Jiggy backs up a few steps. “Give me a minute.”
“Play nice,” I tease.
As we cross the wide, gravel parking lot, I study the building looming in front of us.
Deadbranch’s clubhouse fits my expectation of an MC hangout better than the other ones we’ve visited. A giant rectangular brick building sitting somewhat out of place in a large field. At some time in the building’s history it must have been a warehouse.
Two wide, metal doors painted a faded red slide open with a rusty clinking. Rooster nods to a prospect inside.
The abandoned building aesthetic must be to discourage interest in robbing the place. Inside is wide-open space with a concrete floor. Yup, definitely was a warehouse. The brothers have filled it with furniture, a bar—naturally—a pool table that thankfully isn’t in use, arcade games, and what looks like a movie theater concession stand. As Rooster predicted, way in the back I catch the gleam of several silver stripper poles on an elevated platform.
“This is big,” I say. “Different from the others you’ve taken me to.”
“I think it used to be a distillery.” He points up. “They converted upstairs into bedrooms but there’s only one dorm-style bathroom.”
Gross. I’m gettin’ the creepy-crawlies picturing it.
He leans down. “Already made a reservation at a hotel for us.”
Praise the Lord.
“Will Digger think we’re rude if we don’t stay here, though?” Biker etiquette gives me a headache sometimes.
“Nah, they don’t have a lot of extra space.” He gestures toward what I now realize is a cluster of king-sized beds all pushed together to make one giant orgy playground. “Unless you want to take a chance on that.”
“Pass.” I squeeze his hand. “Thank you.” If I wasn’t with him, he’d probably stay here with his brothers. “We don’t have to spend the money on a hotel, though. Can’t we stay in the RV? So you can spend more time with the guys here?”
“I want to take you somewhere nice for our last few nights before I head home.”
My heart squeezes. We haven’t talked about it a lot but after the last show, I’m staying in Nashville to record my album. Rooster’s planning to use my recording time to head home and check in with his club.
“Logan.” I can’t hide the anxiety in my voice. “I’m gonna miss you.”
His mouth curves up. “I’m not going anywhere yet, chickadee. And I’ll be back to take you to the awards show.”
A different anxiety flutters in my chest. I’m not ready to think about the Country Music Awards yet. I haven’t thought about a dress or shoes or what I’ll do if I run into that damn Glenna Wilson again.
“One thing at a time, chickadee.” Rooster brushes his knuckles over my cheek, chasing my worries away. “No stress tonight. Relax and have fun. You’ve earned it.”
Rooster
Jiggy joins us inside. “Tex was hurt you didn’t say hello.”
“I’ll talk to him later. You seen Digger or Squiggy yet?”
“Nope.”
“Digger knows we’re coming, though, right?” Shelby asks.
“Yup.” My gaze lands on someone I recognize. “I see a familiar face or two.” I lift my chin at the couple in the center of the room.
“Who?” Shelby asks, following my line of sight.
Anya notices us and bounces up on her toes, waving for us to join them.
Shelby grins and waves back. “Thank God. I’m so excited to see someone I know.”
“What the fuck is Ice doing in Deadbranch?” Jiggy asks in a low voice.
“No clue.”
“Why’d he bring Anya with him?”
“I don’t know. Would you like me to get out my crystal ball for you?”
“Gee, could ya?” he sneers.
Anya meets us halfway. She and Shelby squeal and hug like they’re old friends who haven’t seen each other in a decade.
“Didn’t realize they were so close.” Jigsaw’s tense, like he’s holding back some commentary that’s bound to annoy me.
“Shut up.”
Ice approaches with a watchful eye on the girls.
Jiggy finally cracks. “You’re not worried she’ll try to rope Shelby into—”
“Don’t,” I warn.
“Rooster!” Ice shakes my hand, then pulls me in for a hug, slapping my back. A more enthusiastic greeting than I’d expect from the stoic prez of our Everhart charter but I guess that’s a good sign.
Jiggy receives a similar hello.
“How’d you end up down here?” I ask.
Ice shrugs. “Thought we’d take a ride.”
He’s casual. Almost too casual. It’s not unusual for bikers to take off. Having clubhouses to stop and stay at makes it even easier. But Ice is a busy guy, with his own club to run.
Maybe Digger’s troubles have gotten worse.
And like a shark scenting blood, maybe Ice is here for a chunk of Deadbranch’s pie.
Shelby
Anya hooks her arm through mine and leads me toward the back of the club. Near the stripper stage.
“I’m so happy to see someone I know,” she gushes.
“Me too.”
“Sorry, I don’t even know where we’re going,” she says, stopping at a row of chairs lined up in front of the stage. “I knew the guys wanted to talk. I’ve never been here before.”