Page 17 of Property of Rattler

RATTLER

As the gate opens automatically, I ride inside, pulling up in front of the line of bikes. I tap her leg, the signal to get off, but of course she’s a novice. She lets go of me, and glancing back over my shoulder, I see she hasn’t a clue what I want.

“One hand on my shoulder, doll, and slide yourself off.”

I focus on holding the bike steady until she’s clear, then paddle-walk the Breakout back into its spot.

Swinging my leg over the saddle, I see Dum standing by the gate, his tongue hanging out at the sight of Ames with her short skirt still hiked up, her ass cheeks on display. I send him my best glare and then hiss at her, “Make yourself decent.”

Her mouth forms an O as she hurries to correct her clothing mishap. Once she’s as respectable as she can be, I lead her into the clubhouse.

Oh. Fuck. Was Freak’s wedding only yesterday? It seemed much longer ago. I’m not prepared for all the bodies laid out on the couches or just sprawled on the floor. I recognise they’re mostly the out-of-town brothers, who presumably hadn’t wanted to ride back to their motel. I notice Paint and Woodyamong them, their mouths open and snoring. To add insult to injury, Star’s lying next to the tail gunner, using his stomach as a pillow.

Damn. It looks like they were partying late into the night, so any thought of getting an early audience with Prez appears to be out.

At that moment, my stomach growls loudly. “This way,” I turn around to tell her, noticing she’s gawping at the men strewn around, some, like Paint, with half or fully naked women lying over them. I recognise, as I’m sure she does, that there are quite a few of the strippers from Royals who’d obviously arrived once the strip club had closed for the night.

When I start to move away, this time, at least, she seems eager to follow me.

Leading her into the kitchen, we leave bedlam behind. “Is it always like this?” she asks, keeping her voice down.

I chuckle. “Nah, sometimes it’s worse.” Then, watching her face go slack, relent. “Freak got married yesterday,” I remind her. “The brothers crashing out there,” I jerk my head over my shoulder, “are visiting from other chapters. Can you cook?” My sudden question seems to catch her off balance. When she takes too long to reply, I add, “Or did you have chefs catering for you?”

She straightens and sneers. “It was my parents who had money. My grands, not so much. My grandmother did all the cooking and taught me too.” She sighs, then interprets the reason for my question. “You want me to make breakfast for you?”

My nod indicates that I do. The club girls are obviously not going to be capable for quite a while. My magnanimous hand gesture indicates she can root around to find everything she needs. Apparently, she must be hungry as well. As soon as she’s searched the fridge and emerged with bacon, eggs, cheese, and sausage links, the freezer provides hash browns. Doing my part,I start the coffee going, then settle back to watch. She does, indeed, seem to know her way around the kitchen. And when she finally plates up, I think I’ve died and gone to heaven.

The bacon is just how I like it, and the scrambled eggs with just the right amount of cheese are some of the best I’ve ever tasted. Everything is well cooked and seasoned just right.

Pointing my full fork toward her, I observe, “You can cook.”

She retorts sharply, “I’m not useless at everything.”

I’m unable to deny that she’s not right. I empty my plate, not deigning to address that comment.

But even by then, no one’s stirring. I feel a moment of resentment that it should have been me sleeping off the excesses of last night, rather than spending the small hours in a closet with a bitch I don’t even like. But as I watch her clean up after her cooking endeavours, I feel driven to help.

And that elicits a comment from her. “You’re not so useless yourself.”

Her audacity makes me laugh. Then I see her yawning. “Hey, let's catch some sleep for a couple of hours. Can’t do much before then. Stay here a moment.” I go back to the clubroom and spy a bleary-eyed prospect tiptoeing around, picking up rubbish. It’s him I address. “You see Bullseye or Saint, you give me a call. Got that?” After getting the prospect’s nod, I return to the kitchen. Without waiting for her agreement, I again take her hand and guide her to the bunkhouse. My room’s on the first floor, so I lead her straight to it.

She glances inside. “Er, bathroom?”

“Back up the hall, the door at the end. Come right back, yeah?”

“I feel gross,” she admits. “I really need a shower.” Taking pity on her, as I feel much the same myself, I go to my closet and take out a fresh bath towel. Then, opening a drawer, I pull out apair of sweats that will no doubt dwarf her, and find one of my clean t-shirts. I pass the bundle to her.

“There’s usually shampoo and shit left in the bathroom.”

She nods gratefully, then exits my room. I’ve no worries she’ll run. The compound’s surrounded by a steel fence, and Dum’s guarding the gate. As it happens, she returns surprisingly quickly. My clothes, as expected, are far too large on her, though I have to admit my gut twists seeing her wearing something of mine. Some kind of caveman instinct, perhaps? Whatever, it’s the clothes. It can’t be her.

“Get your head down. I’m going to wash off as well.” I grab a fresh t-shirt and underwear from the pile of laundry one of the club girls had left, which I hadn’t bothered to put away as yet. I leave her and go to the bathroom.

It had been a long, tense night, especially when her brother had come looking for her. Which reminds me, Genie and Pippa are going to lose their shit when I tell them how Malachi took the power and the alarms out. But now, as I yawn my way through the shower, then change into my fresh clothes, redressing in yesterday’s jeans, I know I got far too little sleep last night.

Taking my soiled clothes, I return to my room and find I’m not the only one who’s bone-deep tired. Ames is lying on my bed, completely passed out. I slide in next to her, leaving a decent distance between us.

What feels like only minutes later, but could be hours, my phone rings. It’s the prospect.