“Yes?” I lift my chin, holding his eyes, but quaking on the inside.
“You got a note comin’ due. You gonna be able to pay it?”
A note? What is he talking about? Please God; tell me my sister didn’t borrow money from these low-fife, loan-sharking bikers. I swallow. “My bar is none of your business.”
“Now, seeing as how it was the Dead that lent you that money, yeah, it is my business. If you haven’t got it, we can make you an offer for the bar; take it out of that. Win-win for both of us.”
“I’m not interested in selling.” I move to sweep past him, but he grabs my upper arm.
“Longer you wait, doll, the lower that offer’s gonna get.”
I’ve dealt with men who think they can intimidate to get what they want. I’ve learned it’s best to show them you won’t let them steamroll over you. I yank my arm free and lift a chin toward his patch.
“Your club wants to buy my bar, send in your President. I don’t dick around with peons.”
He lifts a brow. “Watch your mouth, bitch.”
I lift a brow right back. “You don’t like my mouth, I’m sure there are other places you can drink.”
His friend chuckles. “Guess she told you, Trick.”
“That ain’t the way you spoke to me when you came askin’ for a loan, babe.”
I ignore him and stride off toward the back of the bar. I enter the office, and the minute I’m out of sight, I close the door and lock it. Then dash behind the desk and squat down, fumbling with opening the safe. I grab the gun, and lock the safe again. Shoving it in the back of my jeans, I move around the desk, hoping those assholes aren’t right this second robbing the bar.
I take a deep breath, open the door and hear their Harleys rumble to life. I come out and see their barstools are now empty. Moving behind the bar, I go to the end where they were sitting and stare at their empty shot glasses and bottles.
“Did they pay for their drinks?” I watch them pull away with a thundering roar. When no one answers, I turn to look over my shoulder and see Pete staring at the gun jammed against the small of my back.
“Damn, Scarlett. Were you planning on shooting them?”
“I just don’t like men who think they can push a woman around.” I glance down and see a card laying on the bar. I pick it up. It says Evil Dead MC, Nevada. Trick, Vice President. There’s a phone number. Does this guy really have the audacity to think I’m going to call him? I flip it over. On the back is scrawled, Five thousand dollars due the first of the month.
I smirk. I’ve got more than that sitting in my checking account right now. Then my face falls. I don’t have my checkbook or bankcard, or even my IDs. Scarlett has all that. As far as anyone knows, I’m Scarlett, and she’s me. I wonder if even now she’s draining my bank account. Of course she doesn’t have my pin number, but she’s smart enough to get around that if she wanted to, and if she’s desperate to save her bar, she’ll want to.
“Scarlett?”
I turn toward the voice.
“You shouldn’t have disrespected them.” Pete looks worried.
“I didn’t disrespect them.”
“You called them peons.”
Oh, right. That. “Well, they won’t kill me over that, will they?” At least not until they get what they’re after, which is either five grand or Badlands; though why they’d want it, I’m clueless. From the situation Scarlett is in, she can’t be making much money here.
I glance to Pete, but he just lifts his brows and walks away. Soon the bar empties and we close up. I wave good-bye to Shelly and Pete, and walk back to the little white house behind the bar.
The elevation here in Cold Creek is higher than Vegas, therefore its much cooler. That combined with the fact it’s always cold in the desert at night, has a chill in the air.
As I walk past Scarlett’s pickup parked close enough that the house’s porch light shines on it, I see something on the windshield.
I stare at it a moment before I realize its something written in black marker—a big heart. And in the middle are the words YOU’RE MINE.
