His cold grin sends a shiver down my spine. My mouth drops open. I don’t know if I’m more surprised that Bane is lying and sticking up for me, or that Coco is buying it and looking at me with something like fear. I don’t have time to contemplate it, though, because the palm of Bane’s hand gives me a shove and we are marching downstairs, back towards the dank and smelly bar area.
Coco’s cries of “Bane, I’m sorry! Fuck!” fade behind us.
The Death Layer clubhouse is fitfully stirring to life. It must be nighttime but there aren’t many bikers around yet: just a few sweetbutts and the band setting up. Fresh sawdust is strewn over the mopped floor, but the room still smells like liquor with a trace of vomit. With a sinking heart, I see that Amy is chained behind the bar again. Her face is black and blue, and there are welt marks on her bare chest and belly. Guess we both missed the window last night. Fuck.
Numb, I turn and take a mechanical step in Amy’s direction to join her in tending bar, but Bane jerks me back and holds me close to his chest.
“Nope,” he grunts.
That scent of his aftershave washes over me again—musk, pine, leather—and I feel the hard washboard of his abdomen steering me like a rudder from behind. I quicken my steps to separate my back from his front, but he stays close and lets me feel each powerful stride as he brushes against me. The man is a tank.
Between the sight of a battered, defeated Amy and the raw sensation of Bane’s hard body herding me, it begins to click in my brain that there may be no escaping this place. That, or I just need to work harder.
Bane is shoving me up on the bandstand. “Yo Carver,” he shouts.
A young, lanky man with dreadlocks straightens from the amp he was fiddling with and cranes his neck our way. He blinks at us with watery, dazed eyes. I notice the back of his leather vest has the Death Layer colors but instead of the top rocker saying the club name, “prospect” is spelled out in big capital letters.
“Hey Beast,” Carver stammers, “What’s up, sir?”
In answer, Bane grabs the bewildered kid by the sides of his vest and throws him off the stage. He crashes into a table and rolls to the floor, yelping.
“You’re fired,” Bane announces. “You sing like a dying cat.” Bane shoves me forward, glaring around the stunned circle of band members in challenge. “Got a new singer for you today, boys. Play nice for a change.” His threatening eyes rest finally on me. “Any questions?”
We all shake our heads quickly, and with a smirk in my direction Bane stomps off the stage to plop himself in a chair at a nearby table. Carver scurries away and out the door of the clubhouse, dreadlocks limp. I feel briefly sorry for him, but then remember I’m onstage in lingerie and feel myself blush bright pink.
The band and I stare at each other like kids on the first day of school. Finally the dude wearing the electric guitar steps forward and gives me a terse nod. He looks young like Carver, but his head is shaved bald and his vest doesn’t say prospect. He must be a full member.
“I’m 8-Ball,” he says. “This is Chunk on the drums and Judge Jefferson on the bass. Can you even sing?”
His skeptical face makes me jut my chin. Can I sing? Who the fuck does he think I am?
“You know Aerosmith’s ‘Cryin’’?” I demand. When 8-Ball and Chunk nod, I step up to the microphone. “Then try and keep up, boys.”
It only takes a few bars for 8-Ball to smile and nod at me, and we all sort of exhale and jam. I’m in my element, almost having fun—it feels a lot like the bar gigs I’d always do downtown except for the tiny, miniscule detail that I’m a prisoner. The bar begins to fill up and I loose myself in the music for a bit, shutting out reality.
Somehow 8-Ball, Chunk, Judge Jefferson and I manage to scramble and bluff our way through two entire sets without getting any bottles or syringes thrown at us. That probably has something to do with the fact that Bane is making a point of whooping it up from his watchful perch in the front row. I get the feeling not even the bikers of the Death Layer Motorcycle Club would dare boo if Bane is cheering.
“Take five, jerks,” 8-Ball grunts after the ending power-chord to the Scorpion’s ‘Rock You Like A Hurricane’ fades. “They just let the dogs in downstairs, so one more set before fight-time. We’ll do some Allman Brothers and Steppenwolf and call it a night.” He gives me a little grin. “Not bad, sweetbutt. Just don’t quit your day job.”
8-Ball winks suggestively toward Bane, and the boys snicker. My cheeks flush red again as the band disperses to their liquor bottles.
I cross my arms, unsure where to go. There are muscled, drunken bikers everywhere and I don’t exactly feel social. Across the room I can see Coco and Amy working behind the bar. Coco is glaring my way and if looks could kill I’d be dead meat.
Wincing, I look away, and notice that Bane is in deep conversation with a grizzled gray-bearded biker. On the wall of club member portraits, I match the beard to the picture of the Sergeant at Arms, a hefty man with a stiff face and bushy eyebrows. He and Bane are both gesturing wildly until Bane smacks the table with a balled fist. The bearded guy stands up in disgust and lumbers off with a withering backward glance in Bane’s direction.
Maybe Bane’s claim that he’s out of favor with the club is actually true.
Break is over. Judge Jefferson is plugging himself back in and Chunk, whose pudgy figure explains his nickname, is huffing his way up the bandstand steps. Without thinking I lend him a hand, drawing a surprised, “Thank you.”
“Ramblin’ Man,” orders 8-Ball.
We’re not halfway through the song when wilted, dreadlocked Carver scurries back in the room, making a beeline for Bane. He crouches, shouting into Bane’s ear, and I see the bigger man’s face go white.
Bane grabs Carver’s vest and pushes him back onstage, motioning at me.
“Let’s go, Red,” Bane shouts.
Mid-lyric and confused, I hesitate. “What?”
This wins a curse from Bane and he wraps his arms around my legs, tripping me.
“Hey!” I shout. “What? What did I do? Bane!”
While the band continues to play, Bane swings me over his shoulder and carries me out of the room like a caveman to a chorus of shouts and catcalls from the bikers. As the stairwell door closes behind us, I hear Carver’s caterwauling take over the speakers.