Chapter 2: Girl at the Bar

Harlow

I climbed behind Cyrus on his bike and caught sight of the MC insignia on the back of his leather vest. It said "Bone Hills Howlers" around the figure of a wolf howling in front of a full moon.

"I like your vest," I said.

"It's called a cut," he replied as he revved the engine. "Helmet," he reminded me.

"Safety first," I joked as I slid his helmet on.

I leaned forward and grasped onto either side of his firm torso with my hands, breathing in a mixture of scents. Cologne and engine oil. Oddly comforting.

Then we were off. Adrenaline rushed through me as we drove uphill and then sped down the other side. Each twist and turn of the road was exhilarating, and I found myself leaning into Cyrus with every bend in the road. We were soon at the outskirts of a small town.

"Welcome to Gnaw Bone, population 314," read a faded sign. The first building I saw was an old mechanic shop on the south side of the road. A bar with flashing neon lights sat directly across on the north.

When we pulled up to the garage, I took the helmet off when "my ride" cut the engine.

"Are you the only one here?" I asked as I dismounted the bike.

"Nah, I'm sure my boss is still around. He stays late," Cyrus replied. He walked around his bike to a door and pounded on it a couple of times.

"We don't really have a waiting room," he said. "I'd offer to bring you with me to pick up your car—"

"But one of the guys ripped out the passenger seat in the tow truck in a drunken rage," a man piped in as the door swung open. "What's this?" I caught sight of his "President" patch right away. He was a broad-shouldered guy, maybe a little taller than Cyrus with dirty-blond hair. Kind of young for an MC President. Couldn't have been more than thirty.

"Stranded customer here, Blayze," Cyrus told him. "I gotta take the truck and tow her car."

"In the middle of the night? You always did have a weakness for damsels in distress," the Blayze guy poked fun at Cyrus. That irked me. I was no damsel, but I kept quiet. "You wanna…" he motioned behind him to the duct tape-covered rolling chair beside an old metal desk to offer me a seat.

"I don't want to impose," was what I said, even though, "I don't have to take crap from misogynistic a**hats," was what I was thinking. "I'll grab a drink at that bar while I wait."

"Suit yourself," Blayze said.

"I shouldn't be long." Cyrus smiled as I turned to cross the street.

When I pushed open the neon-lit door of the bar, Americana rock music blasted my ears. Most of the inhabitants were also wearing biker vests—er, cuts—but the insignia was different from the guys at the garage. "Blood Dogs" was written above a front-facing image of a wolf gnashing its teeth.

The only non-bikers there besides myself seemed to be two guys about my age at the pool table. I sat down at the bar and caught the bartender's eye. Red-haired guy. Buff and tatted up. Probably late twenties. "V. President" on his cut. He flashed me a smile and walked over.

"What can I do ya for?" he asked.

"Jack on the rocks?" I requested.

"Comin' up." He smiled warmly and started to pour.

"Hey," I heard a man's voice from behind me. "I got this drink, baby." It was one of the non-biker guys who'd been playing pool. He put his hand on my shoulder.

"That's ok," I replied, shrugging him off.

His buddy laughed. They were both wasted. The guy lingered.

"Were you at Rock Du Nocturne?" he asked. He was referring to some southern California music festival. He drunkenly slung his arm around me.

"No," I said plainly, pushing his arm off my shoulders with a little more force this time.

"We were there all weekend," he said, his beer breath offending my nostrils. "You up to party? We've got some great blow in our car."

"Hey, frat boy," the bartender said forcefully. He placed my drink in front of me, staring the guy down. "You've already gotten your one and only warning tonight. You and your buddy finish your drinks and get out."

"Screw you, man," the guy's friend slurred. "My dad could shut this sh*thole down with one phone call."

"I'm just being friendly," douche number one said. "How much? I'm buying her drink." His hand started slinking around my waist.

I swiftly reached into my back pocket and pulled out my knife. "Touch me again and lose a finger," I hissed.

With the blade mere inches from his face, the guy stumbled backward as his friend let out a high-pitched laugh.

"That's it!" I heard a female voice ring out. "Get the hell outta my bar." A tall, voluptuous woman donning a "President" patch on her cut stormed over.

She wore black rockabilly-style hair piled on top of her head. Every inch of visible skin was covered in tattoos except for her face.

"Red," she said to the bartender, "take these little b*tches outside." For a second, I thought she was including me with the two douchenozzles, but she caught my eye and said, "You're ok."

Red, the bartender, nodded to a guy near the door, and the two of them shoved the drunken bros outside.

"Sorry," I apologized to the woman. "I wasn't trying to start anything."

"No problem at all," she said as her red lips curled into a smirk. "Those jackasses already tested me once tonight. That's a nice blade you've got there."

I realized then that the switchblade was still out. I flicked it back down and tucked it away.

"Drink's on the house," she said to me. "I insist." She reached behind the bar and poured herself a tequila shot, then held it up to clink my glass. "To bada** women."

I accepted and downed my whisky.

"I'm Bonnie Black," she said.

"Harlow," I responded. "This your bar?"

"My club's bar. But yeah, I run the place."

"One more?" Red asked as he returned.

At that moment, I looked out the window toward the garage. Cyrus was pulling up across the street in the tow truck with my car trailing behind.

"Actually, that's my car." I motioned toward the window. "I should probably go see what the damage is."

"Good luck," Bonnie said as I headed for the door. "And don't take any crap from Blayze Rollins." I smiled over my shoulder with a nod.

Once outside, I began making my way through the parking lot when I heard someone whistle behind me. Turning, I saw the handsy drunk guy walking my way. His friend wasn't in sight.

"You know, it's rude to pull a knife on someone who's just trying to be nice," he said. I backed up…right into the solid frame of his buddy. I reached for my blade, but the guy behind me got a good grip on both my wrists as his friend came closer.

"Sh*t, sh*t, sh*t!" was the only thought running through my head.

"You look like a girl who likes to party," the one in front of me said. "We'll make a night of it." Then they started pulling me toward their BMW.

"Get off of me!" I screamed, headbutting the one behind me. He fell backward, taking me down with him.

"Stupid b*tch broke my nose!" he said as I tried to stand up. His buddy knocked me down again as he climbed on top of me. The back of my head slammed onto the pavement.

"No problem," he said while his friend held his bleeding nose. "We can have some fun right here." He straddled me and held my wrists with one hand while using the other to unbuckle my belt. Then he yelled to his friend, "Robbie, help me!"

The other guy came over and gripped my wrists so tight I thought he might break them. Blood poured from his broken nose and onto my face. But in a split second, my attackers were off of me.

Looking up, I saw Cyrus lift both of the guys like they were rag dolls and throw them to the ground. But that wasn't the most shocking sight. Because then Cyrus pulled off his cut, and a mass of muscle and fur ripped through the rest of his clothes. Standing before me was no longer a man, but a huge wolf.