Ravage: Lightning Bolts MC Read Free

hated that I dressed that way for work, but there was nothing I could do about it. I had a decent body, and I had to use it if I was ever going to get her into a hospice. She needed it as soon as possible. Then I could worry about the soul-sucking debt collectors.
     
    “I’m heading out, Mom. Janet’s just next door, she’ll be over in a minute.”
     
    Mom shook her head when she saw my t-shirt, jeans, and boots. I wore heavier makeup than usual, too—all the better to be seen in the dim lighting at the bar. “Are you sure it’s all right for you to wear an outfit like that?”
     
    I grinned. “Mom. If it weren't okay, I wouldn’t have a job. And I wouldn’t be making a couple of hundred bucks a shift. Don’t worry about it.” I gave her a kiss before hurrying out the door.
     
    Thirty minutes later I was knee-deep in prep work. The idiot who worked the afternoon shift hadn’t replenished anything for me before he left, so I had to refill the ice, wipe down the bottles, replace a few empties, and fill the beer fridge. I could have killed him. I barely made it in time to be ready for happy hour.
     
    The place filled up fast, giving me no time to think. That was for the best, though. When I did have the time, I always compared myself to the young people who came in after long days at work. They were roughly my age, some a little younger. All of them had good jobs requiring suits or dresses. All of the girls carried nice bags, and every one of them had a big, shiny smartphone at the ready for an impromptu selfie or shot of their drinks and apps for Instagram.
     
    What would it be like to live that sort of life? Not living every day in fear of what would happen? When I woke up in the morning, my first thought was of my mother, and she was my last thought before I went to sleep. Would she make it through the night? Would she be in even more pain when she woke up? How much longer would it last? Was it wrong for me to wish her suffering could be over?
     
    But I put on a big smile and poured drinks and served low-priced appetizers to the post-work crowd. Pot stickers. I would have presented them differently—the chef behind the line didn’t understand the concept of putting a little effort into the happy hour crowd. Just because they were paying lower prices didn’t mean they didn’t deserve a little flair. Same thing with the eggrolls, and the fried mozzarella, and the bruschetta. The choices were all boring and sedate, too. Nothing the customers couldn’t get at any chain restaurant in America. Another concept the chef didn’t quite understand.
     
    I would have done things differently. It was a game I sometimes played when there was a lull in the action. How would I have shaped the menu? How would I present the food? While I was at it, how would I have laid out the restaurant just beyond the bar? What sort of experience would I want my customers to have?
     
    I didn’t have much time to think about that, though, not with a Friday night crowd on my hands. The place was jammed, and I was thrilled as the pocket in my apron got fatter and fatter with cash. What a relief, having money in my apron.
     
    At one point, after what felt like only minutes of work but was more like hours, I saw Mac waving feverishly at me from the doorway. I grinned, waving back. She was like a jolt of energy, that girl. The tiniest little thing, not even five feet tall, with a head full of almost white-blonde hair all curled up in corkscrews. Her hair had always reminded me of her personality, even when we were kids. Bouncy.
     
    She’d brought roughly a dozen women with her. I was relieved to see that she’d kept her word, though it wasn’t like I had been worried. She was generally pretty good at that.
     
    She introduced me to all of them, acting like the bar was hers. The funny part was, anybody who saw the way she acted and heard her confident, strident voice would have believed her. For a girl as tiny as she was, she could