Page 2 of Reno

They came through the door slapping each other on the back and coughing out laughs. Upon realizing the dining area was empty, the leader of the group paused. He glanced from one empty table to another.

“Seat yourself,” I said. “Don’t worry. The food’s great, you just missed the rush.”

As they took their seats at a table in the rear of the restaurant, I glanced at the patch sewn on the back of their vests.

Filthy Fuckers MC

I grinned to myself upon seeing the club’s name. The men resembled every other outlaw biker I’d seen—muscular, covered in tattoos, and unshaven—but so far, the name on their vests didn’t seem fitting.

La Cocina was a popular place in Chula Vista, California for those who liked an Americanized version of authentic Mexican food. Ten minutes north of Mexico and ten minutes south of San Diego, it attracted equal numbers of American and Hispanic regulars.

The owner’s willingness to ask minimal questions—and pay servers in cash—drew me to the establishment. The constant flow of hungry traffic kept me there for almost four years.

I handed out menus and offered the group a smile. “I’ll take your drink orders if you like.”

A man with graying hair and an eclectic collection of colorful tattoos looked up. The patch on his vest identified him as the MC’s President. Another patch gave his name, Crip.

“Bring us each a Budweiser, if you don’t mind,” he said. “And, a glass of water.”

“Eight beers and one water, or eight beers and eight waters?”

He chuckled. “Eight of each.”

“I’ll be right back.”

I returned in a few minutes with their drinks. As I handed them their bottles of beer, I glanced at the patches on the front of their vests.

Pee Bee. Crip. P-Nut. Smokey. Cholo. Meathead. The remaining two men wore leather vests but had no identification patches. One of them—a serious-looking man with short brown hair and hazel-colored eyes—paid close attention to my every movement. After I passed out the cups of water, he nodded toward the empty tray.

“You’ve got some serious talent,” he said.

His voice was sprinkled with authority. Intrigued, I shifted my attention to him. “What do you mean?”

“You carried sixteen drinks without spilling them.”

I tucked the tray under my arm. “You should see me juggle tacos.”

“You can juggle tacos?” His eyes narrowed. “No shit?”

He was the perfect man. Handsome and gullible. I offered an apologetic smile. “I was joking.”

“Jesus, Reno. How the fuck’s she gonna juggle tacos?” the bearded man beside him asked. “There’d be cheese and lettuce and shit everywhere.”

“After carrying all those drinks,” Reno said with a low laugh. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

His laugh was dry and sexy, like his voice.

I looked him over quickly, and then scanned the group. “Are you ready to order, or do you need some more time?”

“I got a question,” one of them said.

I looked in his direction.

Pee Bee.

“Yes?” I asked.

“You said the food’s good, right?”