The foyer fed into a short hall, two doors branching off on either side. To the right was a small sitting room with tastefully bland furniture and a small round table set between two windows, a chair on either side. The boys called it the “business room” because it was where they entertained clients who weren’t associated with the MC in any sort of official sense. Only members were allowed in the chapel. Everyone else was brought here.
To the left, a tricked out home gym, with every kind of weight and exercise machine anyone could ever hope to need.
Beyond, the hall opened up, into a common room that ran the entire width of the house. She’d thought it a wonderland as a child; as an adult, that sense hadn’t dulled. It still brought a smile to her lips.
The cinderblock walls were an unobtrusive gray, with one accent wall behind the bar that was painted black, a mural of the Lean Dogs’ black running dog on his white field framed on bottom by the rows of liquor bottles, on top by the overhead shelf where the coffee mugs and stemless wineglasses were stored.
The bar itself was a heavy horseshoe of stained wood, brass footrails, overhead racks, beer taps, beer cooler, and one of those lift-up panels through which to access it all, a feature Ava had adored since her earliest childhood. The upper racks were strung with colored Christmas lights year round. The bottles, shellacked with sunlight, glimmered in candy-colored splendor.
The rest of the massive common room was dedicated to comfy couches and chairs, little conversation nooks, a foosball table, two pool tables, several round dining tables. Coffee tables and end tables were heaped with bike magazines and oldPlayboys. Worn rugs bore the dirt of thousands of booted footsteps. Ares had a plush dog bed in a corner, beside his food and water dishes.
Beyond the common room were storerooms, dorms for crashing, and the chapel, where official MC meetings were held. But this was where the party was, where the cards were played, where the dancing girls did their thing on crazy Friday nights, where everything friendly and social and fraternal happened.
Today, the room was draped with black and white crepe streamers; helium balloons – also black and white – rustled in the drafts of the AC.
Ava spotted her mom up on a stepstool, taping one end of a banner that read “Congratulations, James! We Love You!” while Jackie held the other end. Bonita and Mina were on the ground, telling them which end to lift higher so it was straight. Nell was filling more balloons from a helium tank.
Maggie turned, her long, wavy dark blonde hair shifting against her back, her smile radiant. Her constant beauty hadn’t eroded with time; it had merely been softened, her skin rich with the little lines of time, her eyes hazel and dazzling as ever.
Maggie Lowe, the girl who’d disgraced her entire family when she’d started one of her own. Her mother had wanted her to compete in beauty pageants as a teen; instead, she’d spent too much time hanging out in front of liquor stores, asking passersby to buy her a six-pack, and falling in love with a much older biker. Ghost kept a picture of her wedged in the frame of his dresser mirror at home, of her at sixteen, all glorious light hair and long legs and curvy hips in her ripped jeans and leather jacket, while she blew smoke at the camera through painted red lips. “She was jailbait,” Ghost had said. “And I figured there were worse things to get put away for.”
“Ava Rose!” she called. She slapped a last bit of tape on her corner of the banner and climbed down the stool, rushing forward as fast as Ava rushed toward her. Her hug was strong and warm, textured by the soft buffalo plaid shirt she wore over leggings and boots. “Did you have a nice drive?”
“It was great.” Ava stepped back, and her mother’s hands stayed on her arms, holding her in place.
‘Speaking of great.” Maggie looked her up and down. “Look at you, all girly. My little professional writer.”
“Mom.” Ava’s cheeks warmed. “I’m not even a little bit professional.”
“You got published, didn’t you?” Nell asked. “That’s pretty pro in my book.”
She’d had a short story published in an online magazine, which added up to so much nothing in the eyes of the actual pro writing world. But to her family back home, it was a big accomplishment.
“Welcome back, hon,” Nell added with a gap-toothed grin. “I expect lots more stories.”
Ava’s color deepened; she could feel its heat under her skin.
“Hey, sweetie,” Jackie called.
“Hi, Ava.” That was Mina.
Bonita turned, her mane of silver curls cascading over both shoulders, tumbling against her dark, sun-bronzed throat. “Hola, bambina. ¿Cómo estás?” She stepped forward, long black skirt swishing around her ankles, and pulled Ava into another hug, one Maggie could hardly let her go for.
“Bien. ¿Y usted?” Ava managed to remember some of her Spanish.
“Wonderful,” the president’s wife answered in her musical, accented English. “Even better now that you’re here.”
Ava smiled. It was impossible not to love Bonita at first sight. Tall and voluptuous, she’d been stunning as a young woman, and beautiful even now that her hair was all silver and her eyes crinkled to dancing black slits when she laughed. James had met her on a run to Texas; she’d been serving cervezas at the cantina where the crew had stopped for lunch, a local spot the boys would revisit four or five times before their business was concluded and they headed back to Tennessee. When James left, Bonita left with him, arms wrapped around him on the back of his bike. Her real name was Sofia, but James called her beautiful; when he’d learned the Spanish word for it, the nickname had stuck. She’d ruled as biker queen under the name Bonita for twenty-five years.
This handful of women, the brave few – they were the old ladies. Not club girls, not strippers or Friday night entertainment; they were the wives, the tried and true, the loyal helpmates and partners. All of them in this room now were old ladies…except for Ava. She was the only club daughter – the only one who’d stuck around, anyway. And once upon a time, she’d entertained the foolish idea that she too would don the title of wife, and join the ranks of her mother and friends.
That had been before…
“Ay Dios mio,” Bonita said. “Who is this young man?Muy guapo.” Her eyes and mouth were open in shocked delight. “Maggie, you didn’t say she was bringing a man home!”
“I’m guessing you’re Ronnie,” Maggie said, folding her arms and cocking her hips at an angle that was somehow regal, if hips could be such a thing.
Ronnie, in more comfortable territory now, extended a well-groomed hand. “Yes, ma’am. Ronnie Archer.”
