Taken by Bikers(2)

By: Meg Jackson

“What’s this place called again?” I asked as we walked towards the wooden front porch.

“Della’s,” Brian said. He reached for my hand and I allowed him to pull me under his arm. I did feel safer with Brian’s arm around my shoulder, but I was still mad at him.

“How’d you find out about it?” I asked.

“Oh, Tony and some of the guys come here a lot,” he said as we approached the door. I could hear loud, old school country music and the sound of laughter and pool balls hitting each other coming from inside. Brian took his arm away and held the door open. I wished he hadn’t taken this moment to be chivalrous; I didn’t want to go in first.

To be honest, at this point, my emotional state was close to panic. What were these people going to think of me? Were the men going to bother me? Brian was strong and young, but he couldn’t really protect me if something were to happen. What if they had guns and knives? What if they raped me? Or, what if they just laughed at me? Somehow, that last fear was the worst.

Despite myself, I was kind of intrigued by the dirty, low-life atmosphere the bar had. It was cool. And raunchy. And I kind of hoped that I would be noticed, a little bit. I was surprised at myself; I’m kind of shy and I don’t like flaunting myself or being hit on by dudes at bars. But this was different. I stepped in and the smell of smoke and old booze seemed to hit me in the face. Brian stepped in after me, letting the door slam.

Some of the conversation quieted as the men in the bar turned to look at us. A few of them I saw smile and nudge each other; a few seemed to have permanent scowls tattooed on their faces. They were all rough looking. Some were huge, both in muscle and fat, while others were lanky with tight, well-defined muscles popping through their vests and black t-shirts. That seemed to be the running theme here: black vest, black t-shirt, dirty jeans, black boots. Bandanas as far as the eye could see. A lot of them had patches sewn onto their vests and jackets, and the words “Black Dogs” were everywhere. I wondered if this was a gang, and that was their name.

I was surprised by how handsome some of the men were, despite their unkempt facial hair and grimy faces. I thought a few of the men were missing teeth as they smiled at me and Brian. I felt Brian move away from me and grabbed his hand, following him to the bar. Conversation returned pretty much to normal. A man standing at the jukebox hit the machine.

“Don’t ya got Hank the Third, Cumstain?” the man yelled, looking at an older, tough-looking woman behind the bar.

“Pay for a new jukebox, we’ll get your dirty crap music, Bull,” she snapped back, then turned back to wiping down the bar with a rag that looked older than she did. There were three female bartenders besides the older woman, which was funny to me considering there really weren’t enough people in the bar to seem like they would need three bartenders.

All the bartenders were gorgeous. They all had the same biker style, but instead of looking ragged and worn like the men, they looked drop-dead sexy in tight leather vests, cut-off shorts, and long high-heel boots. One had her long black hair done up in a braid with a bandana, the other two were blondes who let their hair fall loose. They were all leaning over the bar flirting with the men. Brian and I stood awkwardly for what felt like forever at the bar, until one of the men pointed to us and said something to the dark-haired bartender which made them both howl with laughter. She came over, still giggling.

“What do you want, dolls?” She asked, drumming her fingers against the bar impatiently.

“Two whiskey gingers, ma’am,” Brian said, ordering for both of us. I shot him a look without even thinking about it; Brian knew I hated drinking hard liquor. Beer didn’t taste good and made me feel bloated and gross, but at least I had more tolerance for it. I was such a lightweight that even two whiskey drinks could have me slurring and stumbling all over the place. The bartender walked away without saying anything to us. We watched her pour our drinks while talking to some of the other patrons. One of the blondes came up behind her and made a goofy face to the men at the bar before reaching around and playing with our bartender’s breasts, jiggling them. The bar roared with laughter at this; I looked away, embarrassed. When I looked back, she was just setting my drink down in front of me. Brian pulled out a twenty and left it on the bar.

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