Page 2 of Thug

I was sidetracked by his tattoo-covered biceps. Hoping to seem disinterested in his presence, I looked away. “I think there’s ten or twelve of them,” I said, stretching the truth of the Rebel’s small existence. I wondered if it would be enough to thwart any ideas Price had of causing trouble in my bar.

“Twelve, huh?” His brows raised in false wonder. “Must have doubled membership in the last few days. Maybe they lured a bunch of new prospects in with Jolly Ranchers, ice cream cones, and delusions of grandeur.”

An aura of arrogance surrounded him. Price was becoming more interesting by the minute. Nevertheless, I wasn’t responding to his snide remark. I stood silently and waited for him to exhaust himself of his biased opinions.

It seemed he sensed my frustration. He gave the bar a more in-depth look. “You own this joint?”

“I do.”

His gaze narrowed in opposition. “You’re Maggie?”

“There is no Maggie,” I admitted. “I thought if I put my given name on the sign that it might attract an odd crowd.”

He tugged at the front of his vest, pulling the wrinkles from it. “If this is a Rebel hang-out, sounds like you got the odd crowd whether you wanted to, or not.”

Six members strong and based in Tucson, the Rebels MC was an up-and-coming motorcycle club. Rumor had it that they were dabbling in the manufacture of meth, but I doubted it was entirely true. They didn’t seem the type. They patronized my establishment with a fierce loyalty, which kept the Hard Eights from doing the same. It wasn’t that the members of the Hard Eights feared the Rebels, it was more of a matter of unspoken respect that most clubs paid to one another. They didn’t wander into each other’s territory unless they needed to settle a score.

I wasn’t about to get caught in a trap of talking shit on the men who indirectly paid my rent, bought my groceries, and put clothes on my back. I fought the urge to argue in support of my stance.

“What can I get you?” I asked, my tone unintentionally expressing slight frustration.

He tilted his chair onto the rear legs and nodded toward the bar. “Bottle of Bud.”

“Bottle is $3.50. Wednesdays are dollar draft night. We’ve got Dragoon IPA on draft for a buck. It’s a local IPA that has—”

He held my gaze while lowering the chair onto all four legs. “Bottle. Of. Budweiser. Please.”

He was far from mannerly, but at least he said please. I gave a nod and turned away. As intrigued as I was to have him in my bar, I wasn’t necessarily pleased with his presence. He and his MC brethren were known for being rather rowdy, whether they were drinking or not. I wondered what problems he might cause before the night ended.

Attempting to hide my nervous curiosity, I returned with his beer. “Here you go,” I said with a smile. “One bottle of Bud.”

He tilted the neck of the bottle toward me with one hand while he reached into his pocket with the other. “Start me a tab.” He handed me a hundred-dollar bill. “That ought to cover it.”

I cringed at the thought of him remaining in the bar long enough to spend a hundred dollars. In less than an hour, the Rebels would begin showing up. While I mentally stammered with how to handle the situation the brass cowbell above the door clanged, announcing another parched throat’s arrival.

A bald man wearing an open leather kutte ducked under the threshold of the doorway and stepped inside. His massive muscles bulged from beneath his unbuttoned vest. Upon seeing Price, he smirked.

Price stood.

They embraced in typical biker fashion. After patting each other on the back and offering niceties in the form of unintelligible grunts, the two men took their seats at the table.

“I’ll have one of what he’s havin’,” Mister Muscles declared.

I had no doubts that the men seated across from one another could start—and finish—some serious trouble. If the Rebels arrived in full-force—and I suspected they would—there would be two Hard Eights to the Rebel’s six. Even so, my bar would likely be a disaster when it was over.

I returned with the bottle of beer. When I reached the table, a sinking feeling nestled into the pit of my stomach. I’d heard Price’s motorcycle enough times to know it would be noticed by the hearing impaired from miles away.

Oddly, I hadn’t heard either of the two men’s motorcycles approaching the bar.

I handed the muscular giant his beer. “Here you go.” I gestured at Price with my eyes. “Your lucky night. He’s buying.”

Acting indifferent, Mister Muscles accepted the beer and turned his attention to Price. I made note of his vest’s two rectangular patches, Sergeant-at-Arms and Brisco. While the two men spoke quietly to one another, I snuck past the bar and to the back door.

I grew up in an extremely secretive home. Brimming with curiosity, I stepped outside.

I meandered to the back of the building and peered toward the street. A shallow paved parking lot separated my bar from the access road that paralleled Highway 10. Short of my Nissan Pathfinder parked behind the building, the lot was empty. I turned around.

A half mile away, a strip mall stretched for as far as the eye could see. I stepped beyond the row of dusty palms that obstructed my view and gazed toward the run-down storefronts.