Page 1 of Hallow’s Eve
Chapter 1
EVE
“Bridezillas over there.” I informed Donette of the bachelorette party in the corner. Ever since she was left at the altar, my bestie couldn’t handle the brides to be who stormed the honky-tonk highway.
Donette let her rage show for a second with a primal grunt right in my ear. “Better than the bikers around the stage,” she retorted.
In the middle of Bootsies, not to be confused with the famous Tootsies, we hugged up like a couple. It was the only way for us to hear one another over the live bands. A cover of Hank Williams Jr.’s “Family Tradition” thundered, and the crowd sang along with their parts. It gave us a short break from slinging beer and Tennessee whisky.
“Trade me, okay?” Donette gave up the bikers for the brides. “You can handle bikers.”
I ignored her comment about me. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” she breathed in my ear. “I’m so over Dylan.”
Silent, I nodded. It was her loss. Those girls were about to blow chunks. In their pink matching cowboy hats, they were drunk before they stepped off the pedal tavern they took here. Bikers on the other hand tipped well. Donette and I separated, crossed paths, and I headed to the stage. She hadn’t been kidding. A huge pack of motorcycle men surrounded our fourth act. With their leather and chains, they stood out in the crowd of hillbilly hipsters.
An ice-cold hand landed on my shoulder. Whipping my head around, I glared at our head bartender, Ford. He bent down. Ford’s lips grazed my ear. “Eve, don’t bother. Let them come to the bar.”
“What? Are they good tippers? You want my tips, Ford?” I practically shouted.
“Those guys are the Royal Bastards. Real assholes. I wish Grady would kick them out.”
Rolling my eyes, I shrugged Ford’s hand off me. My boss had never kicked out bikers before.
“I’m warning you, Eve. Don’t get too close,” Ford snapped as I walked away.
Get too close? That was practically my job. Nightly, I had to weave through the crowd of partygoers to take folks their drink orders. I’d been rubbing booties with people all night. Hell, I popped up between a couple kissing earlier. They were happy to get their shots of Jack Daniels, and I was happy to shove their dollars in my pockets. Besides, Ford and his bartenders freaked if we barmaids didn’t keep everyone from crowding his bar where they also served the only dish we made, Nashville Hot Chicken.
Preparing myself, I tied my grey Jack Daniels t-shirt up a bit higher and yanked the cuffs of my daisy dukes down a hair, so they didn’t crawl up my ass again. I dove in. Swimming through the bikers, their beards tickled me as they bent to tell me their orders. Soon I was in front of my boss, Grady asking him to basically empty out a bottle of George Dickel.
“Why don’t you just take the bottle and some glasses?”
“Great idea.”
Balancing a slew of shot glasses in one hand and the bottle in the other, I waded into the crowd again. In a sea of roughnecks, I poured more than a dozen double shots of whiskey and filled my apron with cash. Sure, my ass got pinched by a few bikers, the men and one woman, but I turned to leave feeling pretty pleased. That was before I bumped face first into a stray biker. He grabbed a hold of my shoulders to steady me.
Towering over me, he opened his mouth to talk, but a wild woman materialized at his side. His lips shut tight. A biker bitch in head-to-toe leather, huge hoop earrings with spiky fuchsia hair snarled at me. Everything she had was out on the showroom floor as her tits were about ready to pop out and slap me. She raised her glass fixing to drown me in her drink.
Flinching, I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting to be doused in whiskey.
“Steph,” the biker barked at her over the music. His grip on me disappeared.
As soon as his hands left my shoulders, I crumbled to the floor to dodge the splash. Luckily, Steph tossed her drink at him, not me. But Lordalmighty, her glass crashed onto the wooden floor, shattering beside me. Scared the dickens out of me. I screeched, not that anyone could hear me. Steph lunged at me. Other biker bitches had rushed over to hold her back just in time. Regardless, she snipped at him like an angry dog. I watched their mouths argue from my seat on the floor but couldn’t make out a word over a country cover of some Bee Gees’ song complete with falsetto. Apparently, the seventies were all the rage now. I blamed the popularity of beards.
Speaking of beards, to my surprise, the biker’s focus turned to me as he offered his hand. Just to avoid the broken glass, I took it and let him haul me to my feet. At the sight of his dripping face, I automatically handed him the towel hanging off my apron. After all, that was my job. When he didn’t take it, I dabbed his wet cheek and chest myself. Standing, I could hear the bitch now.
Her voice came like ice. “Tell me. This your whore now?”
“What’s it to you?” he yelled, seized my waist and drew me to him.
I held my hands out to stop the man from carting me into a full embrace. Stepping away from his control, I squawked as loud as I could, “Excuse me, but I’m not a whore. And I don’t dare date nasty bikers like you.” I gave him a once over while I said it and noticed he was drop dead gorgeous. Still, I jutted my chin out with attitude.
And you could hear a pin drop.
It just so happened my exclamation corresponded with the very second the music stopped. It was as if the whole crowd stirred to stare at me. In the spotlight, my face reddened. My chest felt tight. The biker’s mouth hung open. Steph laughed like a loon. Just as quick, the music resumed as a fiddle wailed. Overly embarrassed, I jetted back to the bar.
Ford was waiting for me. He leaned over. “You alright?”
