“She’s younger than his son, baby.”
I sucked in a breath way too loudly that made Trip smile wide. “But… but… how? Why?” Luther wasn’t going to win any awards in the beauty department. He wasn’t one of those men who had gotten better with age, or even aged gracefully. He was okay looking but that was as far as I’d compliment him.
Trip looked at me with a straight face and laughed, his beer bottle shaking in his hand. Once he settled down, he shook his head. “Because some girls don’t care if a man’s old enough to be their daddy as long as he’s the Prez.”
“The Prez?”
Trip nodded.
What the hell was the Prez? Even if he was the President of the United States, I’d have to get paid at least a few grand to go anywhere near his lap. Yuck.
“The Widows?”
Trip slapped a hand over the right side of his leather vest over where the white patch was stitched. “What else would he be the president of?”
I ignored his smart ass comment and focused on the men hustling around, messing with each other. "There's a lot of you guys."
“We got chapters all over Texas and the Southwest.”
Hmm. I still didn’t have a single clue what exactly it meant to be in a motorcycle club besides what I saw on television, or hell, the stuff my mom had told me about years ago when the club was mixed up in drug running. She hadn't told me much but it was enough to know that twenty-five years ago, the WMC wasn't a group of people that valued family and community service.
Though now, even after Sonny had explained that the Widowmakers had changed their ways, they probably still didn't hold bake sales but whatever.
As nice as Trip seemed, I figured I should probably hold most of my questions for Sonny. If anyone was going to laugh at me for asking dumb things, I’d rather it be him than someone else.
“If you would've gotten here last month you could've gone to our rally,” he mentioned.
"What do you at a rally? Get together?"
Trip nodded, clinking his bottle against mine. "We all drive down to Galveston and," he smiled wickedly, "party for a couple of days."
It was impossible not to miss the implication in his face. He had trouble written all over him, making me snort. "I bet you guys just party."
"We do," he insisted with another grin, his fingers inching up his neck to scratch at a two-inch scar that scissored his skin. "Now. Ten years ago... that'd be a different story."
That was something to think about and ask Sonny about later. I shoved that plan into the back of my head and raised my eyebrow at Trip instead, just as the same girl squealed once more. We both looked back at Luther and the twenty-something who had her face buried in his neck.
Sheesh. That was disturbing. I was pretty sure that Luther was definitely older than my dad. Yuck.
There were plenty of other men scattered around, some in their forties and younger who weren't unattractive, sure they were kind of hairy and had tattoos that would probably give me nightmares, but they weren't eyesores. So I didn’t understand why the girl was hanging all over Luther of all people. There was something really hard about his face that made me a little wary and added to the comment Trip had made about the club's activities ten years ago. If anyone had a face of a lifetime worth of doing risky things, it was Luther.
If Trip was right—and I knew he was—then the girl was just like any other little gold digger. Or groupie! She wanted the top dog even if he was in his fifties or sixties. And not so attractive. And more than likely had wrinkly balls, which I couldn't even figure out why I would think about to begin with.
Gag.
We talked a few more minutes about some of the people around us. Trip pointed out those who were native to Austin and his club.
I looked back over at Trip and raised my eyebrows, sliding the glass of juice I'd been holding away from me. "I guess I'm going to go home."
"Want me to walk you to your car?"
The incident the night before flashed through my brain. Friggin' Dex. "Nah. I parked close by."
"You sure? Son might kill me if something happens to you."
I snorted. Total Sonny. Threatening people left and right. "It's fine. He's a pussy cat."
"Are we talkin' about the same person?" Trip laughed. "The day you showed up, he said he'd break both my legs if I tried anythin' with you.”
“Aren’t you his best friend?”
He scrunched up his face, making the harsh lines of blonde facial hair seem pretty darn cute. “And?” Trip leaned back, shaking his head.
The mental picture of my half-brother breaking someone’s legs made me grin. "It's really okay." He didn't need to know my car was back at the shop's lot. I mean, it was close by. Squeezing his forearm, I smiled at him. "Thanks for keeping me company."
"Baby, trust me, it's a pleasure."
I gave him a lopsided smile. "Bye, Trip."
Wiggling my fingers at him in goodbye, I hopped off the barstool and shimmied my way through the thick crowd of strangers. I'd barely pushed through the doors when the loud roar that could have only come from a group of motorcycles filled the air. The small group of people hanging outside smoking cigarettes were murmuring, but the louder the roar got, the louder their voices did too.
Six or seven bikers slowed their motorcycles to a crawl in front of the bar as I made my way down the block. Someone close by started yelling, but I wasn’t paying attention to what was being said as I kept my eyes on the bikers. They weren’t wearing leather vests like the rest of the WMC. They also didn’t look relaxed and ready to have a good time like everyone else did either. Instead, their faces were pulled tight as they drove by. Bodies stiff with something that was the opposite of friendly.
And that was my mistake of the day.
I should have gone back inside and asked Trip to walk me out. I should have, but I didn’t.
And that was my second mistake. I should have just looked at the bikers, and then hauled my ass as quickly as possible to my car. But I didn’t do that either.
I moseyed because I was tired. It was then, in my nosey nature and slow feet that two of the men in the street turned to look at me in a way that wasn’t a warm, appreciative gaze. It was a look that took in as much appreciation as a lion held for a gazelle before slaughter. It was a calculated thing.
But I’m an idiot and by that time, though it was too late, I walked faster down the sidewalk to the annex parking lot; Dex and Slim appeared from up ahead. They stalked down the block, keeping their eyes locked on the group parked behind me. Only when they saw me hopping over wide jagged cracks in the pavement, tugging my short, white shorts down my legs, did Dex veer in my direction.
Crap!
His dark eyes were locked on me. Raking me. Grazing me. Swallowing me. But whether it was in approval or just plain annoyance, I had no idea. To be honest, I didn’t care. Dex was a dick. A good-looking dick—a very good-looking dick—but a dick nonetheless.
And he. Looked. Pissed. Well, more pissed than usual and that was saying something.
“What in the fuck are you doin’ walkin’ to your goddamn car alone again?” he growled, swear to God, growled as he cut the distance between us. “Didn’t we just talk about this yesterday?”
It was my hormones. The hormones that raged through my body right before I started my period made me insane. I know it. Every girl knows it.
So obviously, they made me stupid. Because I looked behind me before slowly turning around to face my boss, taking in the angry, pulsing vein lining his neck. “Me?”
Slim paused midstride, looked between the two of us and kept walking toward the bar, throwing up a peace sign at me on the way.