River Bodies (Northampton County #1)(40)

But down the alley not far from where the antique store sold trinkets, the diner served tasty root beer floats and vanilla shakes, the sports store rented tubes and canoes and kayaks, was the darker part of town where there weren’t any streetlights, where the music played fast and hard, where the Scions congregated in Sweeney’s Bar.

Becca walked toward the dark alley, leaving the shops, the tourists, the street, the light behind. She didn’t think about what she was doing, not really, taking tentative steps toward the bar, her curiosity about the Scions, John, drawing her ever closer. Several motorcycles were parked out front, the chrome shiny in the moonlight. A lone figure stood on the bar porch. Becca jumped when whoever it was struck a match.

“Come a little closer,” the woman said and lit a cigarette. “So I can see you.”

“Me?” Becca asked and looked over her shoulder. She was the only one in the alley. The noise of the town was all but gone, faded into the humid air. The music that had been playing inside the bar had stopped. Men’s voices bellowed in between laughter.

“Yeah, you. Ain’t no one else out here but us.” The woman took a long drag of the cigarette, the end of the butt illuminating her face. She looked young but also old too. Weathered, Becca’s mother would’ve described her if she’d been there. Her mother would’ve said the woman was someone who had taken some hard knocks, lived a hard life.

Becca stepped onto the porch. Her legs a little unsteady from the beer she’d drunk. The woman was wearing a white tank top and a black miniskirt. The neon sign in the window flashed red and blue lights across the woman’s tattooed arm.

“You want a drink?” The woman took another long drag from the cigarette, then flicked it into the alley.

Becca knew she wasn’t thinking clearly and that she should turn around and walk away. The bikers’ bar was no place for the police chief’s daughter.

“Sure,” she said and followed the woman inside.

The door banged shut behind her. A large bearded man at a nearby table turned toward them. He reached out and grabbed the woman Becca had followed into the bar, wrapping his large hand around the woman’s wrist.

“Have a seat,” he said and pulled the woman onto his lap as though she were some kind of rag doll. She didn’t protest and wrapped her skinny, tattooed arms around the man’s neck, kissing his cheek and ear and lips.

Becca lingered by the back wall, abandoned. A couple of men were playing pool. A stack of money was piled high by one of the corner pockets. The tables and bar were crowded with bikers dressed in jeans and leather and tattoos. The women all looked the same with their teased, bleached hair and cheap clothing. The place wasn’t anything like Becca had expected, although she couldn’t say what she’d thought it would be like. But this place . . . this place was dingy and smoky and smelled like a boys’ locker room, wet and stale. It didn’t make her want to leave, though. Someone belched. Becca caught the scent, turned her head away.

Not far from where she stood with her back against the wall, she spotted a woman sitting alone. She wasn’t like the other women. She was wearing a plain T-shirt, and her reddish hair was tied in a ponytail. Several empty shot glasses littered the table in front of her, but she didn’t appear drunk. Becca thought the pretty woman would be the safest person for her to approach. Now that Becca was here, she figured she might as well get what she had come for.

She skirted around a couple of men, trying to be inconspicuous as she made her way to the pretty woman. She was five steps away when someone grabbed her forearm.

“Aren’t you a cute thing,” the guy said, smiling, his teeth stained brown with nicotine.

“Thanks,” she said and tried to pull her arm free.

“Where are you going?” He squeezed her tightly. His fingers were covered in skull rings. “Come on, sit. Have a drink.”

“No, thanks,” she said, feeling afraid for the first time since she’d stepped inside. “I’m meeting a friend.”

“Sit.” He kicked out a chair. “I don’t bite. Not unless you want me to.” He laughed, and then his face turned serious. “Come on, doll. Sit.”

Becca’s mouth went dry as she lowered herself into the chair. He released her arm, handed her a beer. She sipped from the mug. One of his friends grabbed a chair, turned it around so that it was facing backward, dropped down on it in front of her.

“Look who we have here,” he said. “The police chief’s daughter, all grown up.” He was wearing a leather jacket full of patches. One of them was the number sixty-nine. He caught Becca looking at it.

“You know what that means, don’t you?” He wriggled his tongue.

Becca’s legs started shaking.

“It’s Becky, right?” the guy with the patches asked.

“Becca,” she said, clearing her throat.

“Well, Becca, what do you say we go for a little ride? I bet you could give us something extraspecial,” he said, laughed, punched the guy with the rings in the shoulder.

Becca’s heart pounded. The guy with the skull rings stood. The other guy with the leather jacket full of patches slipped his hand under her arm, pulled her up. No, she wanted to yell. She was supposed to holler, No! Stop! The music started blaring. A guitar riff sliced the air. Who would help her? Who would hear her if she screamed? She felt as though she were being dragged, her feet barely touching the floor as the guy with the patches pulled her through the bar, the crowd, and headed for the door, the guy with the rings on their heels. No one stopped them. Not many had been paying attention, and the ones who were smiled, laughed, joked, a blur of stained teeth and talking heads. Surely the other women would see what was happening and save her. But as they got closer to the door, the woman from the porch, the one who had invited Becca inside, tossed a condom at her. It hit Becca in the face before falling to the floor.