Maybe that’s why I gravitated to photography; see, document, observe without being noticed.
“Sure, mom,” I answer, and start taking out enough plates and silverware to feed an army, which is essentially what we’re doing.
We’re alone in the clubhouse right now. All the men are either off helping my dad get ready for tomorrow, or they at my dad’s auto repair shop. All the old ladies are back at their lives — Samantha’s at the hospital, Sophia’s back at Twisted Tattoos, the new tattoo parlor she opened not too long ago, and Violet’s out behind the clubhouse, seeing to the distillery. For a moment, I can’t fight back the jealousy.
“And check the keg lines, too. Make sure they’re clean. I ordered a keg of something special for tonight and I don’t want a dirty line making it all funky. It was expensive, too. All those years running this bar and it still blows my mind how much good beer costs.”
“I checked the lines just ten minutes ago. Relax, mom,” I call back as I pull a stack of plates down from a cupboard. “Just focus on those steaks. They smell great, by the way. I’m sure dad will love them. Oh, and what time is the keg supposed to arrive?”
“Delivery guy texted me a bit ago, said it should be here any time now.”
And, just like that, the front door opens and two men come inside.
They look similar, but different; both are tall — they’ve each got at least a foot on me — and one is broad-shouldered, thickly muscled, has tattoos running up and down his arms, and his dark hair shaved close to his head on the sides and longer in the middle, like a faux hawk. The other is slender, also tattooed, he looks wiry, and has a smile that’s both bright and chilling, like a cunning predator. On his right arm, there’s a single tattoo — the logo of the Marine corps. But, though they have different builds, there are enough similarities in their faces that I can tell they’re related.
“You two are right on time,” I say as I take a handful of silverware out of a drawer. “You can bring the keg right in. I’ll sign for it and I can hook it up myself.”
They trade a look, then keep coming forward and pull up two stools to the bar and take a seat right across from me.
“Sorry, beautiful. We aren’t here to deliver a keg,” the broad-shouldered one says.
“We came here to talk,” the other one says. “Your father around, Adella?”
My heart freezes.
Both men are still smiling, but there’s nothing friendly about them.
Still, I’ve learned enough not to show any outward fear. My father raised me right, and if it comes down to it, I won’t go down without a fight. They might take me, hurt me, or whatever, but I’ll give them hell first.
I slide my hand slowly under the counter and wrap my fingers around the handle of a steak knife. While I do so, I put a friendly smile on my face. It’s a smile that disarms most men. Hopefully, it has the same effect on them.
Show no fear, I remind myself. And strike hard if you have to.
If It comes down to it, I’m going for their throats.
“Not at the moment, but he’ll be back any second. You two know what bar you’re in, right?”
And the hell my father will put you through if he finds out you even looked at me or my mom the wrong way.
“Listen, Adella — or can I call you Addie? — we’re not here to cause any trouble, so you can put that knife down,” the wiry one says, holding out his hands in a placating gesture.
How the hell does he know to call me Addie?
I keep my grip on the knife.
“What do you want?” I say. I keep my voice steady. Show no fear.
“A meeting,” the wiry one answers. “But what am I doing forgetting my manners? My name is Slade Cooper. This is my brother Silas. We’re here to peacefully pass on a message and set up a meeting between your father and our uncle. He’s got some business to arrange with your daddy and it concerns those FBI agents who were in here earlier. They are after more than just a fugitive, as I’m sure you’ve figured out. And not handling them could mean a lot of harm comes to your club.”
“I think you two should go.”
The bulky one lifts the bottom hem of his tight-fitting black t-shirt, revealing eight-pack abs covered in a murky array of dark, threatening tattoos — skulls, blood, gore, some of it looks like prison work — and a pistol shoved into the waistband of his jeans.
“We’re not leaving until you agree to pass on our message. Now, my brother wants to do it the polite way but me, well, I’m hoping you put up a little fight. I’d love to see your sweet body shake when I take you into that back room. You would look so good underneath me. So, it’s up to you, beautiful,” Silas says, looking me up and down like I’m a piece of meat. “You get us and our uncle a little face time with your daddy, or you spend some time alone with me.”
A double-clicking metallic pump — the sound of a shotgun getting ready to fire — sounds from the right. In the doorway to the kitchen, with a gun held in her arms and pointed right at Silas and Slade, is my mother.
She’s got an icy look on her face, like she’s ready to kill.
“Get the hell away from my daughter.”
Silas reaches toward the gun at his waist, but I’m quicker, pulling the knife from beneath the counter and holding
