Page 56 of Roses Are Dead
The woman who’d approached me had bleached blonde hair and obviously augmented lips and breasts. She sat down on the stool between the prospect and I, and set her drink on the bar.
I desperately wanted a lifeline. Could I trust her? Probably not. That didn’t stop me from answering.
“I did.”
She scanned my outfit. Thank goodness I wasn’t still wearing the hobo look Betty Jo commented upon. “Are you from that bitch club that Tits runs with?”
Tits… I’d heard her mentioned as the president’s wife. “No.” I immediately regretted not saying yes, and adopting a temporary cloak of hierarchy, because her attitude shifted from nasty to worse.
“Funny, you look like one of them.”
“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”
Her eyes drifted up and fixed on my hair. “How long is your hair? And is it real?”
By rote I answered, “Real, and over four and a half feet.”
“You’re fucking shitting me.”
If I only had a dollar for every time someone said that… “Nope.”
“Wow. I know a hairdresser who’d pay you for this.” She petted a loose braid with an unhealthy compulsion, ignoring my personal space.
“Not for sale.” I tugged it back and wound the mass into a tight bun that hid behind my neck. The helmet Bear gave me this morning wouldn’t fit over my head if I fixed them higher.
As I did, she reached for my glass and sniffed. “What ‘you drinking?”
I took the glass back as soon as her nose wrinkled.
“Whiskey.”
“Are you sure you’re not one of Tits’s friends?”
This time, I ignored her. That did the trick because she said something rude and cruel and flounced off, taking time to flirt with the prospect, who finally paid attention.
But he was called off seconds later to run beers to a table.
These people invented their very own waitstaff of prospects to serve them. Two men crowded into the space left behind. One jostled me as he slid his wide body onto the barstool.
“I hear you’re Bear’s?”
I wasn’t in truth. My eyes dipped to his leather vest. It was decorated similarly to Bear’s but had different colored patches on it. Even without seeing the back, I guessed he wasn’t from the club Bear rode with. “You must have excellent hearing,” I deadpanned.
Out of habit, I held my hand over the glass of whiskey, turning it as I covered the rim.
The action caught his attention. He asked, “Whatcha drinking?”
What could I say to get him to leave me alone? “Bear’s private reserve.”
“Lemme smell.” His hand shot out to grab, like the woman’s had, and I was damn tired of this game.
“No.” I slid the glass away and tucked it against the wall, now completely covered with my left hand.
“You’re a bitch.”
The other one leaned around his friend and scanned my outfit. “I don’t see any property marks on her.”
Like I needed them in order to not be harassed?
