Page 1 of Wild Heart
1
RAIDEN
The air is thick with expensive cologne and the smell of fruity cocktails. Pop music blasts from the speakers near the dance floor, making me want to cover my ears and high tail it out of here.
Coming to the White Out isn’t my idea of a good time, but it’s not every day one of my MC gets married, although it’s happening more and more these days. Arlo’s in his early thirties and not an old man like me, so when White Out, the club at the Emerald Heart Resort, was suggested for his bachelor party, I agreed that I’d come and not complain about the music.
That was before I got here.
The beat goes way too fast to be comfortable and the lyrics are shouted rather than sung, making me question the musical ability of the vocalist. Why the hell they can’t put on something decent that everyone loves, like Foo Fighters, I don’t know. Hell, I’d even go for classic pop. Give me Duran Duran and Madonna over this shit any day.
“Here you go.” The bartender slides a tray of shot glasses filled with white liquid at me. I squint at the tray, trying to understand why I’ve got a tray of tequila shots in front of me.
“I didn’t order these.”
The bartender smiles nervously, and a bead of sweat glistens on his forehead.
We’re not wearing our cuts tonight out of respect to Axel. He’s the owner of this joint, and I don’t want to bring him any trouble. Not that my boys are trouble. But I’ve come across the type of entitled hot heads who frequent the Emerald Heart Resort, and an MC patch can attract the wrong kind of attention from those kinds of dickheads.
But even without the jackets, we’re pretty imposing. My guys are all ex-military and built for strength. Half the MC have beards and tattoos that dress shirts won’t fully cover. Compared to the scrawny rich kids on the dance floor, we stand out. Axel would have clocked us the moment we walked in and no doubt let his staff know the Wild Riders Motorcycle Club are in tonight.
“That guy ordered them…” The bartender licks his lips nervously. “…and he said you were paying.” His head tilts to the left, indicating someone further down the bar.
I lean forward to see past a container of brightly colored compostable containers. Arlo gives me one of his trademark wide grins. We don’t call him Prince Charming for nothing.
I sigh heavily. I’d rather be at our headquarters drinking craft beer and listening to Van Halen, but it’s too early to bail out of Arlo’s party. Besides, as the President of the MC I need to make sure my guys have a good time and no one gives us any trouble.
“Set up a tab on this.” I pull my credit card from my wallet. “Put anything my boys ask for on there.”
The bartender looks at the card uncertainly. His eyes flick upwards to the left hand corner of the bar. I follow his gaze to a security camera attached to the overhang of the bar. Axel keeps his beady eye on everything that goes on at the resort and especially at White Out.
“Clear it with Axel first if you need to.”
I don’t want to make this young guy feel awkward for doing his job. I place a hundred dollar bill on the counter. “And look after my boys tonight.”
He nods uncertainly but pockets the bill.
I look at the camera and give Axel a wave. Son of a bitch needs to get out more if he’s still spending every night behind his bank of monitors.
A new song starts, and there’s a whoop from the dance floor. I guess it’s better than hanging out down here.
The guys join me at the bar, and Arlo hands out the shots. I knock it back, feeling the burn, and chase it with the beer I just ordered.
That’s the last shot I’ll have tonight. I’m too old for this shit.
Some of the younger guys head toward the dance floor, and I slide into a booth with Quentin. His huge thighs scrape the underside of the table. That’s why we call him Barrels. He’s the biggest guy in the MC. That, and the fact that he runs the brewery for the club.
“You not dancing, Prez?” Quentin asks.
“What the fuck do you think?”
He chuckles, and we each sip our beer. It’s a prestigious brand that suits the clientele who come here, but it lacks flavor. I can tell Quentin’s thinking the same thing by the way he swirls it around in his mouth. When you run a brewery and craft beer bar, you become quite the connoisseur.
Barrels finally swallows, and his face screws up in a wince. “Tastes like piss.”
“It’s not gonna win any awards, that’s for sure.”
“Too sweet, tastes like caramel.” Quentin holds the bottle up to the light and swishes the brown liquid around. “And the viscosity’s too dense.”
