Rough and Tumble (2 page)

“So
this
is where the jobless masses end up during work hours,” Molly said four days later, standing with her hands on her hips in the middle of an empty saloon about a half hour outside of Vegas.

One of her best friends, Arden, hooked her thumbs into the belt loops of her cut-off jeans and rocked back on her cowboy-booted heels. Her short, red hair was ruffled from a cuff of hot wind that'd welcomed them to Rough & Tumble, Nevada, and her white tank top showed off the toned arms of a middle school PE teacher.

Like Molly, she was glancing around the rugged bar, but with more enthusiasm. “Our screw-it-all adventures start right here and now, Mol. Project Cheer Her Ass Up.”

“Does my ass have to be cheered in a pit like this?”

Her other friend Sofia was clutching an iPad to her floral blouse just like she was the lone Filipino cast member in
Game of Thrones
and her shield bore her sigil—a juicy apple with a hearty bite taken out of it. Her long dark hair spilled over a shoulder in a side ponytail as she inspected the surroundings, too: ceiling fans whipping through the cigarette-stale air, neon beer signs lining the walls, mirrored shelves of bottles behind the unmanned bar, along with a painting of a half-naked leather-clad girl straddling a chair backward and staring at Molly with lascivious, heavy-lidded glee. Meanwhile, hair-band rock 'n' roll played from a corner jukebox near an old potbellied stove with license plates from different states hanging above it. There were even flyers pasted near the Ladies' and Gents' bathrooms, advertising Jell-O Fight Night and Tubs o' Beer Weekends.

“Arden, why in the world would you suggest this place?” Sofia whispered loudly above the music. “Let's just get to Caesars for mojitos by the pool.”

“In due time,” Arden said, claiming a stool at the bar, even though there wasn't anyone around to serve. The lack of customers was almost eerie, even if it was around noon. “I thought this would be a nice entry for your blog, Sof. Might as well start off our trip with a rip-roaring story from a biker saloon in a dead mining boomtown. I mean, how cool is this? A
biker
bar! It's so sexy and Old West and fun for all three of your followers to read about.”

As Sofia rolled her eyes, Molly sat next to Arden, smoothing her short but modest sundress over her thighs. When they'd first entered town limits, she'd been charmed by Rough & Tumble's quaintness—the cross-riddled cemetery just off the dusty road, the ragged general store, the stained glass–windowed church clashing with the aluminum-plated diner next to it. There was even a hitching post in front of this hundred-year-old saloon, with its grayish pressed tin blocks, faded wooden posts, and planked boardwalk holding a rickety table and chair in front of the closed doors. The bar's attitude was clearly posted on a sign in front of the place, too:
Beware!
Cheap Talk & Loose Women are Permitted in this Establishment
.

That had probably been Arden's favorite part so far. It'd definitely made Molly laugh for the first time in days; it was almost enough to chase away the stress that'd been dogging her since she'd walked out of Genhaven's office.

The future. Not even a just-forget-about-it trip could erase the fear of not knowing where she'd be next week, much less in a year, after she cashed in her assets. And she hadn't even told her sister about the check that wouldn't be coming unless she found a new job pronto. . . .

Arden nudged her arm. “Hey, just keep reminding yourself that you're gonna call in to the job and use up all your sick days.
Make
that motherfucker ex-boss of yours fire you. Call his bluff and force him to give you some severance . . . or a decent send-off. You've got that sex-starved turd by the balls.”

“I should've grabbed his balls while I had the chance.” And twisted.
Hard
.

“You put them on ice. That was good enough.”

Sofia sat on the other side of Arden, putting her iPad on the bar, accessing her blog's input page. “We're here for you, Mol, but there're going to be a lot of hoops to jump through if you pursue this sexual harassment thing. . . .”

Arden interrupted. “What, are you trying to discourage her?”

“No,” Sofia said. “I'm in human resources. I know about this stuff. It won't be easy.” She leaned around Arden and smiled. “But that's why friends can come in handy.”

Molly tried to breathe, returning their grins. Things were going to be okay. At some point. But what if Genhaven did call her bluff and fire her because of an avalanche of more trumped-up errors? As it was, she planned to be in the hotel room half the time with her laptop, working her contacts, crossing her fingers for a new job. . . .

Arden gestured toward Molly's hair. “You think we're at a cotillion or something? Loosen up, girl. Key word,
fun
.”

Molly touched the low bun she'd wrapped her hair in before they'd hit the road early to get through most of the desert before the heat really boiled the interstate. Old habits died hard. “It's cooler with it off my neck. I'm fine.”

“Have it your way.” In the next breath, Arden playfully pounded her fist on the bar. “Where're my bikers and booze? The Internet said I'd get some of that here, so it must be true!”

Molly laughed. “It's like you
want
Hell's Angels to come rolling in or something. You know that this could be the kind of bar where weekend warriors go, like Matlock and Dr. Shinychompers with big bikes.”

Sofia sighed. “I say we just head to the Strip.”

“After you act as our darling DD,” Arden said. “You should be sober while you poke around town anyway. Bloggers who write about their vacations never write drunk, even if they only do it for fun. I want to get some
booze
into my girl here, though.” Arden smacked Molly on the back, laughing. “Baby, we are so going to get back your mojo. You are going to work it from this moment on. Got me?”

Molly touched her hair again, almost letting it down. But there was still a niggle getting to her. She couldn't stop her brain from running overtime, stressing out, making her fold into herself a little.

But Arden, who had a history of getting Molly and Sof to loosen up since college, was right. Molly had done all she could do with putting out job feelers with all her friends and contacts. It was time to heave a big old screw-you to Genhaven, enjoy her “sick days,” and live it up on the Vegas comps and freebies that Arden had somehow collected during her summer off from teaching. She said she'd scoured the computer for deals, and Molly couldn't say no to that.

Yes, now was the time to temporarily let her hair down, while she didn't have to worry about getting up early or taking work home or traveling for projects. Her, the girl who felt like . . . well, perhaps the term “an amoeba” would be appropriate. She'd gone on one too many aimless dates and become tired of trying to maintain any kind of intimate liaisons. Work had fulfilled her, so who needed any of that lovey-dovey other stuff when it was so much
extra
work?

A female bartender finally came from a back room, carrying a crate of glasses. There was something striking about her big baby-blue eyes that clashed with all her rough edges, like the haphazardly cut desert-sand hair, the black T-shirt with its sleeves rolled up to her shoulders, and her throaty voice.

“Sorry about that,” she said with a friendly smile, setting the crate on the other side of the bar. “I usually have someone covering while I do what needs doing round here.”

She was talking as if the saloon was overrun with customers, but Molly only returned her smile. Meanwhile, Sofia used her iPad to take some pictures for her blog. Arden forged ahead, as usual.

“Two whiskies, straight-up shots.” She turned to Molly. “Total Old West, right?”

Sofia got the bartender's attention. “Can I have a ginger ale, please?”

“How about my own ginger ale concoction?” the lady said. “We used to have the real stuff on tap, but no one orders it anymore.”

“Sounds fine.”

As the bartender went to work, a roar from outside caught everyone's attention.

Molly exchanged wide-eyed looks with the girls. Motorcycles?
Bikers?

“Oh, crap,” Sofia said.

“Awesome,” Arden said.

Molly tugged down the hem of her dress, her heartbeat bobbing. What were she and her friends doing in a place like this again? Like bikers were their kind of crowd.

Arden leaned over and asked the bartender, “Hell's Angels?”

The woman bit back her smile. “Could be. Usually, they come at night, but you never know with the one-percenters or the other types who patronize these digs on a regular basis.”

Molly had done her share of reading and watching TV when she wasn't dating. Which pretty much meant
always
. One-percenters weren't exactly lawyers or dentists. No, these were guys from motorcycle clubs, the outlaw one percent of bikers who were criminals.

“I'm leaving,” Sofia whispered just as the bartender put her ginger ale in front of her.

Arden snagged her blouse, then glanced at Molly. “You chickening out, too?”

As the engines cut off from outside, Molly felt a trill of rebellion running through her. So many years behind a desk, crunching numbers, lost in them because so they were much more orderly than real life. Years and years with her face in books on a Friday night because she'd given up, preferring the comforts of home and all the TV programs she'd DVRed. Ted Genhaven's cologne creeping into her as he'd taken away all the control she'd always had over who she allowed to touch her.

Time to say,
Screw it
 . . . for now.

“What the hell,” she said, grabbing the shot glass the bartender had slid to her.

“Atta girl,” Arden said, lifting her drink.

They clinked, throwing the whisky down the hatch, sucking in air, and shaking their heads.
Lighter fluid
, Molly thought.
Damn
.

All the while, Arden kept hold of Sofia's blouse as their friend sat on her stool again, her eyes on the door.

“Want another round?” the bartender asked Arden.

Molly reached into the leather purse she'd slung over her chest and slapped the forty dollars she'd budgeted for some of her food on the bar. They'd been snacking in the car, and the booze would keep her full until the free buffet tonight. “Keep 'em coming.” Lighter fluid, schmighter fluid. Also? Vegas, baby
.
Ted Genhaven was paying for this one since he hadn't had the guts to contact her and officially fire her yet. She'd see if he had the man-sack for it.

“Great,” the bartender said. “My name's Kat, so give me a holler whenever you need anything.”

The door opened, letting in a flare of light. Molly tried to look like she wasn't looking, but it didn't help that Arden was staring in flagrant curiosity. Sofia sat ramrod straight, turning her back on the new arrivals.

Molly braced herself for leather jackets that'd been cut off at the shoulders with skulls on the back. Big, hot motorbike muscles. Desperados who'd just gotten off their steel Bon Jovi Dead-or-Alive horses.

But all she saw were six old teddy bear versions of bikers.

Gray-haired, with leather jackets that lacked any kind of motorcycle club patches, shiny buckled boots. One of them even had a long mustache that he'd oiled into handlebars. None of them were exactly shaggy and grizzled.

As the doors closed, Kat the bartender laughed and winked at Molly. The guys took seats at the other end of the bar.

“Motorcycle enthusiasts,” their hostess said.

Well, damn. It wasn't that Molly wanted one-percenters who ran drugs or anything. But a bit more testosterone would've been nice. So much for the start of their wicked Vegas adventure.

However, they were still male, and they were openly checking out the girls as Arden and Molly threw back another shot. And, like all males, they weren't very good at hiding what was going through their heads as their gazes traveled on down the line: Sofia, cute as a button with her petite figure and big brown eyes. Arden, with her wiry athlete's body and kiss-my-ass attitude. Then Molly.

Instinctively, she adjusted her sundress, as if it didn't fit right. It did, but . . . habits. She'd grown up wearing her sister's dime-store secondhand clothes and she'd never heard the end of it from the kids at school. Being bused in had made her social status even worse, but who needed those clowns when she'd had her books and the library?

She'd also had the uncanny ability to brush off anyone who made her uncomfortable, and pretty soon, that'd become her MO. Now, whenever she didn't want to deal with someone, she was as cool as a swan ice sculpture—that's what Sofia had told her once, laughing, saying that she wished she weren't cute and could be just as regal as Molly.

Yes, the new arrivals sensed the ice, all right, and they chuckled as the bartender went over to them, gripping their hands in welcome, taking their orders.

The newcomers had obviously been the first wave of lunchtime customers, because the doors opened again, letting in a group of very nonbikers dressed in shorts and flip-flops. Maybe they were from a caravan going to Vegas?

Arden sighed as the tourists blocked the view of the old bikers. “I feel like this is the Disney version of the badass West. Sorry, Mol.”

“For what?”

“I wanted this to be exciting.” She lifted a full shot glass. “Drink to excitement with me?”

“Anytime.”

And that's when she saw him.

He had to have come in behind the gaggle of tourists when she wasn't looking, because he was sitting at the other end of the bar, near the video poker machines embedded in the wood. Longish light brown hair skimmed his broad, T-shirted shoulders. A fine coating of stubble rode his jaw. But it was his eyes—a piercing green that made her hold her breath for a second—that stopped her from taking in more oxygen.