Page 12 of Iron Heart

“Sorry, man.” I shake my head. “Jenny deserves a hell of a lot more than anything I could give her.” Which is nothing but a good time and a wave goodbye.

I tell Bret I need to get going. He lifts his beer at me as I pull onto the gravel road that leads back toward Ironwood.

6

Dante

When I get to the clubhouse, I’m barely off my bike before one of the prospects comes ambling across the parking lot that separates the actual clubhouse building from the club’s garage, Ironwood Car and Truck Repair. This prospect is a big guy — about six-four, and shaped like a ham. Even though he’s barely old enough to drink legally, his red hair is already receding from his broad forehead. He gives me a giant fuckin’ smile that kinda reminds me of a used-car salesman, right before he’s about to shaft you.

“Mr. D’Agostino!” the prospect calls in his fuckin’ bullhorn voice. I bristle at his use of my last name.

“You got a reason to address me, Prospect?” I growl.

He ought to back off, or at least flinch. But this dumb fucker doesn’t know any better, I swear. He started hanging around the club about six months ago. Shooter brought him in. He’s obedient as shit, but he rubs me the wrong way. Too eager. And too full of himself.

The brothers are already callin’ him Mensa, on account of him boasting early on about how he’s got an IQ of 140. He even said he’s applied to be a member of Mensa, but hasn’t heard back yet. I’ll fuckin’ bet.

“Just wantin’ to know whether I can do anything for you,” Mensa grins. “Wash your bike? Grab you a beer? Somethin’ else?”

“Yeah, as a matter of fact, you can,” I say, not breaking my stride.

“What’s that?”

“See that pile of old tires over there?” I nod toward the garage.

“Yes, sir!” He gives me a mock salute.

I resist the urge to deck him, and point to a spot about thirty feet away, over by the edge of the lot.

“Put them over there instead. Nicely stacked. And don’t let me catch your ass takin’ a break until you’re done.”

I’m chucklingat the look of pain on Mensa’s hammy face as I continue on into the clubhouse. Axel and Rourke, my prez and VP, are standing over by one end of the bar when I walk inside. A couple of empty shot glasses in front of them tell me what they’ve been up to.

“Dante.” Axel lifts his chin at me.

“Prez.” I walk over to the bar and slide onto a stool. “Rourke.”

I nod to the prospect behind the bar and tell him to get me a beer. On the other end of the bar, a loud bark of laughter makes me turn my head. Bear is holding court with a bunch of the club girls milling around him, chattering and giggling. One of them strokes his beard and barrel chest. Another fingers his long white ponytail.

Next to me, Rourke chuckles. “He sure is makin’ up for lost time.”

Bear got stabbed in a bar fight at the Viking Bar a few months ago. Shit was bad enough that he had to go to the local hospital for a bit, and then he was housebound for a while to recuperate. He was fuckin’ pissed about the whole thing, and he made everyone’s life around him a living hell to make up for it.

You’d never know it now, though, by the grin on his face. He looks like he’s in fuckin’ hog heaven.

One of the club girls surrounding Bear glances over at the three of us, and detaches herself from the group. Tottering over on platform heels that show off her toned legs, she slides one red-nailed finger down the bar as she walks toward us.

“Hey, Dante,” she drawls. We call her Georgia because that’s where she’s from. Her accent is smooth as silk. “You lookin’ for a little company later?”

“Could be,” I murmur noncommittally. Georgia’s hair is long and blond, and I know from experience how it feels to wind it around my fist as I fuck her from behind.

But for some reason, when I look at her now, the image that comes to my mind is that chick reporter I met at Millie and Eddie’s. The one with the ice blue eyes, sunlight in her hair and a body that’s probably gonna keep me up nights for a while.

“We got church in a bit,” I murmur, giving Georgia the brush-off. “And I might not stick around after that. Don’t wait around.”

Georgia frowns, but she knows better than to whine. I fuckin’ hate whining.

I turn back to my prez and vice-prez just as the prospect behind the bar comes up with my beer. Axel is looking tense — but that’s nothing unusual. Our prez is a solemn, somber motherfucker. Don’t get me wrong. He’s a good leader, and I respect the hell out of him. He’s just not exactly Mr. Chuckles.