Old Man's Ride

I could smell a confrontation coming from miles away. It was a survival skill I’d had to learn growing up amongst a gang of bastards and outlaws. Sure, they called themselves a “club” instead of a gang, but I knew better.

I knew I was in for some sort of argument the minute Bill walked through the front doors. He was the president of the Dust Bowl Devils, and the owner of the diner where I worked. I’d continued wiping down the counter while he glared at me, thinking about who-knew-what. More bullshit about “club dues.” As if I want to be in any club with him.

He said nothing, though. He simply grabbed my mother from where she waited for food by the kitchen window and dragged her towards the back rooms. “Cover my tables!” she called as they disappeared through the swinging doors.

Great. At least it wasn’t busy. My own section of the tiny roadside diner only had two people seated in a booth and one at the counter, and my mother’s only had two more occupied booths. Still, it was the principal of the thing. It was bad enough that Mom would enthusiastically fuck any biker that crooked a finger, but did she have to do it on the clock? At least I can’t hear them when they’re in the back room, I thought with a shudder, remembering the last time Bill had visited us in our apartment.

My mother and I had been watching television together - some silly reality show about some rich family far away in New York City - when Bill had burst through the front door like a fireman evacuating a building.

“Veronica!” he’d roared. My mother jumped to her feet.

“Bill!” she exclaimed. “How’d you get the key?”

He didn’t even bother answering. He simply grabbed her wrist, dragged her into the bedroom. Mom didn’t argue at all - in fact, she flashed me a grin before he slammed the door. I supposed Bill was handsome enough. He had a full head of black hair that he probably dyed. He kept himself clean-shaven, showing off a strong, square jaw. And he was in good shape, with chiseled, muscular arms, despite the beginnings of a beer belly. If I was being honest, I could admit he was attractive, when he wasn’t looking smugly satisfied with himself. Unfortunately, he almost always wore that face.

I couldn’t tell if they were fucking for fighting. Loud crashes came from the bedroom - probably knocking over her jewelry box as he slammed her against her dresser. Only her wails of pleasure stopped me from calling for help; they entwined with his own grunts as they slammed into another piece of furniture, rutting like animals.

My own thighs trembled at the memory. The sounds had seemed to go on for ages, and I could just imagine what was going on the bedroom. I sat there imagining what it would feel like, to be fucked like that. I’d had a couple boyfriends when I was a teenager. The boys were nicer back then, but they were just boys. Now I was nineteen - the boys had gotten meaner as they’d gotten older, and I’d gotten choosier. Much choosier.

It was probably why Bill had glared at me when he arrived at the diner. I was in for that conversation again. I shook my head and focused on my job while they undoubtedly left a tornado of a mess in the back. I’m not cleaning up back there. Not again. Our customers didn’t need much, though - not enough to keep me busy and distracted. Sodas, waters, coffees, pastries - the usual late night fare. The lone man at the counter was probably a trucker. The couple in my booth were just having a post-drunk snack. Nothing remarkable at all. Thanks goodness. Unremarkable was good. When more than one member of club showed up, things could get rowdy.

It seemed like a lot of long and quiet hours passed before Bill and my mother reappeared from the back room, though it was probably more like thirty minutes. Mom ducked into the bathroom next to the kitchen door. Despite their trounce amongst the dry goods, she still looked lovely. She had me young, so she was still fairly young herself. We were near mirror images, with softly curly light brown hair and bright hazel eyes, though her face was round, warm and soft, where mine was more severe. Maybe because I frowned too much. I didn’t inherit her massive, glorious tits, either. Mine were much more modest in size. It took a little padding and luck if I wanted to create a little cleavage. At least they won’t sag when I get old.

Bill took a seat at the counter.

“Coffee?” I asked, and he nodded.

My nerves tingled as I turned away and poured a mug. I could smell the confrontation on the air, and I knew I wasn’t going to like it.

“It’s time to talk again,” Bill said.

I didn’t turn; I played dumb. “About what?”

“Your membership. Or more specifically, lack of.”

“I don’t want to join your club, Bill.” I finally faced him, hot mug of coffee in a shaky hand. “I’ve told you that. I’m only sticking around for my mom.”