The Book of Kings, page 3
College was on my agenda, but when a gap year after high school turned into two, my dreams of going faded. It was then that I realized the reason I couldn’t ever decide on a major was largely because I hadn't really experienced anything in life living under my dad’s watchful eye. That is until the opportunity to earn a little cash as a night-shift aid at the hospital fell into my lap. It was then that I discovered, I love taking care of people on the worst days of their lives.
I realize that sounds messed up, but being able to support them when everything else is falling apart meant something to me. And the adrenaline that came with it was exhilarating. I had planned to go to nursing school, but then Dad got sick. And what I thought would be a quick leave of absence turned into a four-year stint of caring for him instead. Looking back, I don’t regret our days together, but it would have been helpful to have finished college. There aren’t many options when you’re trying to get a job and all you have to show them is a high school diploma.
"Is everything as expected?" Rhonda, my new landlord, asks, popping her head in the propped-open door.
"I haven’t really looked around yet, but I will," I say, flashing her the best smile I can muster. Grace is lecturing me in my ear, and Rhonda is staring at me, her brow furrowed likely at the massive collection of bags and boxes strewn around.
"Okay, well, I need to go over a few things… if you have a minute." Her scowl deepens, clueing me in that I should hang up with Grace. I don’t need this lady's bullshit right now, especially since she’s the one that sold me a lemon. Trust me, she doesn’t want me to mark this paper with every single disgusting thing I’ve seen today. I promise her, I won’t hold back.
Throwing a finger up in the air toward Rhonda, I end my call, run my hands over my now sweat-soaked tank top, and make my way to the door. I have to step over several items on my trek. I didn’t let the goons carrying my stuff do anything other than drop it right inside the door.
"I’ll fill out the paper, I promise. I just wanted to get everything in here first."
"I was just going to say that we are glad to have you here. If you need anything after hours, you can call the number on the top of the leasing agreement," she explains, glancing out of the door behind her nervously.
"Okay, I’m sure I won’t. I don’t need much, but thanks."
"A word of advice, since you’re a cute little thing—don’t stay out late, and lock your doors at all times."
Is she for real? This is the same woman that I’m sure watched a group of men strong-arm me into carrying my shit to my apartment and never intervened.
"Uh, okay. Thanks?" I don’t know how to respond to her when the advice she’s giving is not only unwelcome but is rich coming from her.
"I’ll leave you to it," Rhonda says, turning to leave. "Lock the door, Nina."
Before she gets to the edge of the stairs, I stop her. "Actually, I do have a question. Do you know where people go for a bite to eat close by?" I don’t tell her I need a job instead of a sandwich, or that waitressing is basically all I’m qualified for. It's a little embarrassing, honestly, and it feels like something my landlord wouldn’t necessarily appreciate.
"Try The Factory," she says blankly. "Good food, better whiskey." With that, she skips down the steps, noticeably maneuvering around the stray needles and trash, completely unbothered.
After a morning of driving and arguing with some unwanted helpers, my stomach growls in protest. Maybe it’s my lack of furniture or just that these walls are a sounding board, but either way the bottom line stands—I’m hungry. Maybe I could use a sandwich after all. And a drink—or three.
Looking around the pile of my belongings, I spot my purple duffle bag. It’s the one I packed with essentials—a change of clothes, stuff to bathe with, and, most importantly, my makeup bag. I rummage through it in search of soap, a hairbrush, and the first outfit I find. Should I clean the shower before I use it? Probably. Am I going to? Absolutely not.
Reaching behind the curtain, I turn the knob and run my fingers under the water, testing the temperature. Confirming it's one notch below melting my skin off, I step over the ledge of the bathtub and into the spray. I rinse off the hard work I put in today, rubbing myself clean with a bar of soap. But more than that, I rinse off months of neglecting what my heart wanted—a fresh start, a new beginning, and a life that is, for once, only for me.
Noting the third growl from my belly in less than ten minutes, I rinse the conditioner from my long, blonde locks and towel off quickly. Having laid out my outfit on the ledge of the sink, I slip into a denim skirt, a black halter, and a pair of flip-flops. Before I even consider leaving, I add a few coats of mascara and search for my purse.
Finding it, along with my favorite sheer peach lip gloss, I untwist the cap and glide it over my lips. Popping them in the mirror and double-checking that my teeth aren’t suddenly a shiny orange hue, I make my way to the door disregarding the very little unpacking I’ve accomplished. I make my way out, carefully locking the door behind me and heading down the steps.
Exiting the Commons, I expect to find the road that leads here brimming with houses that scream welcome to small-town America. But instead, each block reveals a new and possibly worse set of dilapidated homes. Paint chips from siding, plants are withered or dead, and don’t get me started on how many of these residences have a broken-down car in the driveway.
I’ve only been walking a few blocks when I see The Factory come into view. From the outside, it’s not that remarkable. There’s a simple round wooden sign hanging from the corner jutting out of what looks to be an iron pole. There's also a large black door, and windows that appear to have some sort of covering that inhibits me from seeing inside from across the street. The sidewalk's empty, but the parking lot is full… of motorcycles. Just my luck.
I can’t help but notice the one I saw earlier today. The one that has handlebars so high they might be as tall as me if I stood right next to it. The one that’s black but has tiny flecks of something so close to glitter it’s almost comical the way it sparkles. The bike that belongs to the god-like one—the one who thinks he is, and might be, important.
The light turns green, and the walking symbol illuminates, pulling me forward toward the one place I’m now not sure I want to go. Furthering my reluctance, as my toes hit the pavement stepping into the road, the door swings open and out walks Mr. Lady Killer himself. He doesn’t notice me at first, but it only takes a second before his head whips in my direction. His pace falters briefly, long enough for me to notice his smoldering smirk as he takes the final drag of a cigarette. But then he’s off, saying something I can’t make out to the goons he’s with and hopping onto his bike only to peel out of the lot.
A wave of disappointment settles in my belly that's foreign to me. There’s absolutely nothing about him that qualifies as my usual type, but I’m not blind, and something about the way he’s just a little out of my reach intrigues me. It’s like playing with fire—I know I shouldn’t toy with it, but the flame beckons me anyway.
I finish crossing the street and pull at a large wooden handle that runs parallel to the door. The view that rolls out before me is a tad unexpected. I guess I didn’t associate him with a place this put together. There’s a pool table, a trendy exposed-brick wall lined with tables, and a beautiful cherry wood bar. Sure, it’s still a tavern of sorts, but I expected it to be a bar that's more dirty dive than classic corner.
Approaching the counter and sliding onto one of the leather stools, I notice a beautiful brunette bouncing around between tables. The place is packed, and it looks like she’s working alone, which sends a hopeful spark into my brain. Maybe she does need help. I didn’t see a sign noting that they were hiring out front, but that doesn’t really mean anything. I’ve worked at enough restaurants and bars as I tried to make ends meet and pay medical bills to know that reliable staff members are hard to come by.
"I’ll be with ya in a minute. Just gotta deliver this to that table," she hollers at me, pointing her finger toward a high top with more of the leathered-up groupies. These look a little different in that they don’t have the same symbol or words on their vests. There’s only one word, prospect, hanging low on their backs. They eye me suspiciously when my stare lingers just a hair too long. Spinning back to the bar to wait patiently, I take in the array of spirits lined up in front of a mirrored backdrop. There must be a hundred different options of liquor from Weller to a Macallan Twenty, all priced well above what I can afford.
"Sorry about that, it’s not usually this busy," the brunette says, shimmying behind the bar and over to where I’m sitting. "I don’t think I’ve seen you before. Just passing through?" Her eyebrow quirks up on one side.
"Actually, no. Just moved to town. I’m starving, and The Factory came recommended."
"Oh, uh…" The waitress narrows her eyes at me for a second like she’s assessing me. "I’ll give you a minute to look over our menu. Something to drink?"
"What do you recommend for a girl trying to start over, with no friends in town, and who hasn’t eaten all day?" I’m getting the sense that people don’t move to Shelby often. This is my way of easing her mind without giving away too much about my life.
"Ha. Not anything back here on an empty stomach. Lock would have a coronary. How bout I grab you a burger and fries?"
"I don’t know who Lock is, but he sounds like a party pooper," I say, leaning toward her as we both stifle a laugh. "It’s probably good advice though. A burger sounds great—with cheese, ketchup, and mayo, please."
"Done! And you have no idea." She rolls her eyes and laughs to herself. Walking to a screen on her way to refill a drink for a paunchy man with a graying beard, she punches in my order. She whispers something to him, and they both crack a smile in my direction. Opting not to look too eager for her friendship, I tug my phone out of my purse and type out a quick text to Grace since I never called her back.
Started to unpack, but my stomach cried out in protest. Currently sitting in a corner bar, hoping for a burger and a bartending job.
In a matter of seconds, my phone dings with a reply.
Grace
Glad you’re settling in, even if I don’t understand the need to move. Enjoy your food and call me when you get back to the apartment.
"I ordered these for myself, but it doesn’t look like I’m gonna eat them anytime soon, enjoy while you wait for your food." The bartender comes back and slides a basket of curly fries in front of me before continuing. "Now about that drin—you’ve got to be fucking kidding me."
Turning to see what’s got her dropping f-bombs, a group of fifteen people pile in off of what looks like a tour bus. "Damn," I say to myself, glancing around looking for an opportunity to help. "Wait. Is that a Bluebird POS system?" I ask quickly, pointing at the ordering screen behind the bar.
"Uh, yeah. Why?"
"Look, this might be presumptuous of me, but it seems like you’re the only one working, and I happen to need a job. I was going to work my way up to this conversation, but carpe diem and all that jazz."
"What are you saying, New Girl?" I can’t help but laugh to myself at the nickname. Why does everyone keep calling me that?
"I, uh, sorry. I know how to work that system. I’ve used it before, and I’m a good bartender. How about I slide back there, and you can work the tables?" I rush out, glancing back at the large party of people moving high-tops to form one long one in the center of the room.
"I don’t know if that’s a good idea," she says at the same time the large party bellows about being in a hurry and getting someone to take their order. "On second thought, they leave me to do everything, so I guess... you’re hired. At least for right now." I stand and round the bar before she even finishes her sentence.
"Thank you! Oh, and my name's Nina, by the way. Now, go! I got this covered." I give her a hip bump and start clearing empty glasses that were left while she jogs to the massive table. I also manage to stuff one giant handful of fries into my mouth while I put the basket she gave me next to the POS. I’m not throwing those away. My dinner will just be more of a slow graze now, in between pouring drinks.
Approaching the man at the end of the bar with the gray beard, I grab the bottle I saw her hold not much earlier and ask, "Want another?"
He eyes me suspiciously, not hiding the thorough once-over he takes from my pink-painted toenails to the top of my head. "You’ve got lady balls, kid. Ya know that?" He chuckles softly.
"Come again?" My eyes pop out at his use of the word balls.
"You just waltzed in here lookin' like you fell off the train to California and snagged yourself a job in less time than it takes to make a burger. I’m impressed."
I can’t stop the laugh that rips out of me. He reminds me of my dad’s old police buddies—calling it like he sees it and not afraid to say lady and balls in the same sentence.
"Well, I mean... she did need help. And wait till you see me flip some bottles around."
He chuckles some more, winks, then taps a single finger to his glass, which I interpret as, fill er up. I wonder to myself if he was around when Dad lived here. The old man and his funny personality fit perfectly into the image that I always pictured when he told stories about the people here.
I pour two fingers into his glass and turn to enter it into the system, but the brunette whizzes past me and starts clacking away on the machine. "What do you need?"
"Five lights, an ultra, one diet, and three waters. Oh, and twenty shots of something called a green tea…"
"Got it." I pull the beers from the fridge below the bar three at a time and snag the opener from her back pocket, popping tops before she can turn around. Then, I line up two rows of ten shot glasses on the counter, grab two shakers and fill them with ice, before reaching for the Irish whiskey. It doesn’t take but a second to add the peach schnapps, sweet and sour mix, and a splash of lemon lime soda to each one. I put toppers on and lift a shaker in each hand, moving my arms up and down above my head for flare. I’m creating quite a spectacle, and the crowd is loving it. But just as I’m about to strain the shots into the glasses, the door swings open with a crack.
Without looking up, I assume the wind must have taken it because there are no footsteps to be heard. That is, until a booming voice echoes out across the room.
"What the fuck, Key?"
The brunette scurries to my side, grabbing one of the shakers and helping me pour them. She doesn’t acknowledge who I can now see is the infamous lady-killer from the Commons. Instead, she works to place shots onto trays and deliver them to the guests.
Since she isn’t acknowledging him, neither do I. Instead, I practically lunge for the only man I sorta know here—he’s the only person I've spoken to besides the brunette, and the only one I’ve had a brief foray into what kind of balls I have with.
"Are you good here?" I ask, suddenly short of breath from having the now distant figure sharing my airspace.
"I’m good." He laughs so faintly it’s almost a whisper. "And I’d like to change what I said before… you don’t just have lady balls, it seems you know how to shake 'em too."
4
Lock
The guys and I spent maybe twenty minutes at the pool table devising a plan to find Billy. It shouldn't be all that hard considering there's roughly three places he's likely to go after a bender, and two of them are here in Shelby. It took two beers and half a cigarette before we were walking out the door toward the first of only three motels within a few-mile radius that the bastard can afford. Billy may think he's tough enough to beat his wife, but he's a pussy when it comes to leaving the only town he's ever known. That's his usual M.O.—pound a half-dozen drinks, take his hatred for himself out on Lizzie, then head "out of town" a whole ten minutes from here in one direction or another. A good thing for us. A bad move for him.
What wasn't good was the fact that I got a text a mile into our ride that Key had a tourist behind my fucking bar. A prospect who was left behind filled me in on Keylee's little secret. I broke every traffic law to get back here. Flying through red lights, I sped through the streets, only to park my bike and run inside… then freeze completely.
The person behind the counter isn't a tourist. It's Shelby's newest attitude problem. I caught a glimpse of her as she walked into The Factory before I took off, and every fiber of my being told me to stop and talk to her. But, as always, I had shit to deal with. It took everything in me not to send the boys on without me. I would have much rather interrogated our new resident about why someone like her would camp out at one of our shittiest and most dangerous spots in town. But business always comes first. Except when my bar is involved. Turns out… I might still get my shot.
My justification for not stopping before was that she was headed into The Factory. The Blood Kings may not be harmless ourselves, but not one person outside of our club would lay a finger on someone inside my bar. They know the kind of customer service they'd receive if they did. There's no doubt in my mind that she's safest here. Safe from everyone but me.
"I said what the fuck, Key," I repeat, walking to my sister. My eyes never leave the girl with long blonde hair and a too-short skirt, slinging bottles and pretending not to see me.
"Jesus, Lock, relax. She's pouring drinks, not swearing in. I was swamped and alone—again, may I add—and she volunteered to help me out. It's not a big deal." She continues dropping shot glasses of something that smells like a unicorn's ass on the table of a bunch of twenty-somethings probably fresh out of college and on their way through town.
"Feels like a pretty big fucking deal to me," I say, my voice hushed.
She rolls her eyes and drops the last glass before throwing her tray under her arm and walking past me. Grabbing her wrist, I halt her movement, and she huffs in response.
