Samantha said her voice dripping with venomous irritation. She gestured to Tommy who was furiously mopping the floor in a stained apron, his Hell's Angels cut hidden beneath a pile of rags. This is a private delivery entrance. The front door is on the street. If you want to drink, go around.
If you don't, get out. The Viper sneered stepping closer. Don't play stupid, sweetheart. A kid on a Harley just pulled into this alley. We want what he's carrying.
I don't know what you're talking about. Samantha lied smoothly stepping directly into the man's personal space radiating an icy confidence she didn't feel. The only thing that came through that alley is a stray cat. And now you three. Now I know you boys aren't locals because if you were, you'd know whose building you just kicked your way into.
Grizzly Patterson doesn't like strangers in his stockroom, and Wyatt Mitchell is sitting 30 ft away in the main bar. Should I go get him, or are you going to leave quietly? At the mention of Wyatt's name, the three Vipers exchanged a nervous glance. Wyatt's reputation for brutality extended far beyond city limits. The lead Viper looked at Samantha, then at the trembling bar back, entirely missing the hidden duffel bag.
"This ain't over." the Viper spat before turning and shoving his men back out into the rain. Samantha waited until the sound of their engines faded into the storm before she let out a shaky breath, her knees nearly buckling. Tommy collapsed against the wall weeping in relief. "You saved my life, Sammy." Tommy choked out. "Clean up the blood." she whispered, her voice finally trembling.
When Samantha finally walked back out to the main bar, Wyatt was waiting. He was leaning against the counter, a lit cigarette dangling from his lips. He hadn't been playing pool. He had been standing right by the stock room door. He had heard everything.
Samantha froze, waiting for the enforcer to drag her to the basement for interfering in club business. Instead, Wyatt reached over the bar, grabbed two shot glasses, and poured a generous measure of top-shelf whiskey into both. He slid one across the polished wood toward her. He raised his glass, his cold blue eyes locking onto hers. For the first time since she met him, Wyatt smiled.
It was a small, dangerous smile. "To the newest prospect." Wyatt said softly. He downed the shot. Samantha, realizing she had just crossed an invisible threshold from employee to family, downed hers. She wasn't just pouring drinks anymore.
She was keeping the club's secrets. The feeling of safety, however, was a fragile illusion. Two days later, the bell above the front door jingled on a quiet Thursday afternoon. Samantha was wiping down the taps, her back to the entrance. "We're closed." She called out without looking over her shoulder.
"Come back at 5:00." "I don't think so, Samantha." The rag slipped from her hands, hitting the floor with a wet slap. The blood drained from her face, leaving her entirely numb. She recognized that voice. It was smooth, cultured, and dripping with malicious intent. She turned slowly.
Standing in the doorway of the Hells Angels bar, looking entirely out of place in a tailored charcoal suit, was Reuben Bowman. He stepped inside, letting the heavy steel door swing shut behind him, cutting off the sunlight. "Did you really think," Reuben said, a sadistic smirk twisting his handsome face, "that you could hide from me in a place like this?" Dust motes danced in the brief, harsh flash of sunlight before the heavy steel door slammed shut, sealing Reuben Bowman inside the gloom of the Devil's Keep. He stood near the entrance, adjusting the cuffs of his $2,000 suit, his lips curled into a sneer of utter disgust. He looked at the scarred wooden floorboards, the neon beer signs, and finally, at Samantha.
Fear, cold and paralyzing, washed over Samantha. Her breath hitched in her throat, and for a terrifying second, she wasn't the hardened bartender who had faced down a rival gang. She was the broken wife cowering in a pristine suburban kitchen. Reuben had always possessed that power over her. He was a master of psychological destruction, a man who wore his wealth and political connections like impenetrable armor.
"Cat got your tongue, darling?" Reuben purred, taking slow, deliberate steps toward the bar. His leather dress shoes clicked ominously against the floorboards. "You have no idea the trouble you've caused me. The campaign trail is stressful enough without my unstable, ungrateful wife disappearing into the night. Do you know how much it cost me to hire a private investigator willing to track you into this cesspool?" Samantha gripped the edge of the bar, her knuckles turning white.
She forced herself to breathe, forcing her eyes to meet his. "I am not your wife anymore, Reuben. I left the papers on the counter. You have no jurisdiction here. Get out." Reuben stopped dead in his tracks, genuinely amused.