Behind the bar was another man with dark, messy hair, a mustache over his lip that also grew down the sides. A patch at the indent in the middle of his lower lip. An adorable baby younger than Travis tucked securely in the curve of his arm, an arm that was decorated in tattoos of dancing flames. And finally, an elegant, tall, stunningly beautiful brunette in the curve of his other arm (which also had flames).

Last, sitting beside the redhead was a black lady in a dress I might sell a kidney for if it was my style (it wasn’t, it was chic, cutting-edge, and sophisticated, I was flirty, ruffles, and sometimes flowers, definitely butterflies, none of this I knew in a glance she’d ever wear, even upon threat of death). Her hair was coiffed to perfection. Her eyes were sharp in a way she could never play dumb and get away with it.

Those eyes, as were all the others, were on me.

And the remains of their fast food lunch was all over the bar.

“Hey!” I called and took several more steps in.

The men’s eyes dropped instantly to my skirt.

The women’s eyes moved directly to each other.

“I’m looking for Joker,” I informed them.

The women’s eyes instantly swiveled back to me.

“Say what?” the black lady asked, sounding like she was choking.

“Um… Joker.” I lifted up my pie. “He helped me out a couple of days ago. I wasn’t in the position to say a proper thank-you then. So I popped by to say it now.”

The second I was done talking, I jumped when the goatee guy turned his head to the side and roared, “Joker!”

“Holy crap,” the redhead breathed.

“This… is… awesome,” the brunette whispered.

“Girl, get your butterfly ass over here,” the black lady ordered. “I need to get a better look.”

Disregarding this order, sensing his movement, my eyes skidded to the mustachioed man to see his head dropped. He was looking to his feet, but his shoulders were shaking.

The baby in his arm gurgled.

The door behind me opened. I turned to it and saw lanky guy entering.

He looked right to the bar. “Couldn’t miss this.”

With a deep biker voice (that was not as attractive as Joker’s, but it was still attractive), that voice shaking like his shoulders, the mustachioed man replied, “Bet not.”

I was confused.

“Sister,” the black lady started and I looked to her. “I see either Joker didn’t communicate the dress code to you or, better option, you chose to ignore it, struttin’ your butterfly ass in here not wearin’ a halter top and daisy dukes.” She tipped her head to me. “Kudos to you. Be who you are. Bikers be damned.”

The redhead and brunette started giggling.