"Okay, um. Got any idea who's hiring in town?"
Robert's head cocks to the side in confusion, similar to the reaction I assume he'd give a naked woman, since I'm pretty sure Captain Comb-over's never seen a real set of boobs before. That's catty, but I don't even care. I just lost my not-super-sweet-but-still-better-than-what-I-had-before gig, and I got no other leads. So as far as things go, this whole situation sucks.
"Sweetheart, ain't nobody gonna hire you in town. Not with Jim Stone running up in here like he just did."
"I'm sorry, what?" Now I'm the one staring at him in confusion.
"You might get a kick out of playing with fire, lady, but I sure don't. When Forsaken tells me I ain't supposed to be employing you, I listen." Robert pauses just long enough for my brain to start getting with the program. "Don't know what you did or why, but you got a target on your head. Jim Stone wants you for some reason, and if I were you, I'd go quietly."
"Is that his name?" I ask and point to the empty door to the lobby. Robert nods his head in confirmation. Jim Stone. He sounds like an ass.
"Ain't nobody in town gonna give you a job, Ruby. Jim's made sure of that. Best you can do is take the one he's offered."
My upper lip curls in disgust as I realize what he's saying. Here I am in a small town, in an isolated part of California, with nothing really near enough to get a job outside of town, and no car to take me there anyway. So much for starting fresh, free of the confines of club life. Jesus freaking Christ, this is perfect.
"I'll get the money for the room to you tomorrow, and I'll pay up for the week." I give Ian's arm a gentle tug, and we leave the lobby just as quickly as we entered. I'm fuming. My blood boils--okay, not literally--and my nerves are totally shot. I made the right choice--to get a job and stand on my own two feet. I took that first step toward independence and security and a life worth living. Something I could be proud to give my boy. But then Jim Stone happened and that all went to hell. Somewhere in the back of my mind, an excitement stirs in me. It's a ballsy move that I can almost respect. He's forced my hand, for some reason that's well beyond me, but at least I'll have some kind of job. It can't be worse than anything else I've endured to put food in my boy's belly. Or to keep him safe.
"Are we going to see the motorcycle club, Momma?" Ian's voice is louder than it's been in a while. Loud is good. Little boys are loud--that's normal. It's when he gets quiet that I worry.
"Yes, baby, we are," I say absentmindedly as we head down Main Street and trudge the few remaining blocks to Forsaken's clubhouse. I'm frustrated and mad at the very fact that this stupid man has just inserted himself into my business and made a decision for me without even asking if it's what I want. But there's also that niggling wonderment. I'd never admit it, not even to Ian, but sometimes it's nice to be saved. Not that I'm expecting a knight on shining chrome or anything, but it'd be nice if this guy turns out to be reasonably decent. I'm not expecting much, but he offered me a job when he didn't have to, and he's seeing to it that I take him up on his offer.
"Do you like this club?"
I think about his question a good block before answering. "I don't know yet. They seem like good people, yeah?"
"Yeah, maybe," he says. "Is Ryan going to be there?"
"I don't know, honey," I say. Truth be told, it's a weekday and too early for the school year to have ended, so he's probably at school right now. Like Ian should be. My heart sinks.
We walk up to Forsaken Custom Cycle with our pinkies linked together. The auto shop that sits in front of the clubhouse has a single garage bay open, and the office door is partially propped open with what looks like a brick. I'm still all sorts of angry and frustrated with Jim Stone, but now I'm equal parts nervous and on edge, too. Maybe he's not a bad guy, and this is a good thing.
No doubt sensing how tense I am, Ian smiles up at me says, "You got this, Momma." God, this boy. He makes me feel invincible and good. Like I'm not a total screwup.
"You lost, sweetheart?" A man who can't be older than thirty--or have showered in the last few days--walks out of the garage bay with his eyes trained on me.
"I'm looking for Jim Stone," I say firmly with my chin out and proud.
The man sizes me up from head to toe and back again. He's vaguely handsome in a way. Probably plenty handsome had I seen him before Jim Stone set his sights on me. As infuriated as I am with the man, I can't deny that I'm attracted to him. It's like I'm dead set on being attracted to the least desirable, most potentially-damaging man I can find.
"What do you want with him?" The man narrows his eyes, and it would intimidate me except for the fact that Jim's jet-black hair comes into view over the man's shoulder.