Page 2

Crow

F riday and Saturday nights, Patterson’s is extra rowdy. There are a few regulars, civilians, people out for an evening, who don’t mind mingling with leather clad outlaws and who have some connection to the club, but they’re the minority here.

Up until thirty seconds ago, I wished fervently that I hadn’t come, but acquiescing, even in small doses, is often the only thing that will make him shut the fuck up. Raven likes being social. He’s the opposite of me in every way. Ironic, given that we exist in the same body.

I’m the dominant, but it’s exhausting listening to his voice in my head, picking me apart, whining, antagonizing, complaining that he never gets to have any fun. Hence, why I’m here.

I wanted to turn right back around at the press of all these bodies, the loud rock music, the pinball machines getting mashed on in the corners, darts flying, pool balls knocking together, the roar of voices and the higher pitched laughter. The endless flirting and drinks and the lead up to inevitable sex and hangovers. It’s all so useless and so fucking loud.

Pussy. If you hate it so much, then let me out. What’s the problem? It’s not like five minutes is going to kill you. Then again, I just might. Kidding. Ha. I like torturing you, but I’m not suicidal. You die, I die. Unfortunately, we’re a package deal.

Cutting through the noise, the chaos, the overwhelming inundation of scents and humanity, is a set of verdant eyes, a shock of vibrant red hair. She’s tall and rail thin, but she easily balances a loaded tray of drinks that looks like it’s twice her weight. It presses her black ribbed tank tightly across her breasts, slicking the Patterson’s logo down over the small swell. Unlike every other waitress I’ve seen work this place over the past few years, her denim skirt is past knee length. Almost chaste. She’s sporting fire engine red cowboy boots. With her demure makeup and that outfit, she looks more suited to a barn dance than a biker bar.

The outfit is her usual. Which makes her unusual.

Tarynn hasn’t worked here long. Just over a month.

I haven’t been watching her. Not like that, anyway.

Creeping her in our room doesn’t count?

I have not been creeping her. I might have spent a few hours looking her up. She doesn’t have any socials. I found scant information, mostly on Bill Nightengale, her father. Hart is a small city and Nightengale is an unusual last name. It didn’t take much to link them.

The church’s website is almost obscenely open. There she was, smiling prettily in photos—she’s been at every church function, helping out alongside her parents. Not just holidays, but soup kitchens, fundraisers, camps for kids in the summer, and mission trips to Seattle and down in Latin America.

After the first shift, I was intrigued. She seemed too bright, too natural, too sweet and angelic to be working here. I wanted to know what the fuck she was doing in a place like this.

I didn’t ask Wizard, with his incredible hacking skills, to find out for me. I didn’t go and beg Gunner for tips on stalking a person, as he did with his old lady for years before he finally pulled his head out of his ass and got brave enough to talk to her.

I didn’t ask any of my club brothers for a favor.

I told myself to stay away.

A woman like her would never, should never, get involved with someone like me.

Or me! We’re a fucked up team whether you like it or not. That’s right. Team. Let me shout it out for you since you so often forget. Or spell it. Want me to spell it? T to the E to the A to the M. Put it all together and what do you have?

“Fuck off,” I mutter under my breath.

Rude.

I haven’t blinked. At any second, I expected that Tarynn would look away. The spell would be broken, and she’d continue serving drinks. I’d stay for another few minutes, then get the fuck out of here, back to the freedom of my bike, and the wide open, silent night.

She saw me mouth those words. She’s no good at reading lips. She takes a step forward, forcing a shaky smile, and walks in my direction. Did she think I called her? Fuck off could pass for come here.

Shit.

Oooh, you’re going to have to talk to her. I can’t wait to see how you mess this up. Hold on! Dodge away or something so she has to catch up. I need time to make popcorn for the show.

I brace myself, leaning up against the wall, assuming the same bored, casual, but also threatening stance. My arms remain crossed over my chest like a shield. I might be still to the point of invisible, but my insides are squirming and wild.

Just let me take over. I might be annoying, and you might hate me always up in your head, but if you let me handle this, I can charm her. Women love me. Just one more reason I’m the better personality.

Abruptly, Tarynn changes directions.

I breathe a sigh of relief that feels half like acid poured over my insides. I had no idea what I’d say to her, but now that I’ve lost my chance, I’m disappointed.

How quaint. You okay there, sweetheart?

Some days, I wish I could bash my own skull into the wall. It would be worth it, just to get Raven to shut the fuck up.

So dramatic. She’s just dropping off her drinks, so the others don’t get pissed that she’s chatting you up while they’re waiting there, parched as fuck.

For once, Raven is right. Tarynn quickly empties her tray, smiling and nodding at some of my club brothers and the club whores hanging all over them on the far side of the bar. A few of them are here with their old ladies. They’re friendlier to Tarynn, already secure in their position. Her smiles aren’t quite so forced with them. She accepts their tips, tucking them into the small black apron she wears tied at her hips.

When she turns, her green eyes pin me like a spotlight, highlighting my entire body for the whole bar to see. I know that’s absurd. No one’s looking at me, but perspiration breaks out at my temples and the back of my neck itches.

She starts towards me, tray dangling at her side.

Weeks, I’ve been coming here, and she hasn’t noticed me once. Hasn’t come over to take my drink order. Hasn’t spared me more than a passing glance. Why is she still walking this way?

Probably because you’re staring at her and it’s like a come hither instruction, dumbass. You’re aware that she’s a waitress and you’re standing over here looking thirsty . You want to break that sweet, innocent little body in. She’s a good girl. Her minister daddy probably has never let her date. She’s done all the churchy stuff, the do-gooder shit. I bet she’s never even taken a cock.

I’d be willing to punch myself in the face right now, if it wouldn’t look so strange.

I suck in a breath as she nears, and it’s full of her. No strong perfume. Nothing discernable except clean laundry and fresh air. My lungs clench, making it difficult to breathe as her soft pink lips slowly draw into a smile that mesmerizes me.

“Can I get you a drink?”

“I… don’t drink.” Her smile falters at my gruff tone. My gut twists with violent self-recrimination. I don’t even need Raven to fill me in on what an asshole I am. “When I’m riding.” There was such a long, awkward pause between words that I’m surprised she links them together.

“Right, since you’re riding. That’s smart.” She tucks a strand of her long, red hair behind her ear. It’s such an intriguing color. Natural and gorgeous, like the rest of her. I don’t think she’s even wearing makeup.

“Can I get you something else?” she soldiers on despite the long silence.

In all the times I’ve come here, no one has ever approached me. I suppose I’m what anyone with good sense would consider frightening. My whole demeanor puts people off. It’s just easier that way. Easier to be silent and scary. It’s less taxing than trying to put on a show of being normal.

“Grilled cheese.”

She frowns. “We um… I don’t think we… don’t have that at night. Just bar food. Fries, wings, pizza.”

I can’t stop my wince, and seeing that, she makes an effort to be kind. It’s far more than most people have ever done. You prove you’re a freak once, and the world is ever unmerciful.

“Tell you what, I’ll go ask in the kitchen. It’s not like we don’t have the stuff. We serve it during the day. It’s probably not a big deal.”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s too much trouble.”

Her bright smile is back. It hits me straight in the dick. “It’s no trouble at all.”

I stare at her until she grasps her tray and flits off, walking light and graceful in those cowboy boots. As soon as she’s gone, I close my eyes and use the wall for an extra brace of support. I’m ready for a full scale attack in my head, but nothing happens. Raven is oddly silent. It’s not because he’s a nice person. He’s just saving this up for later.

It’s not just because I have my bike here that I’m not drinking. I just don’t. Ever. When my control slips, Raven can push me aside and take over. I’m the dominant for a reason. Raven can’t be trusted. I let him out sometimes, for a short time, when it’s safe and there’s no one else around. If I didn’t give over sometimes, he’d literally push me to insanity.

Speaking of insanity, the club’s twins, Decay and Grave, were standing close enough to me to witness the whole cringeworthy exchange. They look at me now like Raven is pushing his way out of my body in a very physical sense, causing me to grow extra limbs and a head before that second persona splits apart in a scene from any alien movie.

That would be fun. Can we try it sometime?

Grave opens his mouth to use me as a punching bag, but I stare him down, clearly projecting my intention to grab a pool cue, break it in half, and impale him and his brother, one on each end, stick them to a wall, and use their balls for dart practice. They might be scary enough in their own right—they shine in moments of real violence, but they turn their attention gladly back to the club whores swarming around them.

A few feet away, Wizard entices Bullet and Smoke to the pinball machines. The irony of his name almost makes my lips twitch, but I don’t do things like smile.

Now that Raven is back in my head, he’s vocal in a big way.

Speaking of freaks and creeps, you think that a nice girl like Tarynn would ever accept us? Me, maybe. I’m the funny one. I don’t have the personality of a crusty cum sock. You suck. I, on the other hand, have an actual sense of humor. Enough to appreciate just how much you want her and have since you saw her weeks ago. If you didn’t have a stick wedged so far up your ass that even I can feel it up here in our brain, maybe you’d stand a chance.

I wish with all my energy, that Raven would fuck off exceptionally hard.

He doesn’t get the memo. As per fucking usual.

I’m not going to fuck off hard, but I’ll fuck you hard, sweetheart. You could use it. People are starting to think you’re in dire need of prunes and fiber. Your constipated face matches your personality. Do you enjoy being hated by everyone? Being the strong, silent type? That’s so overrated. A scary biker? Like that’s not already taken at the club. You’re a stereotype. You have zero winning qualities. It’s unfair that you get to be the dominant. You’re earning a terrible name for the both of us.

Tarynn appears from the back, walking through the saloon style doors, a plate on her tray and a glass of water carefully balanced. She picks her way through the maze of bodies. By the time she walks up to me, I have myself composed enough that I can keep my face neutral.

The grilled cheese that she’s offering looks amazing, a double stacker with bacon and tomatoes sticking out of the gooey, leaking cheesy mess between the crusts. There are even pickles on the side and a small white bowl of buffalo dipping sauce.

I’m so flustered that all I can do is pull out my wallet and grab a handful of bills without looking at what they are.

“Oh,” she whispers, soft pink appearing on her cheekbones. The extra color highlights her light freckles and her massive eyes, all of it adorable in her heart shaped face. “Everyone with the club has a tab here. No need to pay me. It’s covered.”

“For you,” I grunt like a caveman. I snatch the plate and the water, down everything in the glass, and set it back down on her tray.

Her eyes widen in astonishment. “That’s over a hundred dollars. I can’t take that.”

Classic. Just what I was talking about.

My stomach churns. I take a bite of the sandwich, shoving it into my mouth to prevent anything stupid from coming out, and nearly groan at the flavor explosion. I’m not particular about food, but this? Oh my god.

I hope that she’ll leave, just to spare me further embarrassment, but she doesn’t. She watches me eat, her eyes locked on my face in something close to fascination. Not because she thinks I’m a freakshow. I can tell she doesn’t. She’s too nice to go there.

“You have incredible hair,” she blurts. A slow, red hue creeps up her neck.

Christ, she’s as bad at this as you are. You two should get married. Have the world’s most awkward children. Wait. That will never happen. You’d have to tell her about me and then she’d run so far and so fast.

“I’m sorry.” She grasps her tray so hard her knuckles turn white. “That’s embarrassing. I mean, I always wanted to go to hair school, so I look at hair differently. Men don’t usually wear theirs so long. And yours is so thick.”

It’s not the only thick thing we’re sporting, sweetheart.

If I wasn’t eating the world’s most delicious sandwich, I’d walk gut first into something hard, just to piss Raven off.

“Why don’t you?” I murmur between bites. “Go to hair school?”

“Because I’m in pre-med.” It’s the way she says it, like the words have a foul taste to them, that tells me she hates it. Her face stays soft and kind. “My parents set up an education fund for me.”

“It has limited options?”

“No, I suppose it didn’t really. I could have used it for hair school, but they wanted me to do something practical. Something I can support myself on, not learning to be a hair stylist.”

“Is hair not practical?”

“They see it the same way as any form of art. I’d be a starving artist, in their minds.”

“Only three things are certain in life.”

Her lips twitch, and I find that I very much want to make her smile. My whole next breath hinges on it.

“Death and taxes.”

“And people who need haircuts,” I add, after swallowing.

She laughs. The sound goes straight to my dick again. My jeans are what I would call artistically tight. I have them tucked down into my heavy boots. I focus on bacon and cheese, dipping the last of the crust in buffalo sauce, so that my dick doesn’t inflate further and tent my pants.

“I’m an artist. I haven’t starved yet.”

“Seriously? You paint?” she asks excitedly.

“I tattoo.” Her lips part like she wants to say something, but can’t quite get there. “You should tell your parents you don’t want to go to med school. Life is too short to waste it doing something you hate.”

Excuse me, what? Did you really just stick your foot in it? Who are you to be giving advice, Mr. Has His Life Together. FUCKING NOT.

Her brows crash together. It looks like she wants to say something, but she just bites down on her lower lip, leaving a red indent that I want to match perfectly with my teeth.

She’s probably never been kissed, but we could teach her. She’d like it.

“I wouldn’t be doing med school if some part of me didn’t want to be. Hair can just be a hobby.” She circles the toe of her boot on the hardwood floor, digging it in. Her head snaps up and she surveys the bar. “It’s busy tonight, though and someone called in sick. I’m sorry, I should go.”

I should just let her go, but for some reason, I find myself standing there with a plate of pickles, unable to control my mouth. “Fight for yourself. No one else is going to do it.”

Her eyes travel down to the pickle spear I’m not going to eat. She takes the plate from my hand and sets it down on her tray. I watch in rapt fascination as she picks up the pickle and bites down on it. She doesn’t say anything, but she does nod at me before she turns.

Like she’ll consider it.

Like maybe she didn’t entirely hate this interaction.

Like maybe if I come in here again sometime, she’d be okay with it if I tried to talk to her.

As per usual, Raven has the last word.

Get real, asshole. It’s just me and you for life. Two sad, sorry, single beings sharing one body in a fucked up brotherhood. Enjoy being alone, dick breath. As long as you’re the dominant, it’s our sad and sorry fate.