Page 54 of The Belle and the Biker

“Who is it?” I ask him.

“Nobody important. Just some old, unfinished business. Wait here. I’ll be right back.” He stalks out the door, slamming it shut behind him.

I walk to the end of the trailer, following his voice, and open the window a crack so I can eavesdrop. I guess it’s none of my business, but when has that ever stopped anybody?

“Psst,” Tawny whispers to me. “Eavesdropping is bad for your karma.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I whisper back. “I have plenty of points in my karmic ledger, and I can spare some.”

“Karma doesn’t work that way!”

“You are not the Karma police. Shut your pie-hole. I can’t hear,” I whisper.

“I gave this number in case of emergency.” Crash’s angry voice carries. I’m barely even eavesdropping, really, just passively listening. “Don’t fucking call me again. I won’t answer.” And he hangs up the phone.

I quickly shut the window and head back to the front of the trailer.

“Well, at least he’s not with another woman.” Tawny scowls, following me. “Unlike Axl.”

“I really don’t think Axl’s cheating on you,” I protest. “Wait a minute. Another woman? There’s nothing romantic between Crash and me. This bodyguard gig is strictly business.”

Her knowing look infuriates me, but I am smart enough not to throw a punch at a woman who accessorizes with weaponry.

Crash pokes his head in the front door. “Ready,” he says.

I don’t bother asking him who he was talking to because it’s pretty clear from the look on his face that he’s in no mood. And despite what I said to Tawny, I am relieved that whatever the call was about, it was nothing romantic.

We walk over to Sparky’s, which is hopping tonight if the rows of motorcycles in the parking lot are any indication.

The minute we swing open the door, we’re greeted by a wall of heat, a wave of noise, and the smell of sweat, sawdust, and spilled beer. Four pool tables and a dart board are on one side of the room, a dozen booths, twelve-bar stools, and ten high-top tables. Almost every seat in the place is occupied by a burly biker or a girl who’s dressed just like Tawny, and I are.

I slide my hand up to scratch my scalp under the wig.

“Stop that,” Crash and Tawny say at the same time.

I’m introduced to a bunch of club members, including the president, whose name is Reaper. Then there’s Knuckles, Mad Dog, and a bunch of other names that blur together. A raven-haired waitress named Roxy takes us to the back and gets us timecards. She gives me an apron and tells me I’ll be shadowing her tonight.

Crash will be by the front door, and Tawny isn’t on the payroll, but she’s volunteered to punch people in the face if needed. She’s also using a fake name, Janet, and if anyone asks, she’s my cousin.

As Roxy and I make our way through the crowd taking drink orders, Tawny sits at the bar sipping a frosty mug of beer. It’s cool outside but hot enough that sweat’s gathering under my wig and rolling down my face.

When we go to the bar to give the bartender the orders, one of the other waitresses sweeps by and gives me a dirty look. I wrinkle my nose at the smell of her perfume, which I smelled on Crash the other night.

“Who is that?” I ask Roxy.

“Oh, that skank. Her name’s Queenie. She was hitting on your man a couple of days ago, and he didn’t go for it,” she adds.

“Say what now?” Tawny snaps her head to the left to glare at Queenie.

Queenie, a short, curvy little blonde, doesn’t notice because she’s too busy ignoring customers and trying to make eyes at Crash. She’s wearing a T-shirt that’s been slashed down the front and tied in a knot, Daisy Duke style, and if her little denim mini skirt were any shorter, she’d be airing out her back porch.

“Excuse me a minute,” Roxy says, looking annoyed. She stalks over to Queenie and snaps her fingers in her face. The two of them exchange words, but I can’t hear through the din. The end result is that Queenie stalks off in a huff and starts writing down drink orders.

“I’d kick her ass,” Tawny informs me.

“Of course, you would. That’s your solution to everything.”

“And?” Tawny looks puzzled.

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