I toyed idly with my dark brown hair and tried not to think about what a hot day it was as the motorcycle roared into the parking lot, spitting gravel as it slid to a halt. I sat on the bench outside the MC clubhouse bar. It was my smoke break, and even though I'd quit smoking, I still took the break.
"Call it a sun break, then," I'd shouted when Irish the bartender had tried to inform me that smoke breaks didn't work that way. He wasn’t going to argue much. I was barely an employee, and besides, I knew just how he liked his dick sucked. I had the skinny dude wrapped around my finger.
"Ivy! Got a new girl for you!"
"I ain't in charge, she ain't my girl." I stood as the biker, Mort, dismounted and helped his ladyfriend down from the seat behind him. Yet another blond, with big eyes, bigger tits, and long legs wobbled after him in her super short shorts. So many blonds. Her tight white t-shirt was rumpled - no doubt thanks to Mort himself. The girl wore no bra and her nipples were dark shadows beneath the thin material.
Mort scratched his short beard as he approached. “You look nice today.”
I scoffed. “Who’s your friend?”
“I picked her up at a gas station back on the highway.” That wasn’t what I’d asked. Mort had forgotten the girl’s name. Unsurprising. “You’ll be here tonight?”
“Probably. Something going down?”
He winked. “Hopefully one of you. Or both of you!” He laughed at his own joke.
I smiled back. Mort was nice enough, as bikers went. Too nice for me. He had a short, neatly trimmed red beard and while he wasn’t very tall, he was broad. Stocky. Some girl would be lucky to be his old lady. Maybe it would be this new blond. The way he was ignoring her though said that it wasn’t likely. “Really, Mort, is there a meeting or something?”
“Yeah. So be here.” He turned and as he passed the girl, he slapped her on the ass. The crack echoed through the parking lot. She jumped with a little yelp, then giggled. “Later, sugar.”
We both stood and watched as he mounted his bike and, with a roar, drove back to the road.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
She looked me up and down with an appraising eye; she popped her gum, tossed her long hair, and finally answered, “Dawn. You?”
“I’m Ivy.” I was only twenty-three, but these girls the bikers brought back made me feel downright old. Fresh-faced eighteen and nineteen year olds, finally free of parents and high schools, running wild. Sometimes we got a college girl passing through just looking for a taste of adventure and danger. More often, these girls were broke, drug addicted, fleeing abusive homes or boyfriends, or any other number of unhappy stories.
This Dawn looked like the usual. A young woman thinking she’d found a good place to settle for a while; Mort had probably promised her money for “helping out.” Once she realized what it really entailed, she’d talk herself into doing it because she needed the cash. But she wouldn’t last very long. The guys would turn out to be rougher than she expected. Much rougher. Whatever boyfriend she’d fled would look like a puppy next to them. One slap, one insult, one degrading sex act too many, and she’d be hitchhiking out before anyone could learn her name.
I led her inside by the hand. “We’ll be best friends in no time,” I said, smiling over the lie.
“I’ll bet,” she said. Our heels clicked in unison as we entered the front room bar. It wasn’t much to look at - there was the bar itself, a row of tables, and a row of booths when you stepped inside. Along the front wall was a space with two pool tables and a few more stools. And that was it.
“The bar’s open to the public. Everyone from town comes in here.” I pointed at the bartender. “That’s Irish.” He tipped his baseball cap at her, then turned his attention back to the baseball game playing on the old tube television mounted above the bar. “This place could use an update,” I said.
Dawn shrugged. Okay, I see how it is. She was going for the tough girl thing. That would crack later, when the guys came in. The only way for me to deal with it, though, was to be overly polite.
“The club’s meeting room is in the back,” I said, pointing at the door at the end of the room. “I can’t take you in there, but one of the guys can. Sometimes we’ll run drinks in but only if they say so and only if they let you specifically. So no wandering. There’s some offices and spare rooms back there, too.” I pointed out the bathrooms and the kitchen doors (where we weren’t allowed either, unless the waitresses were swamped), then ordered us burgers and fries.