Stephanie Tyler - Vipers Run

“So we come back.” As they headed to their bikes, Tals told him, “You know Calla’s freaked, right?”

He knew, because he was the one responsible. Balancing her and the MC wasn’t easy. He was just about to address it when he noticed a few of the local skinheads staring at them.

“Did they see me in the room?” Cage asked.

“No, but they saw me.” Tals looked damned pleased with himself. “You need a good fight later.”

“And let me guess—you know where to find one?”

“Stick with me and I’ll hook you up. One’s going to follow us home.”

I was really nervous by the time Cage came back. He’d brought me some clothes—cute jeans and boots and shirts—and I’d already showered. He was still distracted, and Tals was with him, which meant that we couldn’t talk much.

I dressed quickly. Thought about telling him I wanted to stay here instead, but I really didn’t want to be alone. But when I’d hinted at that, he’d said that he’d been ordered to a command performance by Preacher.

The bar was walking distance from the apartment—two short blocks—but we rode instead, parked in a line of bikes along the back and walked into the darkened bar.

It wasn’t too different from any of the bars I’d been in. But it was crowded already since it was after eleven at night, and the drinking was going full swing.

I’d known it wasn’t going to be easy, coming here and meeting a good portion of the Vipers crew, plus their women, plus hangers-on. And it was more crowded tonight than usual, Cage told me, because they all knew he was back in town.

Many of the guys watched him with guarded expressions. Some of the women did too. I got outright contempt from more than a few, but smiles and waves from others. Still, I was nervous as anything. I was sure it showed, and I didn’t want it to. But I was out of my element, and while I might’ve felt that way in boarding school and college, I knew how to fake it. Here, I really didn’t.

I mean, I felt stupid because what could I do? Look up, “My boyfriend’s a biker, what next?” Because Cage wasn’t exactly my boyfriend. Although I wasn’t sure what calling me “his” meant exactly.

I’d watched Sons of Anarchy , along with the rest of the world, and that aided with the pictures Tenn had drawn for me in my mind of what a real MC was. These men lost tongues and noses and balls. They were hard-core. And maybe Vipers wasn’t as hard-core as some of the MCs, but there’d been guns in Cage’s apartment.

He was in the Army , I reminded myself. But that hadn’t settled the questions in my head. So I just stayed by his side and studied the women. I quickly realized there was a certain way of dressing, a certain bearing to each group—there always was, and the MC women were no different.

It was easy to spot the old ladies from the mamas. There was a natural confidence to the old ladies, like they knew they were untouchable. I was dressed somewhere in between, and I wondered which one of them had picked out my clothes.

At some point, Cage parked me by the bar next to a few women he’d introduced me to and told me he had some club business to attend to. As soon as he left, they stopped talking to me, and I sipped a Diet Coke and looked around.

Cage was hanging out with a group of women who were basically all over him. I wasn’t sure what the hell was going on at this point, but club business, my ass.

The depth of my jealous feelings was too intense and it surprised me. A woman was talking to Cage with far too much intimacy for my comfort. The jealousy I’d known twisted with misery, and instead of going over to him, showing the woman that he was mine, I turned away and walked toward the back room.

“You can’t let him get away with it.” I turned toward the source of the voice. A pretty, dark-haired woman, curvy in jeans and a tank top, bracelets of silver and beads of different colors traveling up her arms. “I’m Amelia. You’re Calla, yes?”

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

“Calla, look—these guys, they’re going to get away with whatever they can. Some women deal with it. Others can’t. But Cage will never respect you if you don’t fight for him.”

“I would like to punch that bitch out,” I muttered, and Amelia laughed and clapped her hands together once lightly.

“That’s the spirit. But, honey, fists aren’t the way to win this game.” She looked me over. “I see what I bought you fits well. If that’s not to your style, tell me what you need.”

She didn’t question why I couldn’t do my own shopping, didn’t seem to think it was odd at all. So of course, I blurted out, “I told him I wasn’t sure I wanted commitment. I told him we were both free to do what we wanted,” and wondered how the small, dark hallway had suddenly become a confessional.

“So? We’re not allowed to change our minds?” she asked. Then she rummaged in her bag and pulled out a couple of wrapped bracelets. “Here, put these on. It’s onyx and these are worry beads. They’ll help.”

I’d take whatever I could get. I unwrapped it and slid the pretty black and wood beads on my wrist, rubbed it a couple of times with my opposite hand for good luck.

“Who are you dating?” I asked.

“Me? No one,” she said with a smile. “I just work here. Manage the bar. They stopped hiring their own guys because they were drinking too much of the profits.”

“Thanks for being nice to me.”

“The others will, once you’re with one of the guys. Until then . . .” She shrugged, then gave me a crash course in life, MC-style. “MC men fuck whoever they want. Old ladies are expected to be faithful, but most of the time any guy who’s got an old lady’s off the market.”

“Since I’m not attached, I’m a threat,” I said.

“Right. Means all the women hate you on sight, especially because you’re gorgeous.” She glanced at Cage. “My suggestion? If you want him, if you think you made a mistake, it’s time to claim him.”

Yes, I could do that.

I’d grown up between two worlds, not feeling entirely comfortable in either. It was like I didn’t know the entire story behind my life—was I supposed to be a bar chick or a rich girl? And in the end did it really matter? I’d been faking everything for so long it had all become a matter of course.

I understood now, watching Cage, just how much I missed. So much lost time to make up for. Because everything I’d thought I’d wanted at the cabin went straight out the window the first time I saw another woman chatting Cage up. My heart raced in my chest and I wanted to rip him away from her, rip her hair out. And I could’ve flirted with any number of MC members in the bar—and I should’ve.

Instead, I stared behind the bar and said, “Do you need help tonight?”

“Honey, I need help every night. Bar business isn’t my thing. I’m good with numbers, but this other stuff? Preacher promised me he’d find someone to take this over. So go take a spin.”

“We don’t need more help.” A woman who looked to be in her mid-thirties brushed by and went behind the bar. She was all boobs and butt, curvy, undeniably hot. She eyed me like I’d crawled off the bottom of her shoe, then called, “Rich girls don’t know what work is.”

I raised my brows to Amelia and pointed behind the bar. “Mind?”

Amelia held the swinging half door open. The other bartender watched me as I walked through the bar, taking stock of where things were kept and what kinds of liquor, including top shelf, they kept there.

It had been a couple of years since I’d been behind a bar. But in a matter of five minutes, I was pouring drinks and shots. Flirting. Ignoring Cage in favor of having fun.