Booze O'clock Read online

  Booze O’clock

  Bijou Hunter

  Copyright © 2018 Bijou Hunter

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmosphere purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  For more information about this series and author, please visit her website.

  Cover

  Photographer: johan-jk

  Source: Depositphotos.com

  Cover Copyright © 2018 Bijou Hunter

  Dedication

  To sweet Sally;

  My sweeter boys—Jack, Max, Luca;

  Tatum Sweet for our decades-long friendship;

  Sherry for naming and raising an awesome chick;

  My sweetpea betas—Sarah and Debbie;

  &

  Judy’s Proofreading

  Book Summary

  I’m sucker-punched by love at first sight as soon as I see my boozy Miss Right. Too bad she’s looking to put a bullet in the head of the dangerous man who both gave her life and stole it away. Deciding her plan is suicidal madness, I swoop in to save her from a mistake she can’t unmake.

  Heroic behavior isn’t my usual M.O., and I lack a manual on how to heal the grief-stricken beauty. Since failing Tatum isn’t an option, I’ll definitely come up with a plan. If not on my own, then my family of very tenacious busybodies will throw me an assist—whether I want their help or not.

  I know Tatum will lose her heart to me lickety-f’ing-split. I'm Chipper Wilburn after all, and White Horse is my kingdom.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  1—CHIPPER

  2—TATUM

  CHIPPER

  3—TATUM

  CHIPPER

  4—TATUM

  CHIPPER

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  5—CHIPPER

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  6—CHIPPER

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  7—CHIPPER

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  8—TATUM

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  9—TATUM

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  10—TATUM

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  11—TATUM

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  12—CHIPPER

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  13—TATUM

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  14—CHIPPER

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  15—TATUM

  CHIPPER

  TATUM EPILOGUE

  CHIPPER EPILOGUE

  ABOUT BIJOU

  1—CHIPPER

  Salty Peanuts smells like an unflushed toilet. The stink slaps me squarely in my handsome face as soon as I open the front door of the honky-tonk in the bordering town of Hickory Creek Township. I’m here to meet with the president of the local motorcycle club. I hope he has a good explanation for why his bar reeks.

  In this honky-tonk, Camden Rutgers is the king. He walks across the dance floor, and people move aside. The women check out his ass, and the men don’t mind their women’s wandering eyes. Camden runs the Serrated Brotherhood Motorcycle Club with his twin brother, Dayton. Their father used to call the shots, and their uncle was second in command. Their aunties are the rich bitches who own half the town. Yeah, Camden is a giant man among the shrimps in Hickory Creek Township.

  “Dogs shit in the men’s room,” explains the long-haired, blond biker once he joins me in a back booth. “Our very recently fired bartender has a meth problem. One of his meth friends stole his shit and burned down his house. So Tim’s big fucking solution was to sleep at the bar. Oh, and he kept his big fucking dogs in the men’s room while he partied with friends in here.”

  “How many fucking dogs did he have?” I ask, glancing at the men’s room and imagining the damage the dogs might accomplish.

  “Six pit bull mixes. Using stupid-ass methhead logic, Tim decided to feed the dogs leftover chili from the kitchen. They shit everywhere. I swear some of it got on the fucking ceiling. The staff tried cleaning the mess before we opened but clearly weren’t successful. We’re considering burning the place to the ground and starting over.”

  “I’ll buy you the match.”

  Camden smirks, leaning back again. “How’s your old man?”

  “Desperate to kill a biker,” I say, knowing he’s making an age-based dig at my stepdad, and boss, Angus Hayes.

  “The other day I saw Cap riding around town with Keanu. The kid just won’t stop fucking growing.”

  “How about you ask your nephew about his best friend rather than hitting me up for info on my brother?”

  “Keanu thinks I’m a dick. He told me so the other day,” Camden says, sounding hurt by his nephew’s assessment.

  Aww, poor, powerful bastard. Apparently, young people today just don’t kiss their elders’ asses anymore.

  “He isn’t wrong.”

  Camden sighs dramatically. “No, he isn’t.”

  “Let’s get to business, so I can flee your toilet before you burn it down.”

  “Fine, we have a supply problem in Hickory Creek,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “Nashville is eating up most of the supply, so want to buy up some of yours in Common Bend to deal with the shortage.”

  “Bonn is in charge of Common Bend and deals with suppliers. I handle White Horse, and we don’t have supply. I feel like you wasted my fucking time by having me drive to your stink bar to ask me shit you should have asked your fucking cousin.”

  “Bonn said no. I want you to say yes.”

  “Why did he tell you to fuck off?”

  “He didn’t use those words.”

  “He probably pities you.”

  “Shit, if I knew you’d be such a bitch, I’d have asked to meet Cricket. At least, when your sister gives me shit, she just makes fun of my hair.”

  “You do have stupid hair,” I say, running my hand through my shaggy—yet not hippy-long—blond mane. “Why did Bonn tell you no?”

  “He gets his supply from the Reapers, and apparently Johansson doesn’t want my club making money off their shit.”

  “Yeah, Cooper doesn’t like you. I remember Hayes mentioning your little biker feud.”

  “Not a feud. He’s just a bitch. We’re super fucking nice.”

  “Whatever. This shit doesn’t involve me. I only ride a Harley to look sexy, not because I care about biker business.”

  “Fuck Johansson. You’re aligned with my club.”

  “Look, I’m fine with screwing over a dirty biker from Kentucky to benefit a dirty biker from Tennessee. Go Butternuts! With that said, I’m not in charge of illegal fucking supplies. My job in the organization is to make sure none of that shit ends up in White Horse. If you want someone to screw over Johansson, convince Bonn. Otherwise, you’re plum the fuck out of luck, my dirty biker friend.”

  “Your sister hooked up with a biker.”

  “Yeah, but she bathes a lot, so his stink doesn’t get on me.”

  “Funny shit, asshole.”
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  “Considering your bar smells like my ass before I wipe, your protests don’t hold much weight.”

  “Fuck, just ask Hayes to make an exception,” Camden whines, clearly realizing I’m not one of his fawning followers. “I shouldn’t have to make a deal with another organization when I can work with the devil I know.”

  “Fine, but next time you want to usurp your cousin’s authority, just shoot me a fucking email. That way, I don’t have to get your town’s stink on my clothes.”

  “Yeah, sending emails about drugs is fucking brilliant.”

  “Who do you think is reading your shit?”

  Camden’s dark eyes narrow and he mutters, “Your sister won’t get married because she doesn’t want the law to know her business. I think as paranoid fuckers go, your family wins.”

  “She’s married in the eyes of God and our family. The only two powers that matter. Now, are we done?”

  “Sure. I need to get a cleaning crew organized to de-stankify this place.”

  “Then home to your annoying teenagers and exhausted wife. Man, you really are living the fucking dream, Rutgers.”

  “One day, you’ll eat those cocky words, Wilburn.” Camden stands up and shakes my hand. “You suck, and I hope you stub your dick on the way out.”

  “What was that? I was distracted by your girly haircut.”

  Flashing a friendly middle finger, Camden walks away from me and toward the front door. I’m ready to ditch this crap factory too.

  That is until I catch sight of the love of my life entering Salty Peanuts.

  The blonde is hotter than any woman in this place has a right to be. While the waitresses aren’t bad, the Rutgers twins hire their staff based on skills rather than looks. I assume this decision was their wives’ ideas.

  Wearing a green parka, this babe catches my eye and keeps me hooked. I name her “Breezy” since she’s so clearly going to be my girlfriend soon. Doesn’t matter if she’s dating anyone or even married. Doing a really bang-up impression of Gabriel’s horn, my gut feeling heralds the appearance of my true love.

  Taking a seat at a table near the front door, Breezy orders a drink and then gives the room a scan. Her gaze passes right over me as if completely oblivious to how she’s in the presence of her dream man.

  She’s young, so I’ll give her slack about missing the obvious. Her eyes—blue or green is my guess from this distance—find Jude “Howler” Hallstead and remain locked on him.

  Time hasn’t been kind to the former VP of the Serrated Brotherhood MC. Now bald, he lost his once thick blond hair. Too much beer and nachos cause his belly to shake like a bowl of jelly when he laughs at booze-induced humor. The girl sitting next to him is young enough to be his granddaughter. Under the table, his hand touches her in a very un-grandfatherly way. This typical old-school biker nastiness didn’t fly with the Rutgers twins once they met their wives—sisters Daisy and Harmony. Their uncle and father still act as if younger pussy is better, though.

  Breezy can’t look away from Jude. She struggles to smile and glance up at the waitress when her drink is delivered. For whatever reason, Breezy only has eyes for the gross old fucker.

  Then Howler laughs and stands, startling Breezy from her staring. Lowering her gaze, she can’t stop behaving as suspiciously as possible. I swear her wannabe stealth act is the cutest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.

  I move to a better table for spying. No one takes notice of me, not even the woman of my dreams.

  Breezy takes a shot of whiskey and shudders wildly, clearly unaccustomed to booze. She peeks at Howler again and then returns to staring hard at her hands.

  Any other time with any other woman, I’d introduce myself to verify she was as ferociously interesting as she is beautiful. I’m not a shy man, and my feelings don’t get hurt easily. Women shoot me down occasionally, and I’ve never once cried about it. I’m a big picture guy. However, with this woman, I only watch and wait.

  Suddenly, a puke-inducing thought pops into my head. What if this gorgeous specimen once serviced the vile dung pile she now stalks?

  Not a deal breaker.

  Everyone has a shameful fuck in their past. Not me, of course, but everyone else. There’s no need to give up on Breezy simply because her vagina might have at one point been defiled by a disease-ridden old man.

  Okay, I admit riding that nasty fucker—or sucking off his decrepit grandpa cane—should be a deal breaker except I refuse to walk away. A little part of me wants to, though. Breezy ought to know better than to fucking swoon over someone so past his prime.

  Sure, sure, Howler comes from a wealthy family in Hickory Creek Township, and women like money. Possibly, Breezy hopes he’ll be her sugar daddy.

  Or worse!

  No!!!

  Oh, Breezy, no. Why, Breezy?

  The way she glares at him from under her gloriously blonde locks makes me fear she’s gotten herself in trouble with his toxic sperm. Is she carrying one of Howler’s many fucking bastards? Did she come here hoping to force him to support their unborn spawn?

  Still, this disgusting possibility is not a deal breaker, though it really ought to be. Ugh, damn, Breezy, you’re making this shit painful for me, but my gut tells me to keep my ass in my fucking chair. This woman is the one, the only one, and I can’t walk away.

  The next hour falls into an easy routine. I watch Breezy watch Howler. She drinks shot after shot of whiskey like a tough guy in a movie despite her clearly having no taste for the booze. The drunker she gets, the more obvious her plan becomes.

  The love of my life plans to kill Howler. I don’t know why and I don’t particularly care. If she uses the gun I catch sight of in her jacket and shoots Howler, Breezy’s end will come quickly. Camden Rutgers left a while ago, but other Serrated Brotherhood bikers remain, and they won’t need a gallon of booze to get up the nerve to avenge their club brother.

  Breezy takes another shot of liquid courage and pats the gun in her jacket. I sense she’ll make her move soon. The level of booze she consumed in the last hour will either send her to the floor or provide the bravery she needs to take a shot.

  Twice, she stands and focuses her gaze on Howler. Each time she’s foiled when a redheaded club slut trades her chair for the old man’s lap. Once the whore gets up from Howler’s boner, Breezy again prepares to make her move. Then the slut returns to give him another impromptu lap dance, and Breezy returns to her chair.

  As the booze takes hold, her head sways and bobs. At this rate, she’ll topple over long before Howler’s dead or even gets his dick to finish the job with the slut. Finally, Breezy gives up on waiting and stands unsteadily. She leans against the table to remain upright while reaching for her weapon.

  We are a go for clusterfuck!

  Breezy takes three very shaky steps before her gun appears from her jacket. I’m on the move, gracefully dodging waitresses and customers. I reach Breezy just as she lifts her weapon. With the music so loud and the evening crowd already bombed, no one notices her—Howler least of all.

  “I’ll take that,” I say to the beauty.

  Breezy flinches when I snag the gun from her tight grip. Before her complaints gain much volume, I corral her out the front door. The chilly late-autumn wind hits my body as violently as the bar’s stink did earlier. I don’t hesitate, dragging my beloved rag doll along with me.

  Her arms pull loose once we’ve created a little space between us and the front door. I’d feel more comfortable if we left the parking lot altogether, but Breezy finds her “hear me roar” voice and lets me have it.

  “How dare you?” is the best she can come up with despite looking ready to tear me a new asshole.

  I drop her pistol into my coat pocket and study her in the white light of the moon. “Killing Howler will no doubt feel like a million bucks, but having your pretty head blown off afterward would be a shame.”

  “You don’t know me,” she says, too sloshed to coherently state her case. “I have a right to be he
re.”

  “You and plenty of others, but that doesn’t change how killing him is a death sentence.”

  Running her slim fingers through her messy blonde hair and getting them thoroughly tangled in the effort, she asks, “What do you care?”

  “I’d think that was obvious, but since you’re very drunk, I’ll state the obvious,” I say, standing a foot from where she struggles with her coat zipper. “You’re magnificently gorgeous, and I plan to marry you.” Breezy stops goofing with her jacket and frowns at me. I only smile at her shocked expression. “What, too soon, Breezy?”

  “Breezy?” she mumbles and returns to fighting with her zipper.

  I reach forward, gently slap away her hands, and zip her up. “Breezy means girlfriend.”

  “It means slut and bitch too,” she mutters. “What are you doing? Why can’t you leave me alone?”

  Ignoring her whining, I zip my bomber jacket. “I’m Chipper. What’s your name?”

  “Tatum,” she says and then shakes her head as if wishing she remained silent.

  Her name settles into my mind, forever anchored to my soul now. “Why do you want to kill Howler? Did he fuck and forget you?”

  “No,” Tatum hisses. “How can you think something so grody?”

  “Then why kill him?”

  “He,” Tatum stammers. Shaking her head, she sighs and leans against the wall of the bar. “I shouldn’t have drank so much. I can’t think now.”

  “Why did you choose whiskey?”

  “My mom said it was my grandfather’s favorite drink.”

  “Were you close to your grandfather?”

  “I didn’t know him.”

  “Were you close to your mother?”

  Tatum answers my question when a tear rolls down her pale cheek.

  “Did she die?”

  Nodding, Tatum exhales unsteadily and struggles against more tears.

  “Did Howler kill her?”

  She shakes her head and swallows hard. “He might as well have.”

  Relieved to learn she didn’t bang Howler, I can guess who he did nail. “Are you one of his bastard kids?”

  “How many does he have?” she asks, angrily wiping her cheek.

  “I don’t know. A dozen maybe. That’s the rumor I heard.”