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“Better not be messin’ around when there’s work to be done.” There’s a hint of warning in his tone, but he doesn’t press further.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I reply, my jaw tightening. “Just helpin’ out.”
Blackjack grunts, folding the paper neatly before tossing it on the table. “Get to it, then.”
“On it.” I nod, turning away, already feeling the weight lift slightly.
One hurdle down, a thousand more to go.
I get to work cleaning up the bar area, and I might be twenty minutes into it when someone calls my name.
“Yo, Bama!” a voice cuts through the air like a blade.
I turn to see Dracus leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest.
His eyes are like steel—sharp and unyielding.
“Hey, Dracus.” I nod, bracing myself. This isn’t a conversation I can afford to mess up.
“Why’d Jordyn need a ride this morning?” He pushes off the wall, taking a step closer. “Her car okay?”
“Yeah, it’s fine,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “She drank a little too much with some girlfriends last night. Left it at a friend’s place.”
“Drank too much?” Dracus’s brow furrows, concern flickering across his face. “Where’d you pick her up from?”
“Friend’s house over on Maple.” I shrug, trying to play it casual. “She called me early, figured I’d help out.”
“Maple, huh?” Dracus rubs his chin, eyes narrowing. “Which friend?”
“Didn’t ask.” I meet his gaze head-on. “Just wanted to make sure she got to work on time.”
“All right.” He finally nods, though the tension doesn’t leave his shoulders. “Thanks for goin’ to get her.”
“No problem,” I reply, feeling the weight of his scrutiny.
“Now, get your ass in gear,” he says, turning away. “There’s a hell of a lot of work that needs to be done.”
“On it,” I mutter, already moving toward the garage.
I’m done here at the bar anyway.
As I walk away, I can’t shake the feeling that the cat will get out of the bag eventually.
Dracus seemed very accusatory when he was asking me about Jordyn, so did someone see me and her at the hotel? It makes me wonder.
I feel eyes boring into my back like a hot brand.
The whole place smells like oil and sweat, an undertone of desperation clinging to the air.
“Hey, Bama,” Blackjack calls out from his corner, not looking up from his newspaper. “Don’t forget to clean the tools after you’re done.”
“Got it,” I grunt, pushing the door open to the garage.
The second I make it through the door, I reach for the grease-stained rag on the workbench.
My hands move on autopilot, muscle memory from endless mornings spent here earning my keep.
Being a prospect isn’t easy at all. It’s hard work, but it’s hard work that will show the club I want to be here. Not only that but that I deserve to be here.
