Without another word, he walks away, giving me no choice but to follow. Leading me through the tables, we weave around the throng of people to the back of the bar, where a man sits at a high-top by himself.
I try to read him as I approach, gauging what I’m getting myself into. The man has brown hair pulled back into a bun on the crown of his head and a scruffy beard to match. There’s a deep-set scowl on his face, one that gives off adon’t fuck with meattitude. His clothing screams biker, from the dark blue jeans to the leather vest full of insignia over his t-shirt.
But what’s unsettling is his eyes.
Empty and hollow, they’re devoid of all emotion.
Like two empty pools of blue staring back at me, inadvertently telling the story of a man who has lost his reason for living.
It’s a look I have recently discovered behind my own as I look in the mirror.
This man faces the same emotional turmoil I face.
“Cain,” Nixon greets as he slides into the chair across from him. I don’t follow suit. Instead, I continue to stand and watch the man cautiously, waiting to see ifhe invites me to sit. “This is the prospect I told you about—Sly.”
Cain’s eyes bounce from Nixon over to me, and I watch as he sizes me up. He’s attempting to be intimidating, and perhaps to any other man he might be, but I have encountered far worse men than him in my lifetime.
“You sure you want to be a prospect, pretty boy?” His eyes narrow on me, and I easily sense his fear tactic.
Crossing my arms over my chest, I rub my fingers against my trimmed beard. “You want my honesty?”
“I don’t take lightly to liars,” he growls at me, placing his glass on the table with more gusto than necessary.
“Until five minutes ago, I was unaware of your motorcycle club, so no,amico, I am not sure I want to be a prospect. Nixon, however, thinks I’d be a good fit, so if you agree, then sure, I will join your club and see what Ridgewood's vigilantes do for their city.”
For a long moment, Cain says nothing. His gaze pulls from me to Nixon, who I see shrug from beside me, then his eyes return to mine. He studies me, then after another moment, he says, “Sit.”
Begrudgingly, I pull out the chair beside Nixon and sit down.
“How long have you been here?” Cain asks, signaling for the waitress.
“Couple of weeks.”
“Why’d you come to Ridgewood?”
Nixon asked me that same question. This town isn’tso small where everyone knows each other, yet that has been a burning question for both men.
It strikes me as odd, but before I can answer, a waitress with bright pink hair approaches, and Cain reorders his drink.
“What can I get you boys?” she asks Nixon and me, turning her focus to us. She’s a younger woman, and has a piercing on either side of her lower lip that catches in the light as she smiles at me.
“Whiskey neat,” Nixon tells her, then her bright green eyes turn to mine.
I’m not particularly in the mood to drink, but I suspect if I do not order something, the motorcycle club president will only cast further judgment upon me.
“Bourbon, per favore.”
“You’ve got it,” she says, then leaves the three of us alone again.
The silence between us is heavy, and I can feel Cain’s heavy stare, waiting for my answer. Still, I make him wait as I look around at the bar. The music amplifies throughout the space, bouncing off the walls and mixing with the customer’s chatter.
What catches my curiosity is that the full wall adjacent to us is a mirror, which I suspect hides something behind it. Private rooms, perhaps, or maybe an office. Above, the ceiling sparkles as though it’s the night sky. The detailing in this space is really quite exquisite for a bar, especially one that houses a motorcycle club above it.
Once I feel I have proven my point to Cain thatwhile he may be in charge, I answer to no one, I reply to his question. “I flipped a coin, and it landed on Ridgewood. Originally, I am from New York, but I have left for a fresh start on the West Coast.”
“Running from something?” he counters, leaning back in his chair.
Rubbing my thumb over a notch in the wood of the table, I nod slowly. “You could say that.”
