Packing Double: A Bedlam Butchers MC Romance (The Motorcycle Clubs Book 5) by Ruby Dixon
Authors: Ruby Dixon
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CHAPTER ONE
“No way,” I breathe, staring at the piece of paper fluttering under the time clock. It’s the schedule for the next week of shifts at Chrome, the bar I’d waitressed at for the last six months. Even though we were always short-staffed on weekends, I’d been marked off of Friday night’s schedule.
That isn’t fair. Joleen knows I need tuition money for the upcoming fall semester, and tips are best on Friday nights. I’ve even specifically requested to work anyone’s overtime shifts. I tell everyone I’m available every day, every hour, because I have no social life other than school and work. I don’t date—school has to come first.
So why mark me off Friday night? I need the money, and I always stay late to help out. I even dress a little extra sexy and put on my best flirt game to make a bit extra in tips. So what the fuck is this all about? I rip the schedule from the board and storm off to the cash office, full of indignation.
My boss is in the back room, cranking the coin sorter. “Joleen,” I complain, and plop the schedule down in front of her. “I told you I need Fridays. Why am I off tomorrow? You only have two girls scheduled. That’s not enough and you know it. Why—”
“Panty raid,” Joleen says without looking up. “Bedlam Butchers.”
“Huh?” I don’t even know how to begin to reply to that.
“Tamra, honey,” Joleen says, finishing with the coin sorter and turning around in her chair to look at me. “You’re a sweet girl and a good waitress, but you can’t work tomorrow night. It’s a panty raid.”
I ignore the fact that Joleen refuses to call me Kitty. It’s a little too tarty, she says to me. Fuck that. So I like attention. So I like men. I don’t like being put into a corner and made to wear a label, that’s for damn sure. As a former foster kid, I haven’t had the best luck in life or ever had anyone to depend on. I suppose if anyone’s a mother figure to me, it’s Joleen. She’s lived so much life that she can’t help but have a few of the answers I’m seeking.
“I...I don’t get it?” I tell her. “What’s a panty raid?”
Joleen crosses her arms and gives me an exasperated look. “You’re twenty two, right, honey?”
“Twenty four.”
“Still too young.”
“For what?”
“For the Butchers,” she says. “Don’t get me wrong, they’re a strong club, and a young one, but I don’t think you’re their type.”
What on earth is Joleen babbling about? “I don’t understand anything that you’re saying.”
“That’s because you’re not in the Lifestyle.”
The way she says it—all capital ‘L’ in there—makes me realize that it’s a motorcycle club thing. Joleen herself dates patches, or so the rumors go. But Joleen is older than me and looks as if life has chewed her up and spit her out. She’s unhappy more often than not, chain-smokes, worries about her bills far too much, and never dates longer than a week. I never see her with anyone permanent-like.
So if that’s the Lifestyle, it’s good that I avoid it. Chrome is a side-of-the-highway dive bar that gets its fair share of bikers, so I know not everyone has it as bad as Joleen does, but she’s my best example...which is why I never date.
But the whole ‘panty raid’ thing keeps hitting a naughty bone, and I have to ask. “So...what’s a panty raid?”
Joleen pulls out a cigarette and her favorite Zippo, lights her smoke, then indicates that I should sit down. I do eagerly, hefting myself backward onto a counter and letting my legs dangle.
“I’m guessing you’re not a virgin, Tamra, honey.”
I snort. “Not in the slightest.”
“So, okay. Then I guess I can’t shock you with this shit. A panty raid is when the boys decide they need a little booty around. A little more club sweetbutt, if you catch my drift.”
I’m not quite getting what she’s saying, but I don’t want to derail her. “Go on.”
“The boys pick out a bar and let the
“No way,” I breathe, staring at the piece of paper fluttering under the time clock. It’s the schedule for the next week of shifts at Chrome, the bar I’d waitressed at for the last six months. Even though we were always short-staffed on weekends, I’d been marked off of Friday night’s schedule.
That isn’t fair. Joleen knows I need tuition money for the upcoming fall semester, and tips are best on Friday nights. I’ve even specifically requested to work anyone’s overtime shifts. I tell everyone I’m available every day, every hour, because I have no social life other than school and work. I don’t date—school has to come first.
So why mark me off Friday night? I need the money, and I always stay late to help out. I even dress a little extra sexy and put on my best flirt game to make a bit extra in tips. So what the fuck is this all about? I rip the schedule from the board and storm off to the cash office, full of indignation.
My boss is in the back room, cranking the coin sorter. “Joleen,” I complain, and plop the schedule down in front of her. “I told you I need Fridays. Why am I off tomorrow? You only have two girls scheduled. That’s not enough and you know it. Why—”
“Panty raid,” Joleen says without looking up. “Bedlam Butchers.”
“Huh?” I don’t even know how to begin to reply to that.
“Tamra, honey,” Joleen says, finishing with the coin sorter and turning around in her chair to look at me. “You’re a sweet girl and a good waitress, but you can’t work tomorrow night. It’s a panty raid.”
I ignore the fact that Joleen refuses to call me Kitty. It’s a little too tarty, she says to me. Fuck that. So I like attention. So I like men. I don’t like being put into a corner and made to wear a label, that’s for damn sure. As a former foster kid, I haven’t had the best luck in life or ever had anyone to depend on. I suppose if anyone’s a mother figure to me, it’s Joleen. She’s lived so much life that she can’t help but have a few of the answers I’m seeking.
“I...I don’t get it?” I tell her. “What’s a panty raid?”
Joleen crosses her arms and gives me an exasperated look. “You’re twenty two, right, honey?”
“Twenty four.”
“Still too young.”
“For what?”
“For the Butchers,” she says. “Don’t get me wrong, they’re a strong club, and a young one, but I don’t think you’re their type.”
What on earth is Joleen babbling about? “I don’t understand anything that you’re saying.”
“That’s because you’re not in the Lifestyle.”
The way she says it—all capital ‘L’ in there—makes me realize that it’s a motorcycle club thing. Joleen herself dates patches, or so the rumors go. But Joleen is older than me and looks as if life has chewed her up and spit her out. She’s unhappy more often than not, chain-smokes, worries about her bills far too much, and never dates longer than a week. I never see her with anyone permanent-like.
So if that’s the Lifestyle, it’s good that I avoid it. Chrome is a side-of-the-highway dive bar that gets its fair share of bikers, so I know not everyone has it as bad as Joleen does, but she’s my best example...which is why I never date.
But the whole ‘panty raid’ thing keeps hitting a naughty bone, and I have to ask. “So...what’s a panty raid?”
Joleen pulls out a cigarette and her favorite Zippo, lights her smoke, then indicates that I should sit down. I do eagerly, hefting myself backward onto a counter and letting my legs dangle.
“I’m guessing you’re not a virgin, Tamra, honey.”
I snort. “Not in the slightest.”
“So, okay. Then I guess I can’t shock you with this shit. A panty raid is when the boys decide they need a little booty around. A little more club sweetbutt, if you catch my drift.”
I’m not quite getting what she’s saying, but I don’t want to derail her. “Go on.”
“The boys pick out a bar and let the
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