The neon sign didn't buzz. It hummed with a low, menacing vibration that seemed to rattle the teeth of anyone foolish enough to stand near the door. The sign read the Iron Piston. But the locals in San Bernardino just called it the Trap. Everyone knew the rules.
Keep your head down. Don't stare at the patches. And never ever touch the bikes lined up outside like steel sentinels. When the bartender position opened up, three people applied. Two withdrew their applications when they realized who owned the bar.
The third was "Sarah. " She didn't take the job because she was brave. She took it because the wolf at her door was scarier than the wolves inside. She didn't know it yet, but walking through those heavy oak doors was about to save her life, or end it. Sarah Miller sat on the edge of a mattress that had seen better decades, let alone years.
In her hand, a crumpled eviction notice from the property management firm Apex Living trembled slightly. It wasn't the trembling of fear, but the vibration of pure unadulterated exhaustion. She was 28 years old, possessed two-thirds of a nursing degree she couldn't afford to finish, and had exactly $43 in her checking account. The problem wasn't just the rent. It was the debt left behind by her ex-husband, Gary.
"Gary," with his charming smile and his addiction to online poker and payday loans, when Gary vanished into the humid Florida night six months ago, he didn't take his debts with him. He left them like a rotting carcass on Sarah's doorstep. Now the collectors were calling and lately they had stopped calling and started parking unmarked sedans across the street. She needed cash fast under the table and substantial. She scanned the local classifieds on her cracked phone screen, scrolling past scams and minimum wage nightmares.
Then she saw it. A listing that had been reposted every day for three weeks. Bartender needed night shift. Cash pay. Thick skin required.
Ask for Frank at the Iron Piston. No cops. Sarah knew the Iron Piston. Everyone in the county knew it. It sat on the outskirts of town, a cinder block fortress painted black, surrounded by a chain-link fence topped with razor wire.
It was the clubhouse bar for the local chapter of the Hells Angels. The rumors were legendary. They said a guy once got his jaw wired shut just for changing the song on the jukebox without asking. They said the police didn't respond to calls there. They just came the next morning to write reports.