Page 10 of Demon
“What can I get you?”
“A pint and a smile,” he asked, cockiness evident in the harsh Shields accent. It wasn’t quite the same as the Geordies. More of a twang, vowels dragged out more than necessary, consonants spat out like they tasted bad. He was local and probably a regular. There was a familiarity about him.
I pushed the pint towards him.
“Four pounds, please.”
“What about that smile?”
“That’ll cost you double.”
He slid a twenty-pound note across the bar top, smiling at me like the Cheshire cat. He must have been barely eighteen, thin and wiry, a sleeve of colourful tattoos down his arm.
“What will twenty get me?”
“A smack in the chops, mate,” the growl came from behind him, and both of us looked up into the soul-eating dark eyes staring down at him. “You got your drink, now piss off.”
The young man scarpered away, the drink spilling all over the bar top as he snatched at it with shaky hands.
“I can look after myself, thanks,” I grumbled, reaching for the soggy cloth and wiping the spilled lager from where it pooled in a divot.
Demon shrugged. “I was just creating space to get to the bar, darl’, nothing more. I’ll have a diet coke.”
I rolled my eyes. He had to be the only biker that hadn’t had at least one drink tonight. I glanced behind him, watching the young lad wander off, smiling at the leather patched men that he passed, and reaching out and patting a big guy with the sex crazed angel and demon on the back. The big man paused, looked him up and down, and then planted his fist straight into his face. I heard the yowl before the place erupted in a mass of leather chaos.
“Fuck.” Demon shook his head, turning away from me and into the fray.
*****
It had taken ages to empty the club out. The bikers had almost drunk the place dry and then convincing them we were closed had been a challenge in itself. And now it was 3am. An hour later than I was due to finish. My feet ached and my hands were sticky with spilled alcohol that had clung to my skin, refusing to budge no matter how much I had washed them. The white t-shirt was stained with all shades of beige and brown. The last few bikers remained, Demon and the one they called Fury, helping Terry lock up and collect their cut of the takings.
The air was cool outside. May crossing into June. Warm days but not hot enough to heat the evenings. And not at 3am. My car was on the far side of the carpark. The other side of the two Harley Davidson motorbikes waiting for their owners. The night was quiet. Sleepy. How I felt.
I walked round to the driver’s side, pushing my key into the lock and hearing for the inviting clunk of the car opening up. It should take me about fifteen minutes to get home, with the roads being almost deserted. Or it would have. Fuck’s sake. The tyre was as flat as a pancake. There was no way I could even get to the garage with it like that. I rested my forehead against the cool metal of the car.
“Hey, Ciara. What’s up?”
I grumbled into the doorframe, my breath misting the window just underneath. This was all I needed.
“Flat tyre,” I glanced over the car at Demon and the man with the long, dark hair to his shoulders.
Demon moved around beside me, nudging me out of the way while he inspected the rubber squashed into the tarmac.
“Aye. That’s flat.”
“No shit, genius. You don’t think I can’t tell what a flat tyre looks like?”
Fury chuckled from the other side of the car, almost masking the deep sigh from Demon as he nipped the bridge of his nose.
“I’ll change it for you,” Demon muttered, wandering round to the boot of the car and looking at me expectantly.
“I don’t have a spare.”
“You don’t have a spare?”
“Now who’s the parrot?”
“How can you not have a spare?”
