Page 55 of Roses Are Dead
No pressure.
13
Roishin
Follow my lead. How? Bear shoved his way to the bar, parked my ass on a stool, and left me stranded. I was an island of confusion inside a whirlwind of anarchy. The jukebox blasted out a familiar song and I couldn’t help but tap my foot. And that led to swaying in my chair. And that attracted attention.
“What are you drinking?”
The prospect Wolf handed me off to waited for my reply. “Bear said there was whiskey for sale here?” I didn’t particularly want whiskey, but he did say ‘follow my lead’ and that was all I had to go off of.
“Ha! It’s already bought.” The kid snapped his fingers and yelled over the bar. “Yo, Whoosh, get this sweet piece of ass a glass of Bear’s private reserve. She’s his ride for the night.”
I caught about half of that, and didn’t like the implications.
“Do I look like your bitch?” Whoosh stopped in front of me and looked me up and down. “You don’t look like one of his regular girls.” Something flickered in his eyes. “You sure that’s what you want?”
He practically dared me with his tone. A challenge to my position. “I’ll take Bear’s private reserve.” I tipped my head to the other guy, indicating that Whoosh should listen to him.
As I did, I remembered an overheard conversation. That last drug deal about a week ago. Whoosh didn’t have the drugs Carl ordered. And I was deathly afraid Carl was going to kill him in front of where I was hiding.
The marks next to Carl’s back door.
The glee Carl took over my part in them. The lust in his eyes as he anticipated more bloodshed.
That was an awful night. I didn’t sleep at all for fear he’d visit me in my locked closet.
Whoosh, or Sketch, was a murderer.
Maybe that’s why he didn’t like me. These men knew about Carl, and probably all about me. I girded myself with bravado I hadn’t used in years. “I’m sure.”
Whoosh smirked at me. “Not that you deserve it, but Bear or Wolf will have my ass if I fuck up.” He set a glass on the bar and then pulled a hand-labeled bottle down from the top shelf. There were many up there like that. Brands I’d never or rarely seen in any of the clubs I’d frequented. I braced myself for the worst.
And realized with one sniff, I’d misjudged alcohol my entire life. The aroma had nuance, measured complication, and most of all…promise. I took a tentative sip and marveled at the explosion of heat, flavor, and complexity.
Of course, drinking straight whiskey had side effects. Like the strong urge to cough out the flaming fumes that wafted up from the pit of my stomach and clung to the throat, or the sudden rush of heat to my skin.
I fought both reactions and managed to casually observe, “That’s pretty good.”
“Pretty good? Are you shitting me? That’s handcrafted bourbon. It’s seven years old.”
I stared at him, mimicking Carl’s best psychotically bland indifference. I may not be as violent as he could be, but I certainly observed the expression enough times to create a good facsimile.
Whoosh gave up, setting the bottle back in place with a mumbled, “Whatever.” Then in a lower voice, he said, “I hope Bear knows what he’s doing,” before walking to the other end of the bar to ogle the stripper and fill orders there.
After positioning himself two chairs away, the prospect assigned to me turned his back, also watching the stripper.
Which hurt. Sure, I deliberately donned that act, and wanted to avoid their interest. By doing so, I’d cut myself off from an opportunity to make a connection with these people.
And a month from now, would that matter?
No.
If everything went well, the only times I’d ever come back to this region would be holidays, and only then, to visit Beth and her family. Not hang out with bikers.
Fuck it. I sipped the whiskey in blissful solitude while the insanity of the Destroyers clubhouse spun around me like a wobbling top. Eventually, the party would end. Everything did. Friendships, dreams, lives…
“I heard you came in with Bear.”
