FEELS LIKE THE FIRST TIME

by Scott Hildreth

“Huh. Looked like you were kissing the air,” he said.

  I continued to wipe the bar where the two men were sitting. As I swirled the bar towel in a circular motion, I attempted to change the subject without looking up.

  “Define slim,” I said.

  “Excuse me?”

  I looked up from wiping the bar. “You said pretty God damned slim and not at all were my two options. I said I’d take the pretty God damned slim option. I want you to define it. What’s slim?”

  He stood up slightly. “You ever give up?”

  I pursed my lips and twisted my mouth to the side. “No, not really.”

  He pressed his forearms into the edge of the bar and leaned forward. “Huh. Well, my pop was a drunken prick but I never figured it was much of an excuse for my mother to walk out like she did. That was my first exposure to a woman. Second would have been the girl I was seeing all through high school. I was a year ahead of her, so after I graduated she was a senior. Well, I stopped by her house to see her one afternoon. Back then although most everyone else did, I didn’t have a cell phone, so I didn’t call first. Hell I didn’t think I needed to. Quarterback on the football team’s truck was in the driveway, so I just went on in. He was balls deep when I kicked in the door.”

  He paused and chuckled as he raised his head a little. “That one got me a trip to jail for a bit. So, let’s see…”

  “Next, I suppose woulda been just before my pop went to the joint. His girlfriend at the time was considerably younger than he was. I don’t know, maybe fifteen years younger. She was closer to my age than she was to his. He passed out drunk, and I’m guessing it was before she got what it was she was after. So I was in the garage working on my bike, and she came out through the garage, bitchin’ about him passing out.” He hesitated and shook his head lightly.

  He raised both eyebrows as his mouth formed into what appeared to be his signature smirk. “She stopped half way through the garage and offered to suck my cock.”

  “So, this list goes on and on. I’m not so dumb that I believe all women are evil or can’t be trusted, but I do believe women who are attracted to men like me are a different breed. Finding a woman who can be trusted one hundred percent is like finding a wolf that won’t eat the chickens. It’s not that they don’t exist, but the odds of finding one are slim.”

  He stood, crossed his arms, and stared for a short moment. As he uncrossed his arms, he pulled against a rubber band on his left wrist. He now stood erect, still focused on me, and snapped the rubber band into his wrist. He acted like he didn’t even notice he did it.

  Ouch!

  I tilted my head to the side and grinned. “So your definition of slim is compared to the odds of finding a wolf that won’t eat the chickens?”

  He nodded his head once. “Mmhhm.”

  “I’m a vegan. Chicken is meat, and I don’t eat meat,” I said.

  He shrugged his shoulders. “Doesn’t surprise me.”

  He hesitated for a long moment, gazed past me, and blinked a few times. With him standing there, I had become all but immune to the other men around, the music, and the noise of the overly loud drunken bikers. Hoping he would continue, I stood and admired his handsome features. As I realized for the first time that he had pierced ears, he began to speak again.

  “I’m the President of this club. I damned sure don’t need a woman to get in the way of me doing what it is I’m supposed to do. And, the long and short of it is this. She’d sure as fuck get in the way,” he said flatly.

  Somewhat frustrated with his answer, I shrugged my shoulders. “So, it’s not about a chicken eating wolf or even the fact that you really don’t trust women. It’s more that you think a woman would get in the way of you being a biker. Right?”

  “Suppose that’s pretty close.”

  I stood, aggravated at his ridiculous beliefs, wondering how much of it was a show and how much of it was the truth. Maybe he liked women, and he simply didn’t like me. Maybe he was being as nice as the President of a bike club could be, and just not telling me the absolute truth. The problem, for me, was the fact he didn’t want me. His complete lack of interest fueled every competitive bone in my body. While I inventoried all of the patches on his vest and wondered what they all meant, I also pondered what the real reason was behind his denial of my offer.

  Avery, you’re skinny, you have a flat ass, no tits, and your lips are skinny. You have one redeeming feature, and it’s not even a feature, it’s more of a mannerism. You’re a ‘courageous smart-ass’. That’s’ all you’ve got going for you. And to be honest, I’m not interested in fucking courage. I’d prefer fucking someone with meat on their bones. Well, that and a set of nice tits.

  Now wallowing in self-imposed guilt driven by my lack of confidence in boyish body being attractive, I realized something.

  I tossed the towel into the towel bin under the bar. “Answer a question.”

  “Ask it.”

  “You came over here to the bar.” I hesitated and motioned along the bar. “And it’s empty. I’m back here alone. And for some reason, no one is sitting here. So, why’d you stop to talk to me if you weren’t interested?”

  Ha, motherfucker. Answer that.

  He gave me his half-assed grin and crossed his arms. “I like talking to you. Hell, what else am I going to do? I talk to these motherfuckers every God damned day. But just because I’m talking to you doesn’t mean I want your ass on the back of my fucking bike or stopping by my house wanting to know if I’m interested in a new tofu recipe you wanna try out.”

  “Why not talk to the girl with the tits?” I asked as I motioned toward Sloan.

  “Never been a tit man,” he shrugged.

  Bullshit.

  He turned toward Sloan who was surrounded by bikers. As she stood and giggled, she pressed her upper arms into her boobs, forcing them to burst out of her tee shirt even more.

  Seriously?

  He turned to face me and shrugged.

  “Bullshit,” I snapped.

  He tossed his head toward Sloan. “Tell me this. When she’s thirty-five, what are her tits going to look like? I’ll fucking tell ya. Take off the knee-high school girl gym socks I’m sure she’s wearing, and stuff an orange in each one of ‘em. That’s what. Now, when you’re thirty-five, what’ll you look like? I’ll fucking tell ya that too, just like you do now. Unless she moves to the moon, she’s gonna have to deal with the laws of gravity at some point in time. And, it’s working against her while we’re sitting here bullshittin’.”

  He no more than finished speaking, and over the music, noise, laughing, and constant hollering, I heard someone scream.

  “You cockfucking sucker!”

  I twisted my body toward the scream. A tall muscular man with a military buzz cut stood arguing with a bald headed man with a long beard. The bald man was covered in tattoos, including his head, and looked like he shouldn’t be fucked with. Not even a little bit. His response to Buzz cut calling him a cocksucker was to take a wild swing, which was immediately blocked and countered.

  The punch by Buzz cut landed on the side of Baldie’s face, knocking him sideways. As he stumbled, Buzz cut bent his knees slightly and took a defensive fighting stance. It was pretty obvious it wasn’t his first time in a fight. Actually, he looked pretty experienced at what he was doing. I noticed as he stood with his fists raised that he clearly had a Marine tattoo on his very muscular right bicep.

  Well, that explains it.

  Baldy shook off the punch and growled.

  You’re growling? What the fuck?

  “Toad, I’m gonna kill you,” he grunted.

  As much as I really wanted to see the outcome of the fight, I realized I was at work. I needed to stop this from going any further. Without a doubt, before long it would turn into a barroom brawl and someone would be hurt terribly or killed. At best, the bar would be thrashed. As Baldy threw another punch, Buzz cut blocked it and swung his open right hand toward Baldie’s nose. The sound of the i
mpact was sickening. Well, sickening in a kind of sexy way. Immediately blood began to drain from Baldie’s nose like it was a faucet. I turned to face Axton, who was standing and intently watching the fight as if it were something that happened every night.

  Hell, maybe it was.

  “I said no fighting in my bar,” I snapped.

  “And I told you if there was a fight, it’d be from someone being disrespectful,” he said. “Looks like Pete disrespected Toad. Toad’s kind of a hot-head. And he was a Marine. It’s a bad combo.”

  I shook my head. “You said they wouldn’t fight each other. You said that. And, they’re both wearing your vests, so they’re each other. So what, your word’s shit?”

  He tilted his head and gave me a look. A look as if I had hit a nerve. Actually not a nerve, but the nerve. The big one. After a few second death stare which had me frozen, he turned toward Otis and whistled a shrill whistle. Immediately, Otis uncrossed his arms, rubbed his face, and took a few steps toward the men who were fighting.

  “Pete, Toad, that’s it. It’s over. Whatever the fuck started this, squash it,” Otis barked.

  The two men relaxed slightly.

  “Squash it,” he growled again.

  They both lowered their hands and stood up straight. As if nothing had happened, they shook hands, pulled each other into a bro hug and patted each other on the back. Baldy was still bleeding profusely from his nose. Instinctively, I reached under the bar, grabbed a clean towel, and yelled at Otis.

  “Here!”

  As he turned my direction, I threw him the folded towel. He nodded his head sharply, and handed the towel to Baldy. Shocked at the immediate and effortless ending of the fight, I turned toward Axton.

  “So, if I’d have told you to fuck off and let them go at it, what would you have done? This is your bar after all,” he asked in a sarcastic tone.

  “Well, when people fight in here, I have three options, let ‘em fight, call the cops, or.” I paused and reached under the bar and pulled my Glock from my purse.

  “This,” I twisted my wrist for him to admire the pistol, and slipped it back under the bar.

  “Letting them fight isn’t a real good option, there’s still regular customers in here. It would make me look incompetent and someone might get hurt or killed. And, if someone got killed the cops would come. For what it’s worth, I hate cops. So, that brings me to option two, calling the cops. That’s an option, but not one I want to use. Generally, I tell people to pick, call the cops or stop fucking fighting. Realistically, I’m not pulling the pistol. Not ever. Well, unless someone’s trying to rob me or someone else in here.” I paused and waited for him to respond.

  “Model 17?” he asked.

  I scrunched my brow and stared, “Huh?”

  “Your pistol. Glock model 17. It’s a nine millimeter, 4th generation. Must be pretty new,” he said.

  “Oh yeah, it’s a Model 17. I got it about eighteen months ago when I got my concealed carry permit,” I bragged.

  “Nice. Well…” He paused, reached for the rubber band, and snapped it against his wrist.

  What the fuck with the rubber band?

  “Avery, what night’s do you grace the world with your presence here?” he asked.

  Shocked at the fact he asked the question, I considered my unpredictable schedule while I mentally formed my response. I wondered why he would ask if he wasn’t interested?

  He wouldn’t.

  “Tuesday’s, Thursday’s and Saturday’s, almost always. It’s hard to say, he changes our schedules all the time. And I’ve got finals coming up, so it’s anybody’s guess here real quick.” I said.

  “Finals, huh? College girl? I would have guessed you a little older.”

  “Nope, senior. Criminal Justice, go figure,” I said with a grin.

  “Wichita State?” he asked.

  “Nope. Southwestern College, down in Winfield.”

  “Winfield, huh?” he grinned.

  “Yeah, Winfield. You know where it is?”

  “Never heard of the place,” he shook his head, “I tell ya what, I’ll come in next week. If you’re here, I’ll see ya,” he said.

  I considered giving him my phone number and decided against it. There’s a fine line between acting interested and being a stalker. I definitely had stalker tendencies, and had every intention of stalking Axton, but I didn’t want him to realize it.

  “Sounds good,” I said.

  So, I guess this is where you leave, and I spend all of next week sick to my stomach trying to decide what to wear to work, taking water pills by the dozen so I can shed weight, and feeling like I’m fat no matter what, right?

  He glanced toward Otis.

  “Otis, have ‘em saddle up,” he hollered.

  Yep. Women’s intuition.

  As much as I wanted to stay and get a few more sentences in, I knew it was time I changed up my game. I hadn’t been successful at picking up a man in several years. Not a meaningful one, anyway. I reached under the bar, picked up another clean towel, and walked toward the other end of the bar without saying a word. It was far too late for me to try the hard to get routine, but I could act less interested than I truly was. Sometimes, less is more.

  I watched the men walk outside in small groups and a few individually. In many respects, it felt as if they had been in the bar for the entire night, if not more. In reality, they had been in the bar roughly thirty minutes. After almost all of the men were gone, Axton and Otis walked toward the bar. It seemed strange, because I would have sworn Otis had already left.

  “I appreciate you not calling the cops when the fellas were fighting,” Otis said as he reached over the bar.

  As I shook his hand, he smiled. “Call me Otis.”

  “Avery,” I said.

  “What do I owe you for the beers?” Axton asked.

  “Well, they drank both cases entirely. So, that’s forty-eight times $4.25, let me check,” I responded.

  “$204.00 even,” Axton said.

  I turned to face him. “Excuse me?”

  “It’s $204.00 even. Forty-eight times $4.25,” he nodded as he pulled three hundred dollar bills from his wallet.

  “And you know that because?” I asked.

  He turned toward Otis, shrugged, and shifted his gaze to meet mine. “I know it because I know how to multiply. Here.”

  He handed me three one-hundred-dollar bills.

  “Keep this one, two hundred’s fine, it’s easier.”

  “Keep it. It’s your tip,” Axton said.

  “And one other thing,” Otis said.

  I widened my eyes and smiled as I tilted my head toward Otis. “Yeah?”

  “Your friend, Sloan? She says the only way she can leave here is if you say it’s alright. She’s out in the parking lot, afraid to come ask. She wanted me to ask you if you’ll let her off work?” he asked.

  That fucking bitch.

  I can’t get a fucking ride, and she’s going to leave?

  Like now?

  Fucking slut.

  “She wanted you to ask?”

  He nodded his head once.

  Axton shrugged.

  That whore.

  I stepped from behind the bar, shoved my way past Axton and Otis, and walked briskly to the door. As I opened it, I saw Sloan in the parking lot, laughing with one of the guys beside what I guessed was his motorcycle. His back was to me, and the vest he wore was different than the rest of them. It said Selected Sinners on the top and Prospect on the bottom. There was no skull or guns in the center, and no Kansas banner on the vest.

  I’d seen the shows on T.V. He was a Prospect; a soon to be member. He looked young, and was probably much closer to Sloan’s age than any of the others. She forced a smile, narrowed her eyes, and waved. I shook my head and stomped back into the bar. As I stepped inside, Otis and Axton were on the other side of the door.

  “So?” Otis’ voice trailed along as he waited for an answer.

  I looked around the
bar. The guy with the ears and his two friends sat at number eight. Another group of four sat at number six, by the back door. The bar, with the exception of them, was empty.

  “Fine with me. She’s a big girl,” I huffed.

  “She sure as fuck is,” Axton said as he walked past me.

  I wonder what he means by that…

  Chapter 8

  AXTON

  My opinion on women hadn’t changed. Not at all. I never believed a woman had a place in the club, nor would I ever consider it. Therefore, having a woman become an active part of my life wasn’t an option. Women become mentally attached to men through simple exposure and much more so when sex is added to the equation. For me to think for one moment I could have a relationship with a woman, even a friendly one, without her developing some sort of feelings or expectations would be foolish on my part.

  I’ve never considered myself to be a foolish man.

  My experience with women and sex in the last ten years had been a mountain of one night stands. I’d made every effort to be certain that each and every woman I had been with understood what we were agreeing to. I fuck you, I leave, and there’s no chance of seeing me again. Growing up the son of a Hell’s Angel father, I quickly learned the value of making rules and following them.

  It takes a true outlaw; a person who refuses to be governed by the established rules or practices of any group, a rebel, a nonconformist.

  Being a member of a motorcycle club requires that all members adhere strictly to bylaws and rules, yet the men place minimal value on the law. A club filled with and based on contradiction. The absolute adherence to the rules allows each and every member to immediately develop an understanding of one’s ability to be trusted. To be dishonest on the side of the law, but brutally honest on the side of being a member of the club takes a different type of man.

  Most of the men who rode with the Sinners, or any club for that matter, had their own rules and regulations. Things they hold sacred. At any cost, they’ll adhere to the rules they’ve developed or put in place. Their doing so allows the members of the club to see their strong will, and slowly a trust develops unlike any other.