I was raised in a cult, or that it’s the reason I stole that money from the strip club. From her.
Dee toys with the silver loop that hangs off the zipper of her black bustier. “Is that why the whole goody-two-shoes act?”
The comb halts halfway through my curls. “What?”
“Is that why you’re such a freak?”
“What are you talking about?”
But I already know what she means. She’s referring to the same thing that causes both Monica and Spider to look at me as if I’ve said something odd sometimes. The reason Monica called me Martian Girl, and looked at me as if I’d grown another head when she found out I didn’t know what a biker was.
“The prim and proper thing,” she says. “You sound like you’ve stepped out of fucking Little House On The Prairie or some shit.”
“Little what?”
She smirks, and I know I’m doing it again, showing my ignorance of the world.
I slap the comb down, huffing. There is no point in telling her about the Colony or explaining my past. She wouldn’t believe it any more than Spider does. “Didn’t you say you had work for me to do?”
“Let’s go, Sticky Fingers.” Dee waves me out of the room and locks the door.
Out in the main barroom, Dee directs one of the girls to bring me breakfast. I keep my eyes peeled for Spider, but if he’s in the clubhouse, I don’t see him.
It’s hard to get used to how much bigger this place is, and how much busier it is than Casper’s. There must be three times as many men crowding the tables, playing pool or darts, or bellying up to the bar. Pops’ Place is nowhere near as huge as The Devil’s Den, but it’s at least twice as big as Casper’s. Tequila serves up drinks with Gin, the leggy, amber-haired, heavily tattooed woman Dee says is the White Springs clubhouse bartender.
Monica and a couple of other girls serve up breakfast and drinks, weaving like slinking cats between the packed tables. My stomach tightens when Monica looks at me on her way to a table, plates of eggs and bacon balanced on her arms and palms. She raises her brow at the marks on my chest and shakes her head.
So, it’ll be more of the cold shoulder today. Loneliness hits me like a punch to the gut.
I sit on the only free seat, a couch near the back of the barroom. A guy with a puckered scar on his cheek is sitting beside me, and two heavily bearded guys sit on the couch across from me. I’ve never seen any of them before, so they must be from this clubhouse. All of them cast unapologetic looks at my spider’s web cuts, and the one with the scar gives a knowing smirk.
I focus on my food, wishing I could disappear into the floor and plotting Spider’s death.
The food is scrumptious, the hash browns buttery, the sausage juicy. I savor every bite while soaking up everything I can about this place.
It amazes me that the booze flows this fast so early in the morning. The clock above the bar says it’s going on seven AM, but there’s as much beer coming out of the taps as I’ve seen on any night at Casper’s. The men don’t creep me out here, at least not most of them, but this place reminds me more of The Devil’s Den—loud and bustling.
“Is this place always this busy?” I ask Dee when she sets down a water for me.
“Always.” She snaps her fingers. “Which translates to hurry up. You aren’t fucking princess at the royal palace with the queen.”
The bearded guys across from me laugh.
I glance down at my mostly full plate, a tiny bite of sausage halfway to my mouth. My face heats from my neck to my hairline. I hadn’t even realized what I was doing.
It’s yet another old habit drilled into me by the Colony. There, women are taught very specific rules on how to eat. The pastors tell us to never take more than one helping, eat slowly, and only eat half of what’s on your plate—that for a woman to do otherwise is indecent.
Once, I remember a girl hurrying to eat her porridge when she was late for the Sunday mass. Pastor Seth had called her out on it. She spent the next week with what they called a Pig’s Head around her neck—a wooden carving in the shape of a pig’s head, large enough that it’s impossible