-white, with neon lights, advertisingCoors,blinking through low, glass windows. Six Harley motorcycles lined off the front of the building, staking claim, like a snapshot straight out ofSons of Anarchy.
Stretching across the console, I opened the glove compartment. It was empty. But I knew a gun was in there somewhere. I felt around with my fingers until they discovered a tiny latch on the upside. I used my fingernail to prize it open and, bingo: a black and chrome semi-auto handgun fell into my palm.
The handgun, however, was bigger than I expected and my tight outfit provided no flaps or holes to hide it, so I settled for the Browning in my boot that I’d stolen from the giant dumb-dumb who’d shot at us earlier, then unfolded out of the flashy sports car.
I pushed through the doors of the rustic old matchbox and was instantly harassed with the pungency of greasy fries and juicy burgers. Due to the neon flashing signs out on the windows, I’d gotten the impression that the place was a bar, but it was more of a buy-yourself-a-heartburn joint. Quirky and a bit antiquated, it had a whole retaining-the-past thing going on with its paint-stripped red ceilings with vintage beer posters pasted on them. Long, worn-out benches, creepy deer heads, real ancient beer signs, stickers everywhere, and a shit-ton of bric-a-brac. With all that, the place should have felt clustered and stuffy, but instead it was the opposite, easy on the mind.
There weren’t many customers inside, possibly because it was sundown. A cohort of bikers claimed a whole bench to themselves, even though it could easily seat about fifteen. A klatch of tatted, voluptuous chicks sat at the opposite bench, stuffing their faces with oily, salty French fries. And an old couple was up by the order counter.
The bikers all swung their heads to me when I entered, and I wasn’t sure if it was my get-up—skinny black jeans, black tank top, black biker jacket and black crush-your-intestines combat boots—or the grim look on my face, but they all exchanged glances with each other, and, as if coming to a unified agreement that I was not to be fucked with, went back to their boisterous conversation.
I strode up to the bar side of the order counter and waited behind the old couple, tapping my boot against the linoleum-tiled floor. When the senior couple moved off, I stepped up and ordered a Coors.
The cashier, a corpulent, round woman, African-American, protruded her lips in a moue as she studied me. “You ridin’ with ‘em boys?” she asked in a brawling twang, jutting her chin in the direction of the bikers.
“Why?” I returned, my voice a dull, empty thing.
“‘Cause you looks like a lesbian biker chick.” She gave me that “mhmm-hmm” purse of the lips. “You a lesbian biker chick?”
This world. Why can’t people ever learn to mind their own goddamn business?
“Are you a gospel singer?” I asked her.
Baffled, she answered, “No. Why?”
“Because you’re fat, and you’re black.”
The woman’s lips twitched at the corners, fighting back a smile, which was counter-productive of what I’d been aiming for. I was expecting a whole lot of lipping about me being a skinny white bitch, racist and prejudiced, a couple of neck rolls and finger snaps. But instead, the damn woman found it funny. “I deserved that. But no. No fat, black singer here. Last time I tried singin’ at a karaoke, I let out a pants-ripping fart tryna hold a Whitney Houston note.”
I blinked at her. “Can I get my beer now, please?”
Folding her lips, she eyed me up and down then nodded as if approving me, before she finally turned and wrung up my order, then passed me my change and the beer.
Popping the cover with the bottle opener attached to the counter, I took a sip, then went to plop down on the last bar stool at the end next to the front door, raising my eyes up to the flat-screen television that was airing a basketball game.
No plans. I had no fucking plans of where to go from here. I’d stabbed the man I loved and run off. The villain who’d promised me my freedom was hunting me down to kill me. I’d ruined an already tattered relationship with the only family I had left by maliciously trying to kill his unborn.
I sipped my beer. Oh, my life was fucking joyous.
Someone big and imposing sat down on the stool next to me, but I kept my eyes on the television and pretended not to notice, while keeping my senses on high alert, drawing my shoulders up in defense, tensing, preparing for an attack.
“Where’s your cocky protector?” the gruff voice said from beside me.
Noting some familiarity in the person’s voice, I tipped my head in his direction, relaxing upon the sight of Sambo, the over-muscled tank of a man assigned by Org to protect me.
Another swig of my beer. “I thoughtyouwere my protector?”
As if this answer pleased him, like being my protector was an honor, he dropped me a lopsided grin. “I am. But earlier today you were ready to put a bullet in my partner’s head for him.”
“I protect who protects me,” I said, shrugging. “Earlier today he was protecting me when you weren’t. Now, you are when he isn’t.”
