The only awkward moment was when Kimber arrived, shortly after I put Noah to bed. She marched down the stairs smiling brightly, but when they saw her, Maggs and Dancer got funny looks on their faces. Whatever they knew about her, Em and Marie clearly weren’t aware of it.
“Hi, I’m Kimber,” my friend said, setting a blender on the counter. She surveyed the room and crossed her arms, planting herself firmly. “Let’s get this over with. I used to work at The Line and I screwed Ruger and a lot of other guys. Mostly customers, but a few from the club. Anything else we need to talk about, or does that about cover it?”
“Holy crap,” Em said, eyes wide. “You make a hell of an entrance.”
“It would’ve been better if I could carry the vodka and mix with me in one trip with the blender,” Kimber replied seriously. “Now—you girls into huckleberry margaritas? I’m kind of a margarita artist, or so I’ve heard. We can hang out and have a great time and drink together if you like. Or you can take turns calling me a whore, which is a lot less fun for all of us, but still doable. Either way, I’m not leaving, so let’s process and move on.”
“You screw Bolt, Horse, or Bam Bam?” Em asked, clearly fascinated. The tension in the air suddenly grew heavy.
Kimber shook her head.
“Nope,” she said. “Don’t even know who Horse is. Met Bolt and Bam Bam a few times, but never got close to them. They’re whipped—at least that’s what I heard.”
“Like the sound of that,” Dancer murmured, a slow smile crossing her lips. “We’ll just skip the whore thing, then?”
The tension broke, and Kimber demonstrated that she was, indeed, something of a margarita artist.
Now it was nearly midnight and we’d progressed past blender drinks. Kimber had been queen of the party girls in high school, and clearly she hadn’t given up her title entirely.
“You have to understand,” she said, her voice grave as we sat in a circle around Ruger’s deck table. “I love being a mom. But I need to get out sometimes, you know? I had no idea their little bodies held so many fluids!”
Dancer started laughing so hard she almost fell out of her chair.
“Know the feeling,” she gasped. “Sometimes it starts spraying out and out and out and you’d think they’d deflate or something!”
I gave Kimber a loud high five, happy she had a kid she loved and even happier mine was mostly past the spraying phase.
“That’s why I’m not having babies anytime soon,” Em declared. “Lose your freedom and your mind, apparently. You’re pathetic, all of you.”
“Gotta have sex first to have a kid,” Marie said, waggling her eyebrows dramatically as she poked Em’s shoulder. “I keep telling you, we need to just go out and get you laid. Get it over with, punch that V-card.”
“If I get ten punches, do I get a free pizza?” Em asked her. “Seriously, I don’t know why I’m waiting at this point.”
“Well, don’t bother waiting for Painter,” Maggs said, rolling her eyes. “He’s had his full patch for three months now. He hasn’t manned up yet, it’s not gonna happen.”
Em frowned.
“It’s not like that,” she said, shaking her head. “I was into him, okay? Liked him a lot, actually. But he blew it. He cares more about not pissing off my dad than being with me.”
“To be fair, your dad has a bit of a reputation,” Dancer said, her voice dry. “He shot your last boyfriend. Thinking about that’s gotta mess with a man’s head.”
I looked at Em with new interest, trying to remember who her dad was. Oh, yeah. Her dad was Picnic. Picnic? What kind of name was that? Almost as weird as Horse …
“What the hell is up with all these names?” I demanded abruptly, swaying in my seat. They all looked at me blankly. “Picnic? Bam Bam? Horse?!? Who names their baby Horse? And what the hell is Ruger all about? His name is Jesse, for God’s sake. I met his mom and she told me.”
They all burst out laughing.
“What’s so funny?” I asked, feeling put out. It was a serious question.
“You thought they were real names!” Marie asked, losing it again. “It’s funny because I know exactly how you feel. I asked the same question. Horse is a fucking ridiculous name, isn’t it?”
I narrowed my eyes.
“Is that a trick question? I don’t want to insult the guy you’re marrying. Also, he’s scary. He has a metal bat and likes to carry around duct tape. All he needs is black plastic garbage bags and he could be a serial killer.”
I leaned forward and jabbed a finger to make my point.
“I know these things. I watch TV.”
Marie snorted so hard margarita came out her nose.
“Horse’s real name is Marcus,” Dancer said, giggling and rolling her eyes. “He’s my brother, by the way. Horse is just his road name—like a nickname, you know? Most of the guys have ’em. Girls, too. Dancer’s my road name.”
“What’s your real name?”
“No comment,” Dancer replied primly.
“Agrippina,” Em declared proudly. “I shit you not.”
Dancer blew a stream of frozen margarita at Em through her straw.
“Traitorous bitch.”
“Are you fucking with us?” Kimber asked, looking between them. “Agrippina? After Agrippina the Younger or Agrippina the Elder?”
We all looked at her blankly.
“Mom had a thing for Roman history,” Dancer said after a pause. I shook my head, trying to follow the conversation. The drinks weren’t helping. Oh, yeah. Road names.
“So why is he called Horse?” I asked. Marie blushed bright red and looked away.
“Ha!” Dancer said, smacking the table for emphasis. “Horse says he’s called that because he’s hung like one. But I know the real reason. When he was a kid—like three, four years old maybe?—he used to carry around this little stuffed horsie all the time, slept with it and everything. One day he and I got in a fight and he started hitting me with it, over and over again. Mom took it away from him and gave it to me. He started following me around crying, ‘Horsie, Horsie,’ all the time, and it stuck.”
Marie’s eyes opened wide.
“Are you fucking serious?” she asked. Dancer nodded, her face full of the kind of evil glee only an older sister can express. “Holy shit, that’s hysterical.”
“His dad insisted it was because he had a big dick, right to the day he died,” she continued. “But I swear to you—it’s because of that stuffed animal of his. Don’t let him fool you.”
“Did you ever give it back to him?” Em asked breathlessly. Dancer shook her head.
“I still have it,” she declared. “And I promise you this, Marie. The day you marry his stupid ass, I’ll give it to you. That’ll keep him in his place.”
We all lost it again. Kimber poured another round of margaritas from the king-sized pitcher she’d found in Ruger’s kitchen. This party wasn’t ending anytime soon.
“So are all the names like that?” I asked when I could speak. “I mean, shouldn’t bikers have cool names, like Killer or Shark or Thor’s Revenge?”
“Thor’s Revenge?” Maggs asked, raising a brow. “Are you serious?”
“That’s just silly,” Em broke in. “Road names stick because something happens to make ’em stick. You know, a funny story or something stupid someone does. You earn them—just like any nickname.”
“Emmy Lou Who, for example,” Dancer said, blinking innocently. Em’s eyes narrowed.
“Shut the fuck up, Agrippina.”
“Seriously, they also serve a purpose,” Maggs said. “If people don’t know your real name, makes it harder for them to rat you out to the cops.”
“So what’s ‘Ruger’ all about?” I asked. “He’s been called that forever.”