“American Woman” played as a woman spun onstage. I moved closer, a moth drawn to fire.
“You can’t be in here.” A tall man wearing a beat up leather jacket covered in patches blocked my path. “You’re like twelve.”
“Eighteen,” I lied. “I need a job.”
catch up
Part I: The Drifter
Chapter 2
1997
I couldn’t stomach the thought of telling anyone, so I ran.
I didn’t go far. I was only fourteen, after all. I had no money, aside from the babysitting cash I blew on the bus hop out of Wolcott. I had no job experience, aside from babysitting a few kids on my street. And I had no high school diploma—a recent development.
I stood on the long strip of roads that made up Route 63 in Naugatuck, the bus pulling away from the curb and leaving me in a cloud of dust. I was officially out of cash—and adrenaline.
Glancing up and down the street, I looked for a sign, anything to tell me what to do next. I could go home. All I had to do was find a payphone and call my parents. Then I’d have to tell them why I’d run.
Nausea scraped against my stomach, clawing up my throat. I wrapped my arms around myself, pushing back against it and the memories. I couldn’t tell them. No one would even believe me.
I started walking.
As I walked, I rubbed my hands up and down my arms. I hadn’t even grabbed a coat on my way out, and it was freakin’ January. Not like I’d really had time to think things through. I stumbled into a parking lot, not even bothering to see what it was for. I just wanted to get inside and get warm. As I hurried toward the door, the backpack I wore slung on one shoulder brushed one of the motorcycles lined up out front.
“Hold it!” a gruff voice called out.
I froze in my tracks.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he asked, stepping in front of me. He all but blocked out the sun—if the sun had been shining. The sky was a cold milk white.
I tipped my head back to look at him. The breeze ruffled the dark hair that just about covered his ears.
“You can’t go in there,” he continued, but all I saw were his lips. Thick, round lips that hugged every word he spoke. A constellation of stubble framed them, all that black facial hair only highlighting the pink plumpness of those lips. Shadows hung under his hypnotic brown eyes, more hair hanging in front of them.
I blinked, shaking myself out of my daze. A gust of wind whipped my hair into my face. I grabbed the dark strands, tucking them back into my shirt. “Why not?” I said between shivers. I glanced at the door again. It was so close.
“Because that,” he said, jerking a thumb toward the building, “is a strip club. And you are like twelve.”
I scoffed. “Eighteen.”
“Same freakin’ difference.” He crossed his arms. “Shouldn’t you be in school?”
Flicking my eyes from his face to the motorcycle, I crossed my arms, too. “Shouldn’t you be in jail?”
“Probably.” He laughed, and the sound flooded me with warmth—a heat so real, my fingers tingled.
“Move out of my way.” I hopped from foot to foot.
Ordinarily I’d never speak to an adult like that. And he was very much a man, probably in his early thirties. But I was freezing, and I had to pee. In about two minutes, I was going to be warm for a whole two seconds before I caught pneumonia.
“I can’t let you in.” He dropped the smirk, eyes warming a little. “Why don’t I give you a ride home?”
I lifted an eyebrow at the bikes.
“In my truck.” He jerked a thumb toward a pickup parked at the end of the line.
“So you’re not a biker?” I had no idea why the question popped out. I was cold. I should’ve been climbing into the cab and blasting the heat as high as it’d go. Maybe I was just trying to delay going home. Or maybe I was disappointed that he wasn’t a biker.
“That one’s mine.” He smiled proudly at one of the bikes. “If I put you on the back of that, you’ll turn into an icicle. Come on. Where do you live?”
The door opened and a curvy woman with long blonde hair and bangs poked her head out. “Mercy! What the hell are you doing out here? Ravage and Bastard are at it again.” She slipped back inside as quickly as she popped out.
He darted in after her, not even sparing a second glance at me. I counted to twenty, then opened the door.
The Guess Who’s “American Woman” blasted over speakers I couldn’t see in the dim light. What I could see, very clearly, was the woman spinning around a silver pole on a stage.
A strip club.
I almost laughed, but a hard body slammed into mine. He glared at me with green eyes before turning toward another man.
“We voted on this, Bastard! Split table means no escort service. You can’t just do whatever the fuck you want!” the other man growled. His ice blue eyes nearly glowed with rage, his black hair damp.
Bastard launched himself at the other man. “The hell I can’t. I built this goddamn business, Ravage!”
The man from outside—Mercy—shoved himself between them. “Enough!” he shouted, his voice rising even over the music.
Everything stopped. The girls dancing on stage edged out of the spotlight. The crowd of men with dollar bills in their hands stared at the trio in the middle of the floor.
“I’m not gonna abide this shit,” Ravage said.
“Ravage,” Mercy warned. “This is a club. We have to take this to the table, not the middle of the floor.”
Bastard spat a wad of blood onto the floor. “Good call, VP.” He sneered at Ravage.
Mercy’s face hardened, then slipped back into a neutral mask. He clasped Ravage’s shoulder. “Take a walk.”
Fists curled, Ravage stalked outside, his blue eyes cold and unforgiving.
Mercy rose his voice again. “Show’s over. Eyes back on the stage.” He put an arm around Bastard and guided him to a door on the other side of the bar. They disappeared into the darkness.
“What are you doing in here, sweetie?” the woman from outside asked, spinning me around. Her blonde bangs framed anxious round eyes. Up close, I could see that they were brown instead of the usual blue. Outside, she’d looked angry, but inside she looked worried. It probably had less to do with me and more to do with the men.
“I was cold,” I admitted, the first truth I’d spoken that day.
“It is pretty cold out,” she said, steering me toward the door, “but you’re too young to be in here.”
“I’m eighteen,” I blurted. “Are you hiring?”
She halted, looking me in the eyes. “I’m Shannon,” she said, “and there’s no way in hell you’re dancing on that stage.”
I swallowed. “Please,” I begged. “I’ve got nowhere else to go.”
She closed her eyes for a moment, her chest rising and falling. “Why do I always take in strays?” she muttered. Opening her eyes, she fixed them on me. “I’ll figure something out for you. You’re not dancing. Want a cup of hot cocoa?”
“Coffee, please.” I licked my lips.
“Cream and sugar?” she asked as she stepped behind the bar.
“Black.”
It was the second lie I’d told.
Thank you for reading Chapter 2 of Her Mercy, a River Reapers MC prequel novella.
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