by Tia Siren
Sherry had always been good with numbers, and she had found a job as an accountant for a small company that sold plastic to larger companies who then molded the plastic into something. Water bottles mostly. It was boring work in a boring building with boring people. But, maybe, boring was exactly what Sherry needed.
Growing up most of her friends had called her Love, a play on her name and the fact that she burned through men the way other people burned through underwear. Sherry was short with round hips and big breasts, and she had long blond hair that men loved to take hold of while they were in bed.
Sherry had grown up in Oklahoma, and it was right after high school that she met Randy, a tall, athletic man a few years older who played minor league baseball. He had swept her off her feet and then revealed his true colors. He was, to put it quite frankly, the way Sherry had said to her best friend, Sue, an asshole. The relationship had lasted two years; the whole time Sherry had been telling herself to leave. Finally, she did. And when she did something, she did it right. She didn’t just leave Randy; she left Oklahoma.
And she ended up in Happy and got her boring job. She had been there a little over three months, and the only thing in Happy, Texas, that she found made her happy was Earl’s, a shady biker bar on the outskirts of town. It was filled with rough men, loose women, and a blaring jukebox that hadn’t been updated since the eighties. It was exactly the kind of place Sherry had always loved.
It was Friday night when Sherry met him, the man who would change her life. She left work and headed straight for Earl’s. She had worked late, trying to win favor from her boss, an old man named Michael who was stingy with money. She could use a raise; the small apartment she rented near the center of town had a bug problem and an obnoxious neighbor problem as well. There were a number of nice little homes in town, empty and waiting for her. On her salary, though, she couldn’t afford one.
One step at a time; that was what Sherry kept telling herself. She was young still, just twenty-one, and she had just left a horrible man who didn’t deserve her. She had left everything behind in Oklahoma—her friends, her family, the stupid nickname. She wasn’t Love anymore; she was herself. Sherry. She just needed her job, and Earl’s, and she would make it.
Earl’s was a wooden building that seemed as though it might fall over in a stiff breeze. The parking lot was gravel, and there were always a few cars in it, and a long line of Harley’s at the entrance. Sherry pulled into a spot near the door and headed for the bar.
She was a bit overdressed, she knew; most of the women in the bar would be dressed like the men: blue jeans, T-shirts, leather vests. Biker chicks. Sherry was attracted to bad boys, but she would never call herself a biker chick. She was dressed for work, with a short skirt and heels and a tight-fitting blouse. She knew her boss, Michael, had hired her for her big tits more than her way with numbers, though her way with numbers was just as impressive as her bust, so she played up her good looks in hopes that the man would want to keep her around. Sherry was smart, and she had no problem playing to any strengths she had, including the looks she had been blessed with.
She had worked late enough that, as she stepped into the bar, the sky outside was rather dark, the sun just a bright line on the western horizon. Heads turned as she made for the bar, sitting on a stool there and folding one hosed leg over the other.
She had come to recognize some of the faces, older men and women who came every day, or at least every Friday and Saturday like Sherry.
But there was a new group now, in the corner, seven or so men and a few women. One man seemed to be holding court, sitting at the head of the long table and downing beer from a massive glass stein. He was relatively young. Sherry wouldn’t put him past thirty, while a lot of the men in Earl’s had thick gray beards that put them near fifty or even sixty. This man was clean shaven, or at least for a biker, which he clearly was; stubble grew on his chin and upper lip, dark like his hair. He wore a black vest with nothing underneath, and as Sherry sipped at a beer and watched him, he turned, and she saw a coiled snake sitting atop a skull on the back of his vest. Other men at the table wore the same symbol, as well as one of the women, a thick girl with red hair.
The man saw Sherry and kept glancing in her direction, and Sherry was sure he was going to come up to her. But before he ever could, the night wore on and a fight broke out.
There had been scuffles at Earl’s almost every night Sherry had been there, but this one was something more. A man in a vest with a different insignia came up to speak with the young man with the stubble. Their voices grew louder, and then fists were flying. Other men came to join them, and then the whole place was nothing but yelling and fighting and punching.
A switchblade came out and one man was stabbed. He fell back on wild feet, knocking into the bar, shaking it so violently that Sherry had to reach forward and steady her beer. Earl himself was behind the bar most nights, and he was a big man with a beard that fell almost to his belly button.
“Enough!” he roared. “No stabbing in here, you idiots.”
The fight stopped for a moment, and then one man yelled for everyone to go outside, and they did. Sherry had always been drawn to excitement, so she followed the brawl outside and stood near the front door with the other women. Almost every man in the bar had chosen a side and was fighting, and Sherry saw that even the man who had been stabbed was fighting once more, a hand clamped determinedly over his bleeding gut. The bikers were all careful to keep away from the row of motorcycles; that much was plain. But they paid no such respect to the cars in the parking lot. And as Sherry watched on in horror, the handsome man with the chin stubble lifted a fat guy into the air and slammed him onto her car. Her car. The windshield shattered.
Without thought, Sherry marched into the midst of the fighting and tapped the man with the stubble on the shoulder. He spun around, his fist raised as if to strike her. But when he saw it was a woman, he put his hand down.
“What do you want?” he snarled. “I’m busy here.”
Sherry saw that his name was sewn onto the lapel of his leather vest, or at least a nickname: Colt.
“That’s my damned car!” Sherry shouted. She had been with an abusive man for too long to be afraid of Colt.
“Get out of here. You’re going to get hurt,” Colt said, and he took her by the arm and led her back to the entrance of Earl’s.
“What about my car?”
“Why don’t you go order us a couple of beers, sweet thing, and when I’m done kicking ass out here, we can talk it over.”
And with that, he turned and dove back into the ruckus. Sherry fumed, but she did as the man had asked. She went in and claimed a small table after ordering two beers, and twenty minutes later the cops had been called, the fight had broken up, and a few men had been carted off to jail. Colt wasn’t one of them—even though the fight had started with him and the other man—and he came in and sat across from Sherry. She waited for him to speak, but first he took his beer and downed the whole thing.
“You only got me one?” he asked, smiling across the table.
“You broke my windshield. I can’t drive like that. I can’t afford to fix it.”
“Well shit, if it’s all just money,” Colt said, and he pulled out a thick wallet and tossed a couple of hundred dollar bills in front of her. “That should cover it. And I can give you a ride tonight.”
Sherry didn’t know what to say. Colt grinned and held out his hand. “I’m Colt,” he said. Sherry shook it.
“That’s a stupid name,” she said, and Colt laughed.
“It’s not my real name. It’s like the gun. Big, powerful.”
“You aren’t that big,” Sherry said. She was annoyed by the man’s bravado, and she was even more annoyed that she felt a strong attraction to him.
Colt just laughed, but Sherry was pretty sure he flexed his muscles a bit as he did so. She couldn’t help but smile.
“You new here?” he asked her then. “I ain’t never seen you
before.”
“Moved her a couple of months ago. I’ve been here every weekend. Where you been?”
“I like to ride,” he said, and he didn’t elaborate.
“That’s a fancy vest,” Sherry said.
Colt frowned as he looked at her, trying to decide if she was making fun of him or not. “You heard of the Vipers?”
“No. Is that your club?”
“Yeah. My daddy started it. I run it now.”
“I don’t know much about motorcycles,” Sherry said truthfully.
“Then why you hanging out in a biker bar?”
“Cheapest beer,” the she said with a grin, and Colt couldn’t help but return it.
“You want another one?” Colt asked as he stood, and in answer, Sherry slammed her head back and downed her beer.
They had a few more drinks. Time passed and soon it was after midnight. When Sherry and Colt stepped out of the bar, the sky was as black as pitch, except for the millions of stars shining among thick gray clouds.
Colt led the way to his bike, a monstrous thing made of chrome and metal, and offered her a helmet he had sitting on the back of the bike. He didn’t put one on himself. Sherry slid the helmet over her head and then climbed on behind him, having to forgo modesty in her short skirt.
The handsome, muscular man backed the bike out of its spot and then kicked the engine on. The thing roared like an animal, and they were off.
Sherry had never been on a motorcycle before, and she found the whole thing exciting and liberating. Colt was practiced and the ride was smooth, but he twisted the handlebars back far and they flew down the empty streets. She had told him where she lived before they had started riding, and she realized he had asked her then because everything was so damn loud that he never would have heard her while they were riding, even if she yelled in his year.
Her arms were around his waist, and she was worried for a moment that she was holding on too tight, but she didn’t dare lessen her grip. Her long hair, which stuck out from under the helmet, whipped in every direction in the wind, and the ten-minute drive back home became a five-minute one on the back of Colt’s bike. He pulled up in front of the two-story apartment building, one foot on the curb as he cut the engine. Sherry climbed off the bike and handed Colt her helmet. He put it behind him, using a strap or two to keep it in place.
“You going to invite me in?” he asked, grinning. She noticed his teeth were as perfect as any she had seen before, white and straight. Holding on to him had been intoxicating, even more so than the beers she had drunk. He smelled like a man should: He was clean, a hint of soap, but there had been stale sweat, beer, and cigarette smoke mixed into his musk as well. The bike had been roaring and vibrating, and Sherry had enjoyed the sensation between her legs. She very much wanted to invite Colt in, but she knew she shouldn't. She had left Oklahoma to get away from a man; she didn’t need to come to Happy, Texas, and find another one so quickly.
“Invite you in? For coffee?” she asked, a playful smirk spreading across her plump lips.
“Do I look like the kind of guy who drinks coffee?”
“Then what do you want to come in for?”
“I want to fuck you,” Colt said, and she appreciated that he wasn’t the kind of guy who beat around the bush. But still, she wasn’t going to give in to him, and certainly not that easily.
“I don’t think so,” she said. “Thanks for the ride.”
And with that, she turned and headed inside. As she unlocked her apartment door, she heard Colt’s motorcycle roar to life, and then it screamed as he sped away.
Inside, Sherry undressed and climbed into bed. She stared up at the ceiling, thinking about Colt, and before she knew what she was doing, she was imagining him there with her, naked in her bed, a throbbing cock jutting out from his pelvis. She thought of him taking her, and her hand snaked between her thighs.
2
The morning after Sherry had met Colt, she used his money to have her car towed to the local body shop and a new windshield put in. The body shop was only a few dusty blocks from her apartment, so she walked down to pick her car up when they called her to tell her it was ready.
It was Saturday, and Sherry busied herself during the day with running errands. She stocked her fridge and pantry and then bought a few new blouses for work. The whole day she only had one thing on her mind, though. Colt.
She managed to wait until seven at night before she rushed over to Earl’s, hoping the man would be there. She wasn’t disappointed. He was sitting in the corner once again, with the same group of men with the same insignia on their backs. The Vipers.
He noticed her as soon as she walked through the door. Since she hadn’t come from work, Sherry was dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, though she was by far the most beautiful woman in the place. She sat at the bar and drank a beer for ten minutes before Colt made his way to her. She wondered if he was trying to seem uninterested. If she were in his place, and that was the case, she would have waited at least twenty.
“Hey there. Got your car figured out?” the man said as he sat on the barstool next to her.
“Yeah,” Sherry said.
“Good,” Colt said, and he ordered a beer for himself. It came quickly, and he sipped from it.
“You hang out here all the time when you’re not on the road?” Sherry asked.
“Yeah, pretty much. Best bar in Texas.”
Sherry nodded in agreement. “Okay, so Colt. How’d you get that nickname?”
The man laughed and drained half his beer. “I told you, it’s like the gun, big and powerful.”
“And I told you that you aren’t that big.”
Colt laughed again. She liked when he did so; he sounded kind, even though he didn’t look it.
“It’s a horse, too, so maybe it’s from that.”
“You don’t know where your nickname comes from?” Sherry asked.
“No. It’s a nickname. I didn’t give it to myself. You got a nickname?”
“I did growing up.”
“Did you give it to yourself?” Colt asked.
“No.”
“There you go,” the man said. “What was your nickname?”
“Love.”
Colt burst into loud laughter, and he slapped a hand down on the grimy bar, making his beer bottle jumped up and clattered over. He picked it up before any beer could spill and drained what little remained. When he was done, he looked over at Sherry. “Your nickname is Love, and you’re giving me shit about my nickname?”
“My last name is Loveland,” Sherry clarified.
“I don’t care. That’s a stupid nickname. What’s your real name?” Colt asked her.
“Sherry.”
“Sherry. You know, I gave you a ride and didn’t even learn your name.”
“You tried to do more than give me a ride,” Sherry said.
“No. That would still be giving a ride. I like the girl on top,” Colt said, and he winked at her.
“Tell me those terrible lines and winking doesn’t really get you laid,” Sherry teased.
“All the time,” Colt said. And it was true. He had always done well with the ladies, even while he had been in a pretty serious relationship, which had recently ended.
“So what’s your real name?” Sherry asked.
“Colt,” the man said with a grin.
“You said it was a nickname.”
“It is. I don’t tell people my real name.”
“You’ll tell me, won’t you?” Sherry asked.
“I don’t know. It depends.”
“Depends on what? If I sleep with you?”
“If I say yes, will you sleep with me?” Colt asked.
“No,” Sherry said.
“Okay, well then no. That’s not what it would depend on.”
“Then what would it depend on?” Sherry asked.
“If I fall in love with you or not.”
“You only tell people what your name is if you love them?”
“Yeah,” Colt said.
“So who knows?”
Colt smiled. “My momma and dad.”
Sherry rolled her eyes. “I think you’re full of shit,” she said.
“I’m not, scout's honor,” Colt said, putting one hand over his chest while he flicked a finger of the other in the air for another beer.
“There’s no way in hell you were a boy scout,” Sherry said, and they both laughed.
They drank together all night, and then it was time for the bar to close, so they headed out to the parking lot.
Sherry was too drunk to drive, so she called a cab. It had to come from the next town over, so she had a bit of a wait. Colt had offered to give her a ride again, but she was pretty sure he didn’t need to be driving either, so he waited with her, sitting on the back of her car next to her.
The cab came, interrupting idle chit chat, and she climbed into it. Colt watched her go and then walked on wobbly legs to his motorcycle.
He straddled the machine and kick-started it. He headed home, which was a ways out of town, a small house built of brick that stood in a dirt yard. Texas, this close to the Mexican border, was practically desert, and he even had a cactus in his front yard. Colt was used to other Vipers coming and going, and he wasn’t disappointed that night. There were three men and two women there, one a little young thing named Ashley who was always good for a quick lay. He did just that, but even as he was inside the girl, he was thinking of Sherry.
Colt wasn’t used to women turning him down, and Sherry had managed to do it twice in two nights. Damn. Colt fell asleep thinking of her.
3
When Colt awoke, it was past noon and the sun was high in the Texas sky, angry and hot. He walked out into his living room in nothing but his boxers, where he found his best friend, Davey, sitting and talking on the phone. Colt sat next to him, and Davey soon hung up.
“You remember that little shit Greg Hosson?” Davey asked him.
“Yeah, I do,” Colt said. Greg was a wannabe biker, with a crappy little motorcycle and a bad attitude. He had stolen some money from the Vipers, hoping to make a name for himself. Instead, it had just gotten him sent to the hospital and banished from Happy once he could walk without crutches.
