Colt
At just before ten, we entered the Kings’ clubhouse, a wooden warehouse-type structure behind which a large, three-story, condo type building rose. Most of the windows in the big house were dark, but the wooden clubhouse was kinda glowing as light escaped it through the many cracks in the walls. Light and smoke and noise, that is, though as we entered, Ace and Stormi leading the way, it was only about half full.
As far as clubhouse bars go, this one wasn’t the worst. The bar counter and tables are of good quality dark wood, and the leather sofa and two armchairs on a slightly raised podium to the left of the bar looks like it’s been cleaned and polished as early as this morning. The club colors—a golden crown on blue—are hanging behind the sofa, printed on, as far as I can tell, actual blue velvet. Kings MC is printed in gilded letters over it. I gotta agree with the pimply kid at the motel, the effect of it all is more tacky than regal, which I assume is what they’re going for.
But this whole place looks polished, and completely at odds, everything from the tabletops, to the bar counter and little metal accents—all gold-colored—are gleaming. But for all that, the stench of booze, smoke, unwashed bodies, dust, and mud is still hanging over the whole place.
I scan the room, looking at every face as we walk to an empty table chosen by Ace as the one that gives the best view of the rectangular space. None of the faces are Brenda’s. The more optimistic part of me starts spinning the happy tale that she’s not here at all, that she didn’t leave for an old man, that this has all been a misunderstanding. But it’s too soon to listen and believe that voice.
“Monarch’s not here,” Stormi whispers. “He always sits on the leather sofa there.”
No one is sitting there now.
“Do you know anyone here?” I ask. “Someone to ask about Brenda?”
She looks around and shakes her head. “I only came here like twice.”
“We’ll just ask whoever brings our drinks,” Ace says.
A voice of caution is reminding me very vividly of the last time I walked into a bar asking for Brenda. But it turned out good that time, and I’d do it all over again, even if that wasn’t the case. No regrets.
A girl with breasts the size of melons bounces over to our table. I barely glance at her as we order drinks, still scanning the room, still hoping I’ll see Brenda any second now.
“Hey, listen,” Stormi says once we’re done ordering. “A friend of mine used to come here a lot. She’s about your height and she’s got long dark brown hair. Her name’s Brenda. Have you seen her around?”
The woman’s already pretty big eyes widen to comic-book proportions. “You mean Brandy? No she hasn’t been around since she ran out on Monarch. And she shouldn’t come back here either. He’s gonna kill her if she does. He’s announced that more than once these last few months.”
At her words, I feel like this entire building has collapsed on top of me, and it’s on fire to boot.
I’m still trying to catch my breath as the waitress leaves. Blaze is gripping my forearm, shaking it slightly.
“Calm down,” he says. “There’s a long way between threatening something and doing it.”
“And it’s a long way from Brenda’s motel to Vegas,” I counter through gritted teeth. “I’m gonna kill that bastard Monarch. I’m gonna kill him tonight unless I see Brenda walk in here on his arm.”
Every cell of my being wants that outcome, burns for it—to see her with him, safe and sound. A fucked up world and mess of things this is that has me wishing for it. But the alternative is too horrific to consider. Brenda dead? No. I won’t think of that until I see her lifeless body, her eyes no longer shining like the night sky, her soft skin cold. No!
Ace gives me a long, studying look, then excuses himself to take a leak. Blaze is still gripping my arm and I dare not look at Stormi, because the one time I glanced at her since the waitress babbled off Monarch’s plan for Brenda, I saw the same terror in her eyes that I feel in my own chest. Unbearable doesn’t even come close to describing it.
Minutes pass as slowly as fucking years, while we wait for Monarch to show. The place has slowly been filling up and now most of the tables and spaces between are packed with people. But no Monarch and no Brenda. Two fights broke out around the pool table in the back, but they were quickly subdued by four of the most efficient bouncers I’ve ever seen. The guys getting dragged out through some door in the back didn’t even put up much of a fight. Whoever this Monarch is, he seems to be running a pretty tight ship around here.
It’s nearly midnight, and I have managed to convince myself I’d know it if she was dead. I’d feel it or something, somehow I’d know. And I don’t know. In fact, I know she’s alive. So she must be. The more I repeat it in my head, the more real it becomes. Flimsy and transparent, but at least it’s holding my blind rage, hatred, and terror away from the forefront of my thoughts.
A weird sort of silence starts on one end of the space, somewhere to the left of the bar where I can’t see that well because of all the people crowded into this space. But the crowd soon starts parting, and the blaring eighties ballad that’s playing is suddenly the loudest sound.
A tall, gray-haired guy’s round stomach comes into view first. And the next thing I see is Brenda’s serenely smiling face as she walks beside him, holding his arm. Her dress must be made from a piece of the night sky the way it glimmers and shines just like her eyes. The only eyes I want to see. Eyes that don’t see me.
Relief like I’ve never felt it washes over me, leaving no room for other, baser feelings like betrayal, anger, bone-deep disappointment. At least she’s alive. Even if she’s with someone else, at least she’s alive.
But that only lasts for a second after her eyes lock on mine. They’re cloudy and dark, and I can clearly see an outline of a bruise around the left one even though she tried to cover it with makeup. But it’s not that which makes me leap to my feet to get her away from that fat old piece of shit. The stark naked plea in her eyes does that. It’s unburdened by anything else—there’s no guilt there, no regret, only the plea to save her.
My ass slams painfully against the hard chair as Blaze pulls me back down.
“Don’t,” he hisses, gripping my arm so hard I’m gonna have bruises in the shape of his fingers tomorrow.
The fat man leads Brenda all the way to the podium, helping her ascend first before he follows her. Along with five big men, who are clearly there for protection and not because they’re the elite worthy of sharing the king’s throne area, or whatever the fuck that leather sofa’s supposed to be.
A sea of tightly packed men and women is between me and Brenda now, but the podium is high enough that I can see her clearly. And as far as I’m concerned, we’re the only ones in the room. She’s searching for me, her lost pleading eyes straining to find mine, but we’re too far back, she can’t see me.
The fat man turns her around and stands beside her, facing the crowd. His bodyguards make a half-circle wall around them.
Someone turned off the music, and it’s so quiet in here now I can hear men breathing and drops of water from a broken faucet somewhere hitting metal.