Wrong Side of the Tracks by Ashley Zakrzewski

ChapterOne

Isolde O’Cleary despised everything about Saturday nights. Especially those Saturday nights where she spent more time on her bent knees than her sore feet. And not the kind of “knee time” one might assume an unattached woman in a notorious biker bar would be involved in. No, instead of having fun with a hot guy, she was cleaning up puke in the only stall in the men’s bathroom.

At least it wasn’t blood.

She threw her wet rag into the bucket and reached for the stall’s door handle. Except her rubber gloves slipped and she pitched forward. She grabbed the porcelain rim before she did a faceplate into the grimy toilet she’d spent too many hours trying to clean with bleach. Her bare knees hit the uneven concrete floor and pain shot up her thighs. “Shit.”

Why had she thought working here would be a good idea?

Oh, right. In spite of the crappy job, she enjoyed her life and wanted to keep breathing.

“You okay?” The deep male voice penetrated her silent conversation, and her breath caught in her throat.

She glanced back to see Hawk Mosby, one of the most handsome men she’d ever known. As usual, he wore jeans and black boots. His warm brown eyes were crinkled in laughter. At least six-foot-four, he rested a hip against the counter with his arms crossed over his powerfully built chest. Nearby, the men’s room door swung on its rusted hinges.

Perfect. He was the only man in the bar tonight she’d been trying to avoid. The only man who’d made her tighten her apron strings and adjust her cut-off denim shorts before realizing what she’d been doing. His long dark blond hair was tied at the back of his neck, except for the strands that covered one eye, and his black cut covered his black T-shirt. She already knew that the colors on the back of his leather vest announced to the world he was a Devil’s Renegade. And he had a smaller V. President patch on the front of his cut. She just wished she’d known all that before falling into his bed a few weeks ago. If she had known, she would’ve placed him on her off limits shelf with the rest of her young adult mistakes. “Hey.”

Really? That was the best she could do? I am so pathetic.

What was even more pathetic was the fact she wanted to inhale more of his scent which reminded her of freshly mowed grass, pine trees, and bourbon. Not at all what most bikers smelled like. Especially one with tattoos that covered their neck and arms, all the way down to his fingers covered in silver rings.

His brown gaze drilled into hers with the unspoken question, Why did you leave my bed last week, without a word, and not return? “I was wondering if you were still in town.”

“I hope to be leaving soon.” She gave him a tight smile and changed the subject to something gross. Something that wouldn’t remind her of the incredible sex they’d had so many times, for weeks and weeks, she’d stopped counting. “I wouldn’t use this stall for a while. It stinks like puke.”

He tilted his head and offered her a soft smile, as if he recognized her avoidance tactics, and her toes curled in her boots. Honestly, she thought he’d be angrier about how she’d ditched him in that fleabag motel on the interstate.

He shook his head, as if wiping away a memory. “Good thing I just need to wash my hands.”

Her shoulders lowered on her exhale. It was silly, but she was relieved. Relieved he wasn’t mad at her as well as the fact he wasn’t about to drop his pants. She had learned the hard way that men in motorcycle clubs had few boundaries and nothing embarrassed them. She’d lost track of how many times, in the last three months, she’d been cleaning this bathroom while bikers had dropped their leathers to piss in the urinal. She often wondered if they were truly oblivious or wanted her to check out their assets. As if she cared.

Except she had cared about Hawk’s assets because they were good assets to have.

Erotic memories swept through her, and heat warmed her face from her neck to her cheeks. She really needed to get out of there and gripped the stall’s door handle. Except she slipped again and Hawk held out his hand. “Let me help you, Izzy.”

She wriggled her gloved fingers. “You don’t want to do that.”

He chuckled and turned toward the sink to turn on the water. “Hopefully I racked up points for the offer.”

“What kind of points?” She found stability on her feet, took the bucket’s handle, and used her forearm to wipe the sweat off her brow. Then she met his gaze in the mirror. As usual, tendrils of her long red hair had escaped her braiding efforts.

He held her gaze while he washed his hands. His eyes narrowed, and his smile became more... seductive. “The kind of points that add up to you letting me back in your bed tonight.”

His voice was steady and low, as if telling her he was going to change the oil in her car. But the reverb in his tone told her he wanted her naked, in his bed, now. And, of course, more memories besieged her. His powerful thighs spread hers apart as he drove into her. His biceps bulged as he held her up against the wall with her legs wrapped around his waist. The way he held her waist when she straddled him so he could guide her up and down his erection. Even the gentle way he caressed her breasts.

She blinked a few times and then raised an eyebrow, hoping to look stern and decisive. “Considering how many beers you’ve had, you’ll be lucky if you can call yourself an Uber.”

“I promise, darlin’.” He winked at her and dried his hands under the air dryer. “I could drink three times as much and still leave you wanting more in the morning.”

Which she knew, for a fact, to be true.

Before she could respond, the door swung open and a black and white cat slinked in. Vixen, the bar’s feral cat who only showed up when it suited her, wound around Izzy’s black boot-encased ankles and jumped onto the counter. She hissed at Hawk and licked her paws, not caring that she cleaned herself next to the white sink covered with rusty brown stains caused by water with a too-high iron content.

Hawk grabbed the cat by the back of the neck, held her against his chest, and rubbed her head. “I haven’t forgotten, Izzy.”

She swallowed hard. “Forgotten what?”

He bent in close to whisper in her ear, “How much you loved being in my bed, in my arms, wrapped around my naked body. Whatever is going on with you, you can trust me.”

Actually, she couldn’t trust anyone. And what she had to do in the next few weeks, she had to do alone. Before she could think of a sassy response—the kind she was actually terrible at—he kissed her cheek and carried the cat out of the bathroom.

The door closed, and she released a deep breath and sagged against the counter. While Hawk was incredibly sexy and incredible in bed, she had to keep her mind man-free. Too bad she hadn’t made that commitment to herself before arriving in Ravensburg. Getting involved with anyone at this point—especially a sexy, tattooed biker—would cause more damage she couldn’t fix.

Another man in a Devil’s Renegade cut came into the bathroom and she left, carrying the mop in one hand and the full bucket in the other. The bucket of dirty water was heavier than it looked. Since the plastic protector that covered the handle’s wire handle had disappeared long ago, it cut through her gloves and dug into her palms. She shuffled along the dark hallway that only had one working light bulb, shifting the bucket and mop from one hand to the other when the pain became unbearable. If one of her Harvard professors had told her that one day she’d be working in a dive biker bar, deep in the Virginia mountains, she would’ve laughed and laughed and laughed.

She’d not known, while in that pampered enclave, how fragile her situation really was.

Some light came from the other end of the corridor that led into the bar. Music and male voices sounded louder now. That meant she needed to hustle because she and Tish, the owner of the Rebel’s Refuge Biker Bar, were the only two waitresses/bartenders working tonight. And if J.R., their fastidious cook, felt like the food wasn’t being sent out on time, he might quit. Again.

Once at the utility room, she shouldered the swinging door open and entered. It took her a moment to drop the mop and bucket and find the string that turned on the overhead light. She emptied the pail and washed out the rag, rubber gloves, and mop in the large sink stuck between the stacked washer/dryer and the hot water heater. Then she took off her dirty apron and threw it into the washing machine tub.

“Please let there be a clean apron.” Once she washed and dried her hands, and attempted to fix her braid without a mirror, she rummaged through a plastic bin filled with folded laundry. One of the few redeeming things about the bar, other than J.R.’s fabulous food and Tish’s ability to keep everyone’s shit to herself, was that both of her co-workers were clean freaks.

“Thank you, Tish.” She unfolded a black half-apron and tied it around her waist. Then she smoothed down the slim black T-shirt with the bar’s white logo of Death riding a motorcycle printed on front. A loud crash came from the main bar, and she hurried back to help Tish. It was only eleven p.m., and the bar didn’t close until two. She still had hours left to pour, serve, and clean up after the Devil’s Renegades. Hopefully without getting her ass pinched, her breasts squeezed, or seeing Hawk again.

She entered the bar just as a huge man with blood on his face flew through the air in front of her. She backed up against the wall, as far away from the blood as possible. The huge bald man landed on a table, breaking all four of its legs and landing on the floor. The huge bald man, wearing a prospect patch on his vest, pulled himself to his feet, raised his fists in the air, and smiled, showing off two missing front teeth and his broken nose. At least thirty other men in the room roared with laughter and shouted, “Cheery! Cheery! Cheery!”

Isolde hurried over to where Tish stood behind the bar, setting up a long line of shot glasses. While it wasn’t much safer back here, at least the marble bar would take some of the force out of other flying bodies. ”What’s going on?” She had to yell at Tish over the loud male voices.

Tish pointed to the huge bald man who was now in the center of the room, downing a bottle of vodka in one gulp. “Cheery is no longer a prospect,” she yelled back. “He just became a fully patched member of the Devil’s Renegades.”

“Great.”

Tish laughed at the obvious sarcasm in Isolde’s voice and handed her a bottle. Someone had turned up the dark country music, punctuated by droning guitars and heavy fiddle-playing, and she poured tequila into the shot glasses while ignoring Hawk who leaned against the old jukebox on the other side of the room. Lara, a blond woman in a micro black leather mini and red tube top that barely hid her nipples, was trying to talk to him. But he kept his attention on Isolde. When he noticed her glance in his direction, he nodded once.

She hated that she wanted to break the tequila bottle over Lara’s head.

Isolde turned her back on him and tossed the empty bottle into the recycling bin beneath the bar. But not fast enough, apparently, since Tish moved closer and said, “What’s up with you and Hawk Mosby?”

She forced herself not to look back at Hawk. “Just another Saturday night proposition in a dirty men’s room while I held a bucket of vomit.” She’d never shared her sexual adventures with Hawk with anyone and wasn’t about to start now.

Tish laughed as she rinsed glasses in the sink beneath the bar and loaded them into the small dishwasher below. “You know, a quick-and-dirty one-night stand isn’t forbidden. A hot tussle beneath the sheets with a man like Hawk might clear your head and give you clarity on your... uh... situation.”

Her lower stomach cramped at the flash of memory—that moment when Hawk made love to her in the shower. “I doubt anything could give me clarity. Besides, he already has a date.”

“Lara is everyone’s date all the time.” Tish shook her head like Isolde was a child. “Like most of the women here.”

Tish wasn’t wrong. Where the Devil’s Renegades—the most powerful and dangerous outlaw motorcycle club in the mountains of Virginia—roamed, women followed. And the few women in the club tonight were all sweet butts. There were other, less polite terms for the women, but she’d recently been humbled by one of life’s unexpected events and had no desire to denigrate another woman’s choices. Especially since she’d fallen into Hawk’s bed within hours of meeting him. “Still not interested.”

“Not buying it.” Tish handed her a dishrag to wipe down the counter. “Hawk, who’s hot as sin, is only paying attention to you.”

She refused to look in his direction, although she felt the heat of his regard. “Tish—”

“Izzy?” Tish touched her shoulder, and Isolde was grateful Tish remembered to use her nickname instead of her real name. “Don’t overthink this. Sometimes you just gotta go with your heart.” She paused and glanced at Isolde’s shorts. “Or the other, more important part of your body.”

A blush heated her cheeks, and she shot back, “Trusting the wrong man is what got me into this mess in the first place.”

Not wanting to start an argument, she began cleaning. The music shifted to an even darker country rock vibe while Tish flirted with one of the men standing near the end of the bar. Known as Eagle, he was the Devil’s Renegade’s Sergeant-at-Arms. A tall, dark haired man with tattoos on his face and neck. From the way he ogled Tish, he clearly didn’t care about the gold ring he wore on his left ring finger. Then again, it was hard for most men not to notice Tish.

She was taller and slimmer than most women, but her defined arm muscles provided proof she was also stronger than many men. Tish was of Nordic descent with long blond hair braided into elflocks, a type of dreadlocks with moonstones and onyx beads woven in between the tangles and knots. Like Isolde, Tish wore cutoff shorts, the bar’s black logo T-shirt, and a black half-apron. But her friend’s longer legs and fuller breasts gave the outfit a totally different look than Isolde gave off.

A push of men appeared at the bar and the shot glasses emptied in another round of toasting Cheery’s new status. While Tish set up more glasses, and Isolde wiped the bar and poured more tequila, her breath shortened and her vision blurred, two signs of an oncoming panic attack.

They didn’t happen often, but since she’d left home two months ago they were appearing with more frequency. So she forced herself to breathe deeply and focus on small things like the stench of boozy men, rancid tobacco, and J.R.’s deep fried okra. Things like the clinking of glasses, male laughter, and the stickiness between her fingers from pouring endless glasses of tequila. Then her mind shifted to her shabby-yet-safe apartment above the bar where, for a few hours each night, she could pretend her life wasn’t a total shit-show with the finale barreling in her direction, probably riding a black Harley with flames spewing from its silver pipes.

She checked her middle finger, even though she knew it would be bare. She took a few more deep breaths and reminded herself that the ring was safe in her apartment, tucked beneath an old floorboard.

The tang of pine with an undercurrent of whiskey made her look up. Hawk stood in front of her and placed his empty glass on the bar. Without saying a word, she poured him another bourbon and pushed the glass toward him. He took it and, for a moment, their fingers touched. A sudden warmth zinged through her body and she inhaled sharply. She pulled her hand away and met the heat in his brown gaze.

Just as he opened his mouth to speak, Cheery’s large body slid down the bar, knocking her and Hawk back, away from each other. Glasses shattered, bottles flew, and she landed on her ass. Someone turned up the jukebox and shouts filled the room. Her vision blurred and her palms landed on the sticky, slimy floor.

“Shit.” When she looked up, she saw Cheery’s body hanging off the edge of the bar, his head a few inches away from her chest. His face dripped blood, and she scooted back until an agonizing pain ripped through her hand.

Someone drew Cheery’s enormous body away, and Hawk’s concerned face appeared over the bar. He was focused on her hand. When she followed his line of sight, she saw a lot of blood. Nausea hit hard, and it took her a moment to realize a piece of the glass tequila bottle stuck out of her palm.

Hawk jumped over the bar. Before he could kneel next to her, she turned aside and threw up. That’s when she decided she didn’t just despise Saturday nights that included drunken propositions, motorcycle clubs, and dirty bathrooms.

She absolutely hated them.