Free Slate (Rebel Wayfarers MC) by MariaLisa deMora

approached them. “What can I getcha? Fair warning, we’re only fifteen minutes from last call, so you need to order heavy and fast.” He grinned at them, seeing a white smile parting the leader’s dark beard in return.
    “Shot of Jack and a draft,” he said.
    “All around?” Andy asked, his hands already pulling up iced mugs for the beer and a stack of shot glasses for the whiskey.
    Nodding, the tall biker slapped a fifty onto the bar and Andy acknowledged it with a return nod. He set up a mug under the tap, starting it on the tilted side of the glass first to reduce the head, and then picked up a bottle of Jack, pouring it up and down the sides of the stacked shot glasses, getting an overflow start on filling them. Alternating between the beer and the shots, he served the men quickly, taking the money and returning the change to the bar in front of the dark-haired man.
    Walking away from the group, he cleared empty glasses and bottles from the rest of the bar, realizing the remaining patrons had vacated while he was serving the bikers. At least everyone had already cashed out their tab, and several of them had left tips. He collected those along with the empties, and pushed the money into the jar on the bar back. The jukebox did its random thing, and started playing Ladies and Gentlemen by Saliva. Andy grinned down at the tabletop he was wiping; that song was an anthem for his life recently.
    “Whose Indian is that out back?” The question came from down the bar and Andy looked up, wiping down the inside of the ice bucket.
    “She’s mine,” he smiled proudly.
    “Nice ride, man,” came from the man closest to him, a blond beast with a nonexistent neck.
    “Thanks, I try to keep her spiffy,” he nodded, and turned back to his work.
    “Who do you ride with?” That came from the far end of the group, a dude with brown hair and swirling tattoos on his face.
    “I’m not affiliated, man, just moving through. Here for a few months.” Andy tensed up, wondering if this would be a problem here, like it was in Durango.
    He’d been jumped there by some bikers who thought he was a nomad scouting their territory. The beating wasn’t that bad; they stopped once they stripped his shirt and couldn’t find any tats of colors or club brands. He hated that vulnerable feeling though, because he knew they didn’t have to stop…and there was nothing he could have done either way.
    Standing upright behind the bar, Andy mentally ran through the motions it would take him to reach the shotgun under the countertop at the other end of the bar. “That a problem?” he asked the group.
    “Nah, ain’t no big thang,” said the leader, taking a long drink of his beer.
    Nodding, Andy pointed at their empty shot glasses and almost empty beer mugs, asking, “Want another round?”
    Flipping out a twenty to add to the money on the bar, the leader answered him wordlessly, and Andy nodded. He moved back down the bar and started the process again, serving the men their drinks and ringing up the sale.
    Seeing sudden movement in the mirror, he watched as four of the men descended on one of their own, taking him down to the bar top and holding him there. Spinning around, Andy saw the gun in the man’s hand in the same moment it was plucked from his fingers.
    Tucking the gun into the back waistband of his jeans, the dark-haired leader grinned over at Andy. “Looks like Spider thought he had a problem with that, but he was wrong,” he said, sitting back down on his stool.
    Spider was sitting upright again, sandwiched between the blond and the lea der; he spit out, “Ain’t right and you know it, Watcher. We don’t need a nomad gettin’ in our business.”
    “Shut up, Spider,” said the blond.
    “You shut up, Opie. You know it too,” came the retort.
    Andy’s head was spinning; he...that guy might have been going to shoot him. “You might want to sit down a minute, kid,” Watcher said, looking at him closely. “You look a