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DIESEL

T he line outside the bathroom is growing.

Most of the men step outside to take a piss in the wind. But the ladies are getting antsy.

I call over Vicki, the lone female member of my staff. She’s the mother of three bikers, tough as hell, and handles our clientele better than we do. When she actually does her job. And that’s not often. She prefers to fraternize.

“Vicki, can you check on the women’s bathroom?” I ask her.

Vicki stares over the angry mob that’s forming, her red lips clashing with her orange hair. “I’d rather chop the head off a chicken.” She pulls a cigarette out of the pack in her apron pocket and sticks it in her mouth. “I’m going on break.”

Yeah, I should have seen that coming.

I guess it’s on me.

I wander to the end of the bar to get a bead on the situation.

Carla calls out, “Diesel, you gonna get another bathroom in this dump, or are we gonna riot?”

“It’s in the works,” I yell back. Getting a building permit in this Godforsaken county in the middle of nowhere, Florida, is harder than wrangling a hungry alligator.

I’ll take the ‘gator over the permit department. I’ve already bribed them twice.

Them and the cops to avoid them parking by the road on either side of my bar to bust anybody who’s had more than two beers. Which is everybody.

Nobody gives a damn what I pay out to keep this place alive.

I leap over the bar to check out the bathroom door. I know damn well who’s in there. Symphony, part of that bachelorette party.

The other three friends keep looking this way, like they’re anxious she’s sick. The one getting married already asked if there was any way in.

There’s no lock, just a hook and wire situation.

I should have taken care of that by now. God knows I’ve had my share of women holing up in there, sick or crying or dragging some worthless sack of bones in there for a dry hump.

I knock on the door. “Symphony?”

If she answers, I’m not really sure. The band is so loud, you could smash a bottle on the floor and nobody would flinch.

“We already tried that, jackass,” Carla shouts. “I’m about to piss in your vodka.” She elbows her neighbor. “Might improve the taste.”

They get a good laugh.

I hold up a hand to them. “All right, all right. I’ll get this handled.”

The bride chick taps my arm. “Let me talk to her.”

I step back. “Sure.”

She leans close to the door. “Symphony, honey? It’s Bailey. You okay? Did you drink too much?” She looks at me pointedly. “You did a lot of shots.”

Right. Fuck me. I did challenge her. She’s probably dying, and the cops can’t wait to collar me for alcohol poisoning. They’ve hated my bar ever since my brother Merrick and I bought this rat hole.

We intended for it to be a haven for military vets like us, raucous and loud, a place full of music and women, cheap beer and camaraderie.

And we have plenty of that coming through.

But our location attracted the bikers, too. They’re all right, generally speaking, but prone to fights, mostly over women, and having pissing matches over pointless shit.

“Symphony, honey, can you answer us?” Bailey turns to me. “That music is so loud. I can’t tell if she’s saying anything.”

“Have you tried texting her?” I ask.

“No.”

“Do that.”

Bailey unlocks her phone, and I spot a shot of her and Symphony plus one of the other women, heads close together, as her lock screen. It switches in a second to her and a dude in a suit, kissing her cheek. Probably the groom.

Marriage. What a racket. My sister is married to a total loser.

Well, one of my sisters, Greta. The other, Sunny, married a literal prince.

I haven’t met him and don’t plan to. The whole family lost their damn minds a decade ago, and half of them changed their name to Pickle, of all the asinine things.

Kid after kid, cousin after cousin, got sucked into the Pickle machine and work for the family. Merrick and I, who are only ten months apart and graduated from high school in the same year, bailed the minute we were both eighteen. No way were we getting caught up in that. Off to the Army, we went.

Bailey looks up. “Nothing. She’s not answering anything.”

Fuck. She’s passed out. She did all those shots. I fed them to her. Fuck. I knew better. Of course, I did. But something about her made me reckless. I wanted to play with her. Fight with her. Push her up against a wall.

Cool it, asshole. Get her out.

“Back up, ladies,” I tell the line. “I’m going in.”

The women titter and start lifting their phones to video whatever happens.

Bailey frantically waves to her friends, and the three of them form a barrier, pushing the others back so they can’t get a good view.

The door will give easily. I’ve repaired it more than once.

I push on it to figure exactly where the latch is. “Symphony, it’s Diesel,” I shout. “I’m coming in on three.”

I wait a second, then call out, “One, two, THREE.”

My shoulder slams against the door, level with the hook. It pops open. I stumble inside.

For a second, I’m not sure what I’m seeing. There’s a woman in there somewhere, bent over, hand in a white rope-looking thing, walking in circles.

Her red dress is in her mouth, holding it out of the way of whatever it is she’s doing. Her ass is aimed in my direction, glorious and round in the white whatever-it-is.

Does she need help? What happened here?

I reach for her waist to see if I can figure out what I’m dealing with when she shrieks, the dress falling from her teeth.

Before I can do another damn thing, an elbow lands in my gut.

I hold out my hand to block whatever she’s going to do next, and it turns out, it’s a kick. Like a karate move.

Her leg flashes my way, a red heel bright in the light from the hanging bulb.

But my rock skull hip chain is flying from dodging her, and it snags on this white coil she’s got going on. The minute her leg lands somewhere near my waist, she’s hooked.

Jesus H Christ. What the fuck is going on?

Her eyes go wide. It’s been two seconds tops, and she must have just now realized who I am.

“Diesel?”

“Yeah, your friends got worried.”

She tries to back away, but between her high heel and the chain attached to her undergarment, she’s stuck.

“Help?” she asks.

“Hold on.” I try to reach between us, but her leg has got her flush against my hips.

The music suddenly roars, and we both look back.

Bailey steps inside. “I closed the door to avoid people taking pictures—” She stops abruptly when she sees us, her mouth pursed in a tight smile. “Did I interrupt something?” She backs away toward the door.

“No!” Symphony cries. “I’m stuck.”

Bailey clears her throat. “Like a duck with a corkscrew dick?”

“Bailey! His chain. My Spanx.”

Oh, so, that’s what this white thing is. One of those spandex numbers.

Bailey bends over to look. “I see it. There’s a spiked skull hooked into the fabric.” She glances up at me. “Interesting fashion choice.”

“Branding,” I say.

“Oh, right. The Leaky Skull. I don’t usually associate branding with dive bars.”

I let out a long, hissy breath. “Can you get us apart without ripping her clothes?”

“Probably.”

But Bailey is taking her time.

Then she steps away.

What the hell?

“Bailey!” Symphony cries. “Get us out of here!”

“I will. I will.” But Bailey is all smiles. “What was your name again?”

I glare at her.

“Diesel,” Symphony says. “Now, get us free.”

“I will.” But her eyes alight on me. “Diesel what?”

“None of your damn business,” I say.

“I know a Diesel,” she says. “I’ve never met him, actually. Hmm.”

Symphony huffs out a breath. Her leg is still hooked around me. I hold on to her so she doesn’t break an ankle in that shoe.

Her chest is pressed against me. She smells of jasmine and beauty products. Nothing like the women who tend to walk into the Leaky Skull.

She’s decently tall, at least in the heels, and we’re basically junk to junk. Which, the moment I think about it, makes mine twitch.

Stop it , I tell my dick. Do not enter the situation.

But Symphony’s cleavage is heaving in full view. Her arms are wrapped around me, a leg on my waist. If we were up against a wall, I could be fucking her brains out.

“I have a proposition,” Bailey says.

“Oh, no,” Symphony cries. “She’s a killer negotiator. You won’t believe the situations she’s turned around.”

“What do you want?” I ask her.

“I won’t open the door and subject you both to the bar room paparazzi, which will undoubtedly go viral and live in infamy, if you do one simple thing.”

This is why I don’t mess with women. Motherfucking games.

“And what’s that?” I ask her.

“Come to my wedding. With Symphony. She needs an escort.”

“Jesus, Bailey. Make me sound like a loser.” Symphony’s blonde hair in its chaotic updo falls against my shirt as her forehead drops to my chest.

“Why doesn’t she already have a date?” I ask.

“Because I’m a loser,” Symphony says with a groan.

“Knock that off,” Bailey says. “Because she’s too strong and independent for sniveling, insecure man-babies.”

Symphony’s head pops up. “You think so?”

“She’s beautiful, right?” Bailey asks.

“Sure,” I say.

“And smart and capable, present situation notwithstanding.”

Symphony’s head falls to my chest again.

“So, will you do it?” Bailey asks.

I reach for Symphony’s chin to lift her gaze to mine. “What’s your opinion?”

Her eyebrows draw together. “I don’t enjoy blackmailing men for dates.”

“You’re not.” I tilt my head toward her friend. “She is.”

“Just say yes, Diesel,” Bailey says. “Door opening to the cameras in three, two?—”

“Fine, okay,” I say, not that I care if I go viral with a chick’s leg around my waist. There’s probably footage like this out there already. But I don’t want it to happen to her .

“Good,” Bailey says. She bends down and reaches between us. “I’ll unhook this skull. It’s got sharp little pointy parts.”

I feel a tug, then Symphony’s leg drops.

“My arm,” she says.

Bailey jerks on Symphony’s elbow and frees her trapped arm.

“Thank God,” she says. “My muscles were on fire.”

I step back. “You ladies got this now?”

“I still have to pee,” Symphony says. “And this spandex is rolled up into something stronger than steel.”

Her red dress has fallen back over the white garment, but I spot the roll around her waist.

“Let me see it,” I tell her.

Symphony glances over at Bailey, who shrugs.

She lifts the dress, revealing her thighs in white and the roll of the contraption.

I unsnap the top of my holster and break out my Bowie knife, useful for snapping the plastic ties off cases of booze and threatening anyone who needs encouragement to vacate my premises.

Symphony’s eyes get wide. “What are you going to do with that?”

I grasp the stretchy fabric at the base of her thigh and slice through it with a quick clean swipe, right through the roll.

It falls to the floor.

Symphony stands in shock for a moment, then drops her skirt and snatches up the cut fabric, holding it in front of her dress. “How did you do that?”

I sheath the knife and snap the holster closed. “A handy skill with idiot patrons and women who take too long to lose their clothes in my bedroom.”

Both the women drop their jaws.

That got them. “When’s the wedding?” I ask.

Bailey blinks. “Uh, two weeks. Saturday the first. The Victoria House in Miami.”

“What time?”

“Four.”

I open the door, blocking the view of the women waiting outside. “I’ll be there.”

The women try to surge forward, but I close the door behind me.

One of bachelorettes grabs my arm. “Is Symphony okay?”

“She’s fine. Bailey is helping her with a wardrobe malfunction.” I muscle my way back to the bar, still picturing how the fabric fell away from Symphony’s body.

My dick twitches again.

Stand the fuck down.

I hop over the bar, back to my sanctuary. My brother Merrick looks up from where he’s pulling two beers at a time. Jake, the bar back, has the sense to stay at the other end.

“Women trouble?” Merrick asks. “It usually is with you.”

Hell yeah, it was.

Now, it seems I’m going to a goddamn wedding.