Jack of Spades_A Bad Boy Biker Romance Read online

  Jack of Spades

  A Bad Boy Biker Romance

  by Rana Raynes

  © 2018 Rana Raynes

  All rights reserved

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Content Note:

  Happy for now. No cheating. Graphic erotic scenes.

  Also background violence, crime, sexual harassment, smoking, drug use, Nazis. Two point-of-view characters.

  Chapter 1

  Kat

  I wipe down the bar for what must be the thousandth time. Not because it's necessary but because I'm nervous. It's my first Friday on the new job and weekends are the time you really get to know a place. Workdays are just the dry run, it's on the weekend when you find out if you can handle the customers, the atmosphere, the stress levels.

  I've tended bar before but never at a place like the Ace of Spades, which is a small town biker bar and about as picture book as you could imagine: dark wood, neon signs, old plates and posters advertising rock concerts. They even put up an old retired motorcycle for decoration, all shiny and chrome, and people come here to a have a steak or a burger with their beer and play a round of pool. It's a bit of a cave, cozy, homey, dimly lit.

  In short, the Ace is pretty much the exact opposite of the establishments I used to work for, in my old life, back at the city. There I earned my living at upscale places downtown, posh cafés and expensive bars, where business people buy their overpriced coffees and fancy after-work drinks. Accordingly I make a wicked latte art and a fantastic Cosmopolitan but it's unlikely someone will ask for it here.

  At the Ace the challenge is different. I'm supposed to play a part part in the whole narrative of fast bikes, loud music, strong drinks and hot girls. And that's okay I guess. I can live with it. As a bartender you always play a part, you are a friend, a shrink, an object of desire. The Ace is no different from any other place in that regard. Or maybe it is? I already felt the stares during the weekdays, ranging from mild curiosity to something suspiciously akin to lust, and so far I handled them just fine.

  But today, on a Friday night, everyone will be getting real drunk and I expect it to get worse. Maybe it's prejudice but I'm anticipating some of the guys to come over to the bar and hit on me as soon as they're fuelled up on enough liquid courage, and then I'm going to have to turn them down and it will be uncomfortable and awkward. But maybe I'm worrying too much.

  It's not as if I don't know the drill, it's what happens everywhere. Men get attached to the woman who hands them their beer all evening. Often the bar tender is the female person they interact with most, or perhaps even the only one. They laugh with you, flirt, you exchange some banter, and after a while that feels like having a crush, and some drinks later like a good option for a one night stand.

  Needless to say that it isn't. Even if I happened to be interested in someone, which I seriously can't imagine, it would be unprofessional to hook up with a guest. For a truckload of reasons, but most of all because you never know, if they're going to think it's a good idea to come back for more the next evening or the evening after that. And while you work you can't escape them, so it's pretty easy for the potential stalker to corner you. The last thing I need right now is being hounded by a pack of lovestruck and possibly jealous patrons.

  It might happen anyway, even if I don't give them any reason to, and that's why I'm nervous. I'm not a shy person or easily cowed. The problem is that I don't know yet if I can handle this particular crowd. Or rather how to handle them. They're pretty rough looking men, not the sort of fancy-pants customers I'm used to. Somehow that's intimidating but perhaps I'm only buying into clichés at this point. To be honest those lawyers and business types back at my fancy establishments could get quite nasty too, with their frat boy attitudes and general entitlement. They thought they could buy you with a lousy tip or a drink.

  But these guys here, they're different, not just judging from appearance. You can feel a raw kind of energy radiating off them. They're on edge. Their week of manual labour hasn't ground them down, on the contrary, they're here for a bit of fun tonight and I have no idea what kind of fun it will be. Getting blind drunk? Hooking up with a girl? Winning round after round of billiard? Hitting the man next to them with a bar stool before taking the place apart? I really have no clue.

  Amber, my co-worker, must have sensed my nervousness because she is super sweet to me. Even sweeter than usual. And Amber is one of the nicest persons I've ever met.

  “Don't worry,” she tells me. “They all seem tough on the outside but on the inside they're soft as caramel cream. Just wait until they're drunk and get all soppy on you.”

  Which is not exactly reassuring either. I'm not really good with compliments and hookup lines and I tend to get standoffish when I'm uncomfortable. You know, freeze up. Not as in paralyzed. I'm not afraid, I just get very, very cold. It's probably too many bad experiences. I can't believe men when they're telling me I'm beautiful. All I'm hearing is that they want to fuck me.

  And you know how it sometimes is with men, especially when they're drunk. They don't take a no for an answer, and the more bluntly you express yourself the less willing they are to accept your disinterest. You have to walk the fine line between flirting and rejection, where they still have enough hope not to get aggressive. At least that's how women like Amber do it and it works fine for them.

  Watching her work is pretty impressive – she's not just very good at the technical aspect of the job, she also slips on a service personality that's the exact right mixture of forthcoming and cool. I don't know how she does it but she twists everyone around her little finger with amazing ease. I wish I had that talent too, but unfortunately I don't. So I suppose I might not be the ideal bartender. Not in that regard at least. But I've got all the technical skills and I needed a job and so far I prefer working at the Ace of Spades to every other bar job I ever had. Despite my worries so far everyone has been absolutely adorable to me.

  I stop polishing the bar and put down the cloth when Amber comes up with her tray and places five empty glasses she sets down in front of me.

  “Seven this time,” she says before she turns around to scan the room for more thirsty customers.

  It's only half past 9 but this is going to be the third round of Jack and Coke for the guys at the table by the dartboard. They're the most vicious looking of our current customers. A bunch of members of the local motorcycle club. Picture book bikers to match a picture book biker bar. They come in full gear with kuttes, patches, beards, long hair, heavy boots, and tattoos of course. Lots of tattoos. Like straight out of a Hollywood movie or a television show. And they definitely don't look like people to cross. What's more is they call themselves 'The Spades' so I assume they're somehow involved in the business. That's why I'm extra generous with the liquor.

  Amber nods approvingly. She's left the bartending to me tonight, at least as long as I can handle it alone, while she waits tables. Waiting tables is something that we only do as long as it isn't too crowded. When we've got a full house, people are supposed to get their drinks at the bar. But it's early and she seems to like hanging out with the customers, flirt a little, talk, joke. All the things I wish I knew how to do.

  I watch her as she hops from table to table like a social butterfly and I can't deny she's fucking perfect for this place. She looks like an alternative pin-up girl with her high bangs and neat curls, her flawless make-up and great tits. Her tiny high-waisted shorts bring out her bre
athtakingly long legs. Some of their amazing length may be the effect of her high heels. I don't know how she pulls that off, working those long shifts. I think my feet would fall off. But I have to admit it looks great. Even I can't tear my eyes away from the sway of her hips as she walks away from the bar to take another order.

  I'm dressed more pragmatically with my heavy boots and cut-off jeans. They're short but not indecently short. Not like some of the girls' that show off half their butt cheeks. I'm wearing them with tights and an old black Motörhead shirt because that felt appropriate for the Ace. I don't know if the name was really taken from the Motörhead song but I figured even if not, it's a nice reference. It's pretty much the most badass biker-chick outfit I could put together from the contents of my wardrobe. I wasn't really prepared for taking a job in a biker bar. Fortunately I kept some clothes from my teens. I would not have thought I'd need them again. Not after years and years of trying to please my boyfriend and aiming for classy and elegant.

  But here we are.

  It feels like less of a costume than I thought it would. Actually it feels like less of a costume than pretty much every other outfit I wore over the last five years or so. Mike had dress codes for every occasion. He was always worried about coming across as poor or unsophisticated. That's why I own a truckload of formal costumes and conservative cocktail dresses that from now on will probably lead a miserable existence in the depth of my wardrobe and never see the light of day again, now that the thing with Mike is over.

  Mike's my ex. He's an aspiring lawyer on his way to the big money. At least that's how he justified making me play the role of high-class girlfriend with all those ridiculous dresses. Appearance is everything for him. It's always been a 'dress for the job you want'-kind of deal with him. At first that was pretty endearing. I thought he was a man with dreams and coming from a pretty humble background myself I found it charming, to be able to dream so big.

  In retrospect it's hard to imagine I ever felt we were a good match but in the beginning that was what I thought. We met in college and moved in together pretty quickly. I supported him financially for most of the time we knew each other, so he could go to law school and start his career. While he finished university I was working my ass off in several jobs at once to pay the rent, pay for his car, pay for his clothes, fuck, even pay part of his tuition.

  The deal was that he'd return the favour once he started earning money, and pay for me going to school, but it never got to that. There were still student loans. And at first it seemed more important for him to spend the spare money on expensive clothes and a bigger car, then a larger apartment, then fancy furniture for said apartment. He called it investments in our future but they really weren't. It wasn't about me or our future, it was what he wanted. That was all he cared about, making his dreams come true.

  A few month back I found out he cheated on me with a colleague, a cold blonde lawyer, tough, successful, the type I always wanted to become myself, minus the blonde. I couldn't deny they were in a way perfect for each other. How could I when she literally lived the life I had wanted for myself while instead I spent my best years working night shifts in the same posh bars he now goes to with his colleagues for after-work drinks. I'm pretty sure it's where he wooed that co-worker while I was waiting for him at home, ever the dutiful housewife.

  I should have seen that coming I guess. But hindsight is always twenty-twenty.

  Now I'm back to working a bar job and he's enjoying the fruit of my hard labour.

  I've spent weeks trying not to be bitter about it but it's really hard. If we had been married I could have at least sued for my share of the cake instead of getting nothing out of my hard work. But then you should bygones be bygones and move on. No use crying over it forever.

  In an effort to break out of this train of thoughts I put down my rag and fix myself a glass of soda.

  The bar room is slowly filling up and soon I'm going to be too busy to dwell on Mike's misdeeds. I force myself to smile. Positive thinking is key. And this isn't so bad, really.

  Tending bar can be fun. The bass line booming from the speakers gives me a rhythm to move to as I pick up the liquor bottle. The beat runs through me as I pour bourbon over ice, a good two ounces. I tap my foot to the tune while I fill the glasses up with coke. I'll be damned if I don't have fun tonight.

  I've just finished the seven Jack and Cokes when Amber turns up to exchange them for the next order: a couple of beers for the guys playing billiard and two margaritas for the girls hanging out with them.

  “I wonder how long it will take till they're getting into trouble with Danny,” she says while she's putting the drinks on her tray.

  I glance over to the little group to find out why they would get into trouble with whoever Danny is. I can't spot anything out of the ordinary. The men don't seem exactly likeable, they're a little too full of themselves and the way they treat the women is instantly off-putting. But it's still enough within the norm so I don't see how someone would take offence with that. Or at least enough offence to intervene.

  I'm about to ask Amber about it when the door opens and a guy comes in and instantly secures himself my undivided attention.

  He's tall and buff and blond and he's got this kind of swagger that looks like time slows down around him and reality bends a little. It's a bit of a cliché but I forget to breathe while he's walking towards me, as if I'm hypnotized by his movements, how smooth they are and how confident.

  I don't believe in love at first sight but maybe I have to reconsider. There's this nervous flutter in my stomach before he has spoken a single word to me and when he smiles my knees go all weak. Perhaps it's only that I haven't had sex in ages and my hormones are going haywire. Probably it's that. Perfectly normal. He is attractive after all.

  It's not just the whole bad boy vibe. He's also got a pretty face.

  “Would you make me a Jack n' Coke with a bit of lemon, sweetheart?”

  His smile is like sunshine and I'm too stunned to get out more than a curt “Sure” that sounds all but friendly.

  What the fuck is wrong with me? Why is putting up the shields always my first reaction to male attention? He wasn't even paying me a compliment or anything. He just ordered a drink.

  I try to regain my cool while I put the ice in the glass and reach for the bourbon. I can't stop myself from watching him out of the corner of my eye. He's in his early thirties I'd guess, handsome features, the most dazzling smile, and his leather vest sports the logo of the MC and a whole bunch of other patches, most prominent of all a Jack of Spades over his heart. They leave no doubt he belongs with the guys over at the table by the dart board.

  Looks like Jack and Coke is their club beverage, I think as I pour the liquor over the ice. Not one of them has ordered anything else so far. But I'm not going to be snobby about it. At least he prefers it with lemon. That makes it almost a cocktail. Almost classy. It's not exactly a Vodka Martini, shaken not stirred, but close enough.

  I'm being ridiculous, I realize. I hope he doesn't notice me grinning like an idiot about the futile attempts of my brain to fit him into my usual patterns. He doesn't compare to the type I would usually expect to fall for. Which is a good thing I suppose, after the whole Mike disaster my taste in men is in desperate need of a fundamental overhaul.

  But then the rule still applies – dating a customer is out of the question.

  Still, when he's too preoccupied with scanning the room to pay me any attention, I can't help feeling disappointed instead of relieved.

  He pulls out a pack of cigarettes and taps in on the counter. Tap tap tap. Perhaps it's a nervous tick, or he's only savouring the anticipation because he makes no move to take a cigarette out and light it up. And it's not as if anyone would enforce the smoking ban in here. Technically it's not allowed of course but no one here gives a fuck about regulations. At least I haven't seen anyone of the staff ask members of the MC to cut it out. It's perhaps not exactly like in the good old days when wh
en you could smoke where ever you wanted but it conjures up memories. For me mostly movie references but it's still weird. And, in a way, also kind of liberating. Mike would pull a face if he knew of course, he despises smoking. But that makes the disregard for the rule even more appealing. It turns everyone into a bit of a rebel.

  Maybe I have to see my life choices as a pendulum, I muse while cutting a lemon into slices. Mike dragged me too far to one side and now it swings back into the other direction. But hey, it fits the mood. I'm determined to catch up on all the fun things I missed out on because of him. I even asked Amber for a cigarette the other day. I had not smoked since a rebellious phase in my teens but it's something you don't unlearn apparently. At least I didn't embarrass myself by having a coughing fit. It wasn't exactly tasty either but it fulfilled its purpose as another symbolic step away from my old life, making up lost ground.

  So it seems as if I'm also looking at men again, and that's good news. My attachment to Mike it a spell that needs to be broken, and the sooner the better. For years and years he was the only man I wanted. Even when he treated me like trash, I didn't think about cheating on him even once. I'm just wired that way. Even when I was looking at other people, it was more of an aesthetic pleasure than tinged with eroticism. Now I catch myself eyeing Biker Guy and it's definitively not with the kind of interest you have in looking at a piece of art.

  Biker Guy's watching me too now, finally, and although I wished for his attention only moments ago, I realized I'm not yet prepared for it either. My skin is prickling under his gaze and I'm annoyed with my own indecisiveness. The idea of catching a guy's eye is nice but the reality seems too stressful. Looks like I'm not ready yet after all. Maybe I only want to drool and swoon over a man from afar without him noticing me. Baby steps. Now I feel like I have to make choices about how close I want to let him get to me.