“I appreciate it,” I replied. “I’ll see.”
“I’ll see is a polite way of saying no.” He chuckled. “I won’t bother making room for you at the table.”
Cactus Jack was nobody’s fool.
“I’ve got plans,” I explained. “The fellas and I are going out for a few beers.”
He climbed into the truck and draped his frail left arm out the window. “If you’re like your father, I’m guessing a few beers with the fellas is a normal night.”
“It’ll be far from normal,” I explained. “We’re headed to a new bar up north. It’s not part of my normal Thursday routine. I’m a creature of habit. I don’t like making changes.”
He chuckled. “If nobody’s told you, you act just like your father, too. Getting him to change was like pullin’ teeth.”
I patted the palm of my hand against the cab of the old truck. “You better get those donuts home before your friends wake up and call the cops.”
“Fit me into your routine some night,” he said with a wave of his hand. “I’ll tell you some stories.”
I grinned a shallow smile. “I might just do that.”
I turned toward the clubhouse knowing that would likely be the last time I’d ever see Cactus Jack.
3
Gray
The light fixtures shook so violently I feared they’d come crashing to the floor. Beer bottles in the storage room rattled. The floor beneath me quaked.
My muscles tensed. Living close to the US-Mexico border, I’d seen many news segments of the DEA converging on the drug cartel with massive helicopters and house-crushing personnel carriers filled with gun-toting government agents. Fearing some sort of tactical mission was underway, I cautiously crept toward the front door.
The thundering noise worsened. Beyond the bar’s confines, muffled voices barked indiscernible commands. Filled with equal parts fear and curiosity, I stood within inches of the door, wondering what was on the other side of the windowless wall. My throat tightened.
I drew a breath, paused, and reached for the handle.
The door burst open without warning, nearly knocking me over in the process. Stumbling to maintain my footing, I gazed through the sunlit opening.
My squinting eyes struggled to process what I was seeing. In no way was it what I expected.
Motorcycles—and the men who rode them—were everywhere. Not one or two, or even a dozen. An entire ocean of chrome, glistening paint, black leather, tanned skin, and tattoos went beyond the limit of my parking lot, spilling out to within inches of the access road that paralleled the highway.
Some men were dismounting their iron steeds, while others grinned and revved their engines in a voiceless argument to find out whose eardrum-rupturing exhaust was the loudest.
The throaty sound from the numerous V-Twin engines caused the air to pulse. The hair on my neck stood on end. I scanned the horizon. It was an all-you-can-eat buffet of my favorite meal.
My hungry heart faltered.
The man in the doorway stepped out of the sunlight and into the bar. Slightly shorter than average and rather muscular, his skin was bronze and glowed like gold. A slight growth of beard covered his strong jawline. He pulled off his sunglasses and commenced to undress me with his eyes. “How’s it goin’?”
My lips parted, but I couldn’t formulate a response. Instead, I offered him a mental curtsy and a surprised look. Feeling like a tongue-tied fool, I stood with my mouth open and my mind racing.
While the handsome biker admired me with lustful eyes, a large silhouette stepped through the blinding sun and into the bar.
“Step aside, Carp,” the muscular giant growled. He nudged the handsome biker to the side. “Age before beauty.”
It was Brisco. He peeled off his sunglasses, scanned the area, and then looked right at me. “You ready to be invaded?”
It was a ridiculous question. I may have looked like a confused millennial, but I was beyond ready. In fact, I envisioned actively participating in getting Carp so drunk that he made decisions he’d later regret. Decisions that included him and me in the storeroom bumping uglies while his tattooed brethren told war stories, arm wrestled each other, and barfed on my freshly-mopped floor.
I gave a reassuring nod. “Absolutely.”
While Carp continued to undress me with his eyes, Brisco stomped across the bar. Flattered, nervous, and curious as to what might unfold over the course of the night, I watched a steady stream of leather-clad men filter through the door.
“Listen up!” Brisco bellowed to the group of men. “There’s two rules.” He pounded his clenched fist against the table where he and Price were seated on the previous night. “First, this is Price’s table.”
Each of the men gave a nod in acknowledgement.
“Second,” Brisco nodded his bald head toward me. “She’s off-limits.”
Wait. What?
I shifted my attention from Brisco to Carp. His expression instantly morphed from one of interest to complete and utter indifference. Curios as to why the off-limits declaration was made, I searched the group. So far, two dozen men had meandered into the bar, but Price wasn’t one of them.
I’d been around bikers since the day I was born. They were like every other walk of life. There was no cookie cutter mold that each of them fit into. Some were neat, concise, and well-spoken. Others were loud, sloppy, and overbearing. The vast majority fit somewhere in between. In my experience, however, they all shared one common trait.
They gave respect if they were treated with respect.
I decided the off-limits remark was likely nothing more than a demand on Brisco’s part for the group to treat me with respect.
Some of the men pushed and shoved each other while others chose their tables. A few meandered to the rear corners of the bar and stood with their arms crossed, watching the others intently. I swallowed a mouthful of nervous energy and addressed the crowd.
“Listen up, fellas!” I shouted. “I have Budweiser and a local IPA draft for a buck, or domestic bottles for $3.50. Food choices are simple. Pickled eggs or pickled sausages. Your choice, a buck.”
Outbursts seemed to come from everywhere. While I struggled to make sense of what was being said, a tall man with closely cropped hair edged his way through the crowd. He was lean with a well-defined jaw and had piercing brown eyes. As he approached, I could see that the front of his vest was adorned with two patches, Treasurer and Lacky.
He placed a gentle hand on my shoulder and positioned his mouth within an inch of my ear. “Let’s make this easy,” he said in a pleasant tone. “Put a pitcher of Budweiser on each table and a few extras on the bar. Line the bar with empty glasses. At the end of the night, let me know what we owe.” He leaned away. “Be fair with me, and I’ll be fair with you.”
“Okay,” I responded. “What if someone wants something other than Bud draft?”
“Give them what they want,” he replied. “Keep one tab. At the end of the night, provide a receipt and I’ll pay it.”
Attempting to please the thirsty crowd by any other means would have been a nightmare. I silently exhaled a sigh of relief. “Sounds good to me.”
I threaded my way through the layers of bulging biceps, leather boots, and the lingering aroma of testosterone. After taking my position at the tap, I filled pitchers with beer two at a time and pushed them to the edge of the bar. As soon my hand released them, they disappeared into the crowd. Ten minutes later the place filled with beer-drinking, leather-wearing, expletive-blurting bikers.
Relieved to have a cold beverage in each of their greedy hands, I surveyed the crowd. I knew the Hard Eights were the largest club in the Tucson area, but I hadn’t envisioned them filling my bar to capacity. A head count confirmed thirty-two men, which was my seating capacity.
My eyes came to rest on Brisco and Carp, who were standing in front of my prized jukebox. I opened the register, grabbed a fistful of quarters, and headed in their direction.
Upon reaching the two seem
ingly confused men, I extended my hand. “Here.” I handed Brisco a fist-full of quarters. “It’s four songs for a quarter.”
“Does this fucker work?” he asked.
I chuckled. “Considering what I paid, it better work until long after I’m dead and gone.”
He traced his fingertips over the glass of the 1950’s Seeburg Select-O-Matic as if he were feeling the curves of a perfectly shaped ass. “This fucker’s awesome,” he growled. “Fuck yeah, I know how to work it.”
He pumped a handful of quarters into the machine and handed the remaining loose change to Carp. Standing side by side with the bald-headed giant for the first time, I realized just how big he truly was.
I was five foot seven in flats, and Brisco towered over me by nearly a foot. With arms as big as my thighs, it was obvious why he was chosen as the club’s Sergeant-at Arms. Anyone who wanted to mess with the club would think twice about doing so after knowing they must get through him first.
Brisco pressed the tip of his sausage-sized index finger against the buttons mounted at the center of the jukebox. The vertical phonograph slid the length of 100 potential options, paused, and returned to the center before stopping. The selected 45 rpm record was extracted from the long row and placed in the plater. Mystified at the piece of equipment’s faultless operation, both men exchanged a glance.
“How old is this fucker?” Brisco asked.
I was as proud of my jukebox as I was of my bar. “It’s sixty-five years old,” I responded. “It’s a reconditioned 1954 Seeburg Select-O-Matic.”
The timeless lyrics of the Allman Brothers tune, Midnight Rider, filled the bar. All but immediately, the dull roar of the men’s voices hushed, leaving the music and my breathing as the only sounds I could hear.
I closed my eyes and let the music take me away. Men from every direction sang along with the lyrics to the memorable song. For the first time since I opened the bar, I basked in my successes. It was my dream to have an old school tavern with a wooden bar that catered to bikers, served pickled bar essentials as the only food, and played timeless music on a vintage jukebox.
Halfway through the song, the cowbell clanged. I opened my eyes and glanced toward the door.
Price’s silhouette stood between me and the setting sun.
Considering the thirty-two leather-clad options that were in the bar, I didn’t want to immediately gravitate toward Price. Upon seeing him, however, my heart faltered.
Allowing myself to be attracted to him was a fool’s move. He was perpetually single, a loner, a rebel, and an outlaw. In the twenty-five or so years that I could recall seeing him blaze up and down the streets of Marana, I’d never seen him with a woman. In fact, I’d never seen him so much as talk to a member of the opposite sex.
I’d had my share of one-sided relationships, false beliefs of loyalty, and of having my heart broken. Knowing Price’s inability to give himself to a woman would prevent him from being a viable long-term partner. I wanted a man who knew how to treat a woman, was willing to commit to her, and was an asshole in the process of doing so. Someone who’d bark orders at me, find satisfaction in seeing me fulfill his verbal demands, and come home every night to exhaust his sexual frustrations.
They were tough shoes to fill, but I guessed that at least one of the thirty-two options in front of me was my Harley-riding Cinderella. Finding out who fit the glass boot was going to be my next quest.
Price entered the bar while the Rolling Stones Beast of Burden began playing. If nothing else, Brisco’s taste in music mirrored mine. If things went in my favor, I could see him as the protective big brother I never had.
“Come look at this jukebox,” Brisco bellowed, directing his comment at Price. “Son-of-a-bitch is sixty-five years old and looks like brand fuckin’ new.”
If Price was headed in my direction, I needed to find a place to hide. It wasn’t that I wanted to play hard to get, or that I feared whatever it was Price had to offer. My pool of qualified applicants was now vast, and I needed to make sure the decision I made was the right one. Furthermore, I knew my limitations when it came to say “no” to a tattooed man who wore leather in the heat of the summer and used a dab of gasoline as his signature scent.
In hope of avoiding another heartache, I turned toward the bar. Coming right at me, Price veered in the same direction. I increased the speed of my gait. Seeming frustrated with my antics, he paused and folded his bare arms over his chest.
His steel blue eyes followed my every move.
In nervous preparation of his arrival, I reached for two pitchers and began filling them. He meandered to where I was and took a precursory glance at the six empty stools. After choosing the seat across from me, he leaned over the edge of the bar.
“Did you think you were going to outrun me?” he asked.
Playing dumb was my best bet. It was something I was truly good at. I plastered my face with an “I’m as dumb as a sack of hammers” look and met his gaze. “What do you mean?”
“You saw me coming and you took off like a scared rabbit.”
I changed my look to one of innocence. It was another trademark expression for me, so the morph from stupidity to angelic was fluid. I batted my eyelashes. “I was just coming to fill a few pitchers.”
“Bullshit.” His gaze narrowed. “What are you afraid of?”
He could sense that I was lying. Maybe he was like a wild animal and could smell my fear. I wasn’t about to admit that he was what I was afraid of, so I blurted out my list of true fears. “In general?” I turned off the tap and set the pitcher aside. “Rattlesnakes, people with nothing to lose, the brakes failing on my car, and drowning,” I said without skipping a beat.
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” He glared at me for a moment before his stare softened. “Fuck it, I’ll play along.” He tilted his head toward the door. “Is that your Pathfinder outside?”
“It is.”
“Your brakes in need of some work?” He gestured to his right side with a wave of his hand. “Chin owns an auto shop.”
“The brakes are fine,” I replied. “It’s just a constant fear of mine. That one day I’m really going to need to stop and the pedal will be all squishy. I’ll come careening down a steep hill, trying to find a place to come crashing to a stop and the streets be lined with minivans that are stuffed full of balloon-toting toddlers and the sidewalks will be filled with participants of the annual wheelchair basketball tournament.”
“Use your emergency brake,” he said dryly.
I grabbed an empty pitcher and positioned it under the tap. “The brakes are squishy, remember?”
“Your brake pedal operates the brakes through a system of hydraulics,” he explained. “It pushes fluid through a small steel line, and the hydraulic pressure clamps a fibrous pad to a steel rotor, which is attached to your wheel. When your hydraulic brakes fail, you can use the emergency brake. It’s completely independent of the hydraulics. It operates with a cable. It’ll work when the others fail.”
I gave him the “I’m dumb as fuck” look. This time it was for real. “No shit?”
“No shit.”
“Wow.” I offered a virtual fist bump. “I had no idea.”
“You don’t have a damned thing to be afraid of,” he continued. “Rattlesnakes around here won’t bite unless you step on them, people with nothing to lose are just as scared of dying as anyone, and there’s not enough water in the desert to drown in.”
“Three inches,” I argued. “It only takes three inches.”
“To drown in, or to satisfy you?” he asked, stone-faced.
Price McNealy just set a trap. I could either step in it or avoid it altogether. The choice was mine. If I took the bait, I’d likely end up on the receiving end of Price’s sexual offering. If I chose avoidance, I could have my choice of the thirty-two men who were two-fisting beers and bolstering their courage.
I opted to dive in headfirst. “It takes three inches to drown in.” I set the pi
tcher aside and locked eyes with him. “To satisfy me, it takes this much.”
I slapped the edges of my outstretched hands against the bar, leaving my open palms eight inches apart. I glanced between them, and then met Price’s curious gaze. “So,” I said, cocking my hip slightly. “Are you big enough to get on this ride?”
With the agility of a youthful African gazelle, he leaped over the bar and landed feet-first at my side. Facing his thirty-some MC brethren, I stood with my mouth agape, completely in awe of his athletic ability. In anticipation of his next move, my heart raced with such force that I feared he’d hear it.
The stubble of his five o’clock shadow grazed against my cheek. “Give me your hand,” he growled into my ear.
Incapable of doing anything but complying with his demand, I raised my arm, offering my hand for whatever he deemed necessary.
He gripped my wrist firmly with one hand while unbuckling his belt with the other. Upon completing the task, he shoved my hand down his pants. “You tell me,” he breathed. “Am I big enough?”
My face flushed hot. If I stood at his side seeming embarrassed, he would walk all over me and it would never stop. I needed to pull up my big girl panties and take ownership of my smart mouth. There was no backing out now. I resituated my hand and pressed my palm against his thick shaft.
His girth swelled.
I surveyed the crowd. So far, no one was giving us a second look. Nevertheless, my anxious heart continued to pound against my ribs. I stroked his rigid shaft as good as I was able, considering my hand was confined to the inside of his tight-fitting jeans.
Within two strokes, he was as stiff as a stone.
“Well?” he asked in a low, drawn out tone. “Can I ride, or not?”
“Difficult to say, with it being hidden and all,” I replied dryly. “If I had to guess, I’d say you’re falling a little short.”
When a girl spends enough time around life’s most colorful characters, she tends to adopt their ways. Having spent a lifetime around bikers, I’d developed the mouth of a sailor and the filter of a death row inmate. Although it wasn’t a daily occurrence, it was commonplace for me to blurt out a remark that I later came to regret.
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