Page 17 of Rest In Pieces
“Hey, I’m Amity. I’ve got one of your guys here. He’s heavy as fuck, so if you could just grab him and drag him the rest of the way, that would be awesome.”
“What are you talking about? What guy?” He looks me over.
“He didn’t give me his name before he passed out, but he’s got a bunch of tattoos and piercings, if that helps.”
“G,” the guy grunts, signaling for the prospect with the gun to open the gate.
“Try anything funny, lady, and I’ll shoot you.”
“So, noyo mamajokes?”
He looks confused, which annoys me. It’s not funny if I have to explain it. When the gate slides open, the two guys step out and ask where Sleeping Beauty is. I point to where I left him.
“Stay right where our prospect can keep an eye on you,” the taller one calls over his shoulder as they head toward him.
“She has a gun,” the prospect shouts, which makes the two guys turn and pull their guns, aiming them at me as I keep my hands loose at my sides.
“At this point, I’m questioning your club’s standards if he’s in the running to become a brother,” I growl, fucking pissed off.
“Fuck you, bitch,” the prospect snaps, and I watch as the taller one walks back to him and yanks the gun out of his hands before smacking him upside the head.
“What the hell, Toot? You’re not siding with this bitch over a brother, are ya?”
“You’re not a fucking brother yet.”
“Call me a bitch again, and you’ll be lacking the part that would make you a brother,” I warn him. “And for future reference, you don’t yell that someone has a gun like that unless they’re a potential or immediate threat. I was neither, especially since you already had your gun aimed at me. What you did could have gotten me killed. I’m sure you would have loved to explain—to not just the cops but the rest of your club—how that happened.”
I look at the guy the prospect called Toot. Resisting the urge to ask him why Toot, I turn and nod to the other guy with his gun still pointed at me.
“Can I go now?”
“Amity?”
My eyes snap to Sleeping Beauty and see that he’s moved and is watching the scene with confusion.
“You okay, G?”
G? What kind of name is G?
“Hey, buddy, you wanna call off your friends? You should know, I’m really fucking pissed right now that I didn’t just let you ride your bike home drunk,” I lie. I never would have let him ride drunk. But I could have—and should have—stuck his stupid, symmetrical face in a cab.
“Tits McGee is with me,” he tells them before passing out again.
I look up at the sky for patience, unfortunately not finding any, before looking back at the guy pointing the gun at me.
“You gonna shoot me or let me go?”
“You armed?”
“I walked up to an MC clubhouse in the middle of the night. Of course, I’m fucking armed,” I tell him, my mouth running away with me. I know I should probably rein in my temper, but right now, I think sharp words are better for them than armor-piercing bullets.
“Hand over your gun.”
“No.”
“Lady, I’m not in the fucking mood. Give me your gun.”
I cock my head. “So let me get this straight. You want me—a woman alone with three dangerous bikers, not counting Sleeping Beauty down there—to give you my only weapon that might protect me against you?”