FEELS LIKE THE FIRST TIME

by Scott Hildreth

  My guess was that some small town girls would naturally be drawn to other small towns, but having grown up in a town of 14,000 people caused me to yearn for more. Living in a small town, to me, seemed counterproductive. I needed significant change in my surroundings to feel as if I had succeeded. A big city was drastically different from what I was used to growing up, and change was something I saw as an improvement. My overly religious Baptist parents would rather have me living in a cave, but given the ability to make my own decisions, I’d probably move to Wichita when I graduated.

  A few more weeks, and I would be on my own. I couldn’t wait. My best friend and roommate Sloan was on the volleyball team, a senior, and would graduate with me. We’d talked about being roommates after college, and if things went the way we had planned we would both move to Wichita and live together; easing the financial burden of trying to live alone. She worked with me at the bar mostly on the weekends, and we were a force to reckon with. She at a little more than six feet tall and me at 5’-11”, together we looked like two Amazon women. Men either had a love for tall women, or seemed to hate them. I always thought men were intimidated by my height, but none would ever admit it. Sloan was a little more conservative than I was, but she provided me balance and acted as the angel on the opposite shoulder of my naturally active devil.

  My strict parents attempted to raise me as a conservative girl who abided by the rules and regulations they shoved down my throat. It obviously backfired, because I was a little more adventurous than any of the other girls I met in college. Taking risks and having fun was part of my nature. Having Sloan keep me in check was something I probably needed. Without her, I’d make far shittier decisions without a doubt.

  “I’m headed home, Avery. Thanks. What did I have, I can’t remember?” Ryan asked.

  I turned toward the register and pressed my finger against the screen. After jockeying through the various screens and finding his order, I pressed the total button. After the receipt belched out the bottom, I looked down at the total.

  “Let’s see, you had two Jack and Coke’s and a grilled chicken with fries, Ryan. Looks like twenty-three bucks with tax,” I said as I printed the ticket and handed it to him.

  “Well, here’s thirty. Thanks, I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said as he tossed the money on the counter.

  I nodded my head, smiled, and waved as I scooped up the money and receipt. Ryan was a regular at the bar, and always ordered Jack and Coke. He was overly nice, but had never hit on me or even said anything alluding to the fact he was interested in me. I always respected him for that, because he was married and had children. Although he had indicated his dissatisfaction with his marriage, he made clear he had no intention of cheating on her. He did, however, come into the bar almost nightly to unwind before he went home.

  To me, men were a strange guilty pleasure, and never a necessity. I wanted a man, but my desire, as far as men went, was different than almost anyone I had ever met. If a man asked me out on a date, I wasn’t interested. I wanted a challenge, and if someone was willing to take me on a date without any work on my end, I wasn’t interested. I wanted what I couldn’t have. I desired a man who wouldn’t give me the time of day naturally; or at least at first, and I wanted to earn my way into his mind, heart, and life. If a man appeared to be a challenge, I wanted to try my luck at impossibility; and through my cunning ways, good looks, and competitive nature win him over.

  For my first three years at Southwestern, a professor was on my to-do list. He was in his late thirties, single, and handsome as fuck. He had no idea I was even alive. I dressed provocatively, ditched the bra, and bent over a thousand times in front of him. I tried the naïve schoolgirl act, the innocent religious girl, the I’m an old soul routine, and even sat popping my gum as I twisted my hair in my index finger for countless hours as I batted my eyelashes at him.

  I got absolutely nothing in return.

  After my third year of beating my head against the wall, I learned he was gay.

  Overall, I considered it a win, because he wasn’t technically available. It continued to bother me, as not having him wasn’t an easy loss for me. I even considered trying to make him go straight, but Sloan talked some sense into me. She was right, there was no way I could win that battle.

  “Hey, motherfucker, watch where you’re walking…”

  I turned to face the voice I heard behind me.

  Mr. Rum and Coke.

  At the end of the bar a hallway led to the restrooms. Two men stood at the opening of the hallway. Apparently Rum and Coke had collided with one of the Budweiser twins, and was challenging him on his ability to find the way to his barstool without bumping into him. One thing I didn’t stand for on my shift was fighting. My parents worried about me being a bartender at a bar in a city the size of Wichita, and especially working alone. I didn’t really worry about it at all. I wasn’t big enough to fight men, but I certainly wasn’t afraid to break up a fight.

  Additionally, I had a false sense of security.

  Immediately after taking the job as a bartender, I applied for a concealed weapons permit, took the course, and obtained one. Now, I carried a 9mm Glock in my purse, and I wasn’t afraid to use it if I needed to. Using it to settle a dispute in the bar was out of the question, but I made me feel more secure. Ultimately, if I ever needed it, I had it as an option.

  “You bumped into me,” the Budweiser twin responded.

  Rum and Coke arched his back and clenched his fist. As he blinked his eyes and stared, probably attempting to clear his mind enough to speak legibly, the second twin slipped off the edge of the stool and stepped beside his double.

  “Oh, you gonna get your buddy to jump in, huh? Well, I tell you what,” Rum and Coke howled.

  He unclenched his fist and reached for his back pocket.

  You motherfucker, don’t you dare.

  As I stepped toward the end of the bar, and my purse, he pulled a knife from his pocket and began swinging it toward the two men.

  “What the fuck!” the first twin screeched.

  The second twin began stepping backward, away from Rum and Coke. As he slowly stepped rearward, his brother followed, and the knife wielding tattooed idiot was right behind them. I reached for my purse, and rested my hand on the Glock.

  “Put the knife up, sir,” I hollered over the bar.

  Rum and Coke glanced my direction and immediately turned back to face the two men.

  “You fucking bumped me on purpose, you big dumb fuck. Do you know who I am? I’ll fuck you up,” he growled.

  I’m sure you were a bad ass in county jail, but seriously?

  You’re a douche.

  “Sir, put the knife up, come on. Drinks are on the house. Just put up the knife,” I said calmly.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Gin and Tonic and my Hamburger and water come up to the side of the bar to watch the fight.

  Fucking people.

  “Listen. I’m going to guess, and this is just a wild assed guess, that you’re on parole or probation. Put the knife in your pocket and leave, your drink is on me. If you don’t, I’m going to call the cops. They’ll be here in about sixty seconds; the sub-station is all of half a mile from here. You don’t want the cops in here questioning you, do you?”

  He gazed in my direction and alternated glances between me and the Budweiser twins. To be honest, I had grown to have minimal respect for cops. Every time I turned around, there was one on the television who had shot someone or choked someone to death for no real reason. Because I’m a cop and it’s within my rights, in my opinion didn’t make it right. Protect and Serve wasn’t necessarily the motto anymore. Although he didn’t need to know it, the last thing I wanted was a bar full of cops.

  “Fucking bitch,” he grunted as he folded the knife and pushed it into his pocket.

  Fucking bitch who makes a bad-ass Rum and Coke, thank you.

  “Pussies,” he hissed as he walked past the twins.

  Yes!
<
br />   Another win for Avery.

  As he grumbled to himself and stepped toward the rear exit, I sighed and released my pistol. I wouldn’t have shot him for being in a bar fight, but the gun gave me a little more courage than normal. I smiled at the twins, and shrugged my shoulders. As I raised my hand in the air in my own little imaginary victory pose, I swung the bar towel in a circle and shouted a celebration of sorts for having ended the little disagreement without any bloodshed.

  “This round, gentlemen, is on the house!”

  Okay, that’s two Budweiser’s, a Gin and Tonic, and a glass of water.

  Wichita was a far cry from the quiet town of Marietta, Ohio, but overall I loved it. The wilder the better I have always said.

  And, for the most part, I meant it.

  Chapter 3

  AXTON

  I slammed the gavel onto the sound block three times. After dozen or so meetings during the club’s inception which had gotten out of hand, the block had been screwed to the table at the end where my seat was positioned.

  “I’m calling this meeting to order. Mr. Secretary, have you got anything noteworthy?” I asked.

  Fancy flipped through his notepad and traced his finger along the page. “In the last meeting, Kelp made a motion to allow the trade of the old Sporty abandoned years ago in the back lot to the hardware store for Christmas trees, and provide the Christmas trees to the Toys for Tots kids at the ride this fall. It was left that we were unsure as to the value, and whether or not we had legal right to the little Sporty. I checked with the Treasurer, and we had already filed the paperwork for the mechanic’s lien against the Sporty, and it is legally ours to sell or trade. We have the title in the safe. The Treasurer further informed me the value of the bike is roughly $2,200.00. I have my doubts it’ll be worth that much, but $2,200.00 was his response.”

  “Second thing, I can’t read my fuckin’ meeting minutes, and my memory is shit, so who stood opposed to making the Fayetteville ride mandatory?”

  Jeb raised his hand. “I did.”

  “Gotcha. Just needed to make note of it. Hell, I couldn’t read my own writing. That’s all I got,” Fancy said.

  “Treasurer, where do we stand?” I asked.

  “About the same as last time, Slice. $7,402.20 in the club checking, $5,405.00 in the club savings, and $112,500.00 give or take in the safe. We have nothing due out at this point in time,” Mike responded.

  “Give or take? What the fuck does that mean? How much is in the fucking safe, Mike?” I asked.

  “Close as I can tell Slice, we got a hundred and twelve grand. It’s all banded in $1,000.00 bundles. Then there’s five hundred loose. So, $112,500.00. But I didn’t take time to count all the money in the bands, but there’s a hundred and twelve of ‘em,” Mike said.

  I nodded my head. “Good enough.”

  During Church, when I spoke, everyone was attentive. Not once could I recall being interrupted or disrespected in any manner. Our meetings were conducted in as professional of a manner as a Motorcycle Club could expect, and how I was personally treated in the meetings was second to none. I had my doubts, however, as to my being able to maintain order while the particular subject up for discussion was being brought to light. I decided to talk fast and pause for comments or remarks after I was finished speaking.

  “Alright, listen up fellas. We got us a little situation. I know I don’t normally get involved in matters like this, but for this one, I’m going to. I had a meeting with Frank, and he’s got a little deal that needs taken care of. I ain’t lookin’ to go into a bunch of detail on this, because the whole thing makes me sick, but here we go.” I paused and stood from my seat. “There’s a child molester in town and he’s been making little kids suck his cock; little grade school kids. He made videos of this shit. Cops raided his place on a fucked up search warrant. Bottom line? He’s free and they can’t charge him. They got all the proof, but they can’t use it in court. Frank’s asked us to take care of this guy. I need probably three volunteers. So, it’ll be me and three others. Who will it be?”

  I hesitated and reached for the rubber band without thinking.

  Snap!

  The entire room erupted. Every swingin’ dick in the meeting was screaming and hollering me, me, me. I shook my head and reached toward the table. Before I got the hammer in my hand, Otis screamed.

  “Order, God damn it,” he hollered.

  The room fell close to silent.

  “Order!” Otis screamed.

  Silence.

  I turned to face Otis and shook my head. “Jesus. I need to get a bike repossessed and I can’t get one motherfucker to volunteer. Got us a ChoMo to kill and every cocksucker here raises his hand and screams like a fucking kindergartner. Now fuck, there are thirty-two of you fuckers. I need four total, and one of them is gonna be me. Now how we gonna decide this?”

  “I think we ought to draw straws, Slice. Cut twenty-seven of them the same, and five shorties. The shorties win,” Tater responded.

  I raised my hands in the air in frustration. “Well?”

  “I make a motion we draw straws,” Tater growled.

  “Second,” someone screamed.

  “Who seconded it?” Fancy asked.

  “Toad,” Toad screamed from the back of the room.

  “All in favor?”

  “Aye,” echoed from around the room.

  “Opposed?”

  Silence.

  I pressed my hands into my hips and raised my eyebrows. “Only problem I see is this. We ain’t got any fucking straws.”

  Following a reasonable amount of groaning and grumbling, Fancy spoke. “I can cut up a few sheets of paper.”

  “Well, get to cuttin’ it,” I said.

  After a few minutes of dicking around, Fancy produced a hat with wads of paper in it. I looked at him and shook my head in disbelief. As I accepted the hat, I raised it to shoulder height and inhaled a slow breath.

  “Listen up. Everyone take one of Fancy’s wads of fucking paper from the hat. The three short,” I said.

  I paused and turned to face Fancy. He nodded his head. I turned to face the fellas. “The three short pieces get to go. Everyone else, I appreciate your willingness, but this is how we’re doing it,” I explained.

  As soon as Fancy passed the hat around the room, everyone began to compare paper strips. It would stand to reason Fancy would have made the short lengths of paper significantly shorter than the rest, but he didn’t. Leave it up to the Secretary to cut a half inch off of an eleven-inch strip of paper. After ten minutes of comparison, Otis, Tater, and Toad were the winners. I couldn’t have picked a better crew if I had selected them myself.

  “Alright, Otis, Toad, and Tater are the winners of this fiasco. You three stay after Church, and we’ll discuss details. Now, rides. Saturday’s ride is mandatory just in case any of you forgot. We’ll meet here at seven in the morning, and head out to Wichita at eight. First bike out is at nine. That’ll give us plenty of time. After the ride, maybe we’ll hit a few bars. Any new business need discussed?”

  Otis looked around the room, and turned to face me. “I got one thing, Slice.”

  “Well, let’s hear it,” I grumbled.

  Otis widened his eyes and began to speak. “Pete’s Ol’ Lady came in here the other day, and was turned away. He didn’t say anything to me, but I’ve heard some shit talking floating around about how I treated her when I escorted her off the lot. Seems Pete ain’t lookin’ to take it up with me, so maybe a refresher of the bylaws are in order. What do ya think?”

  After placing emphasis on Pete’s Ol’ Lady, Otis’ voice quieted to a normal gravely tone. It was apparent he wanted to call Pete out in front of the fellas, but it wasn’t necessary for him to do so. It was my job.

  I scanned the room and crossed my arms in front of my chest as I made eye contact with Pete. Forty years old and an ex-con, Pete looked the part of a white supremacist. Tall and muscular, his head was clean shaven and littered with tatt
oos. Although his head was shaved, he had twelve inches of beard that hung from his chin, making him appear to be more at home on the yard in prison than in the free world. As our eyes locked, I clenched my jaw and flexed my biceps. “God damn, fellas. We’ve got the bylaws posted up here on the wall for a fucking reason. I know there ain’t one of you motherfuckers able to remember them all, so I posted ‘em up here for you to make reference to. Now Pete, you see the bylaws up on the wall?”

  “Yep,” he grunted.

  “See the part at the very bottom of the board on the right marked Ol’ Ladies?” I asked as I turned around to face the bylaws.

  “Yeah,” he mumbled.

  “Read it to me if you will,” I said.

  “All of it, Slice?” he grumbled.

  “All of it,” I nodded as I turned to face him.

  My position on Ol’ Ladies wasn’t shared by the rest of the club. I believed if the club wanted members to have Ol’ Ladies, they’d have one sewn onto the front of their cut when they became patched in. In my opinion, Ol’ Ladies were a pain in the ass and a risk to the welfare of club. I hadn’t had an Ol’ Lady since high school, and the chance of that ever changing was absolutely impossible. Every problem man has on this earth begins and ends with women.

  Pete stared up at the bylaws and drew a slow breath. After a momentary study of the board, he pulled against his beard and began to read.

  “Ol' Ladies. One, don't fuck around with another member’s Ol' Lady. Two, Ol’ Lady Property Of patches will be voted on by all eligible members of the club. One hundred percent vote or she doesn’t wear it. Sidenote: as Property Of patches are optional, be sure before you touch some chick who isn’t wearing a patch. Three, members are responsible for their Ol' Lady. Four, members may have more than one Ol ' Lady. Five, member must state who his Ol' Lady is. Six, no, your Ol’ Lady isn’t allowed in the meetings. Seven, club business is club business. Do not discuss club business with Ol’ Ladies. Eight.” He paused and exhaled.