by Xander Hades
Our slighted cab driver grumbles, “Well, unless you need a ride somewhere else, I’m going to have to ask you to get out of my cab so I can pick up another fare.”
“Here we go, bitches!” Jenna announces, opening her door.
On our way across the sidewalk, I whisper in Riley’s ear, “Should I start referring to the three of you as ‘bitches,’ or is that the sort of thing that’s only allowed for—”
“I wouldn’t recommend it,” Riley answers. “You know, just to be on the safe side.”
“Right,” I respond. I should probably know the appropriate context for that sort of thing, or else I might end up inadvertently insulting my fellow roisterers.
Before I know it, we’re standing in front of the bouncer, and Jenna’s asking if there’s room for a few more. The man checks his clipboard, though it’s obvious he’s not gleaning any information from it, and he says, “Sorry. You gotta wait.”
Riley nudges me like I’m supposed to be the one to do something, so I say, “Are you sure the eight of us can’t change your mind?” Before he has a chance to answer, I’m pulling my shirt up, snagging my bra along with it and yep. I’m now totally exposed, nipples hardening from the cold and adrenaline.
I don’t know how long I’m supposed to do this. I glance over at the others. Jenna and Marcy are standing there slack-jawed like they didn’t think I was really going to do it. Were they joking when they said we should flash the bouncer?
I pull my shirt back down, bra only kind of back in place. I’m going to have to quit my job, move to another city and change my name. I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life.
“Head on in,” he says to me. When the others try to follow, he holds up his hand, saying, “She said ‘eight.’”
“You’re kidding, right?” Marcy asks. “I’m not doing that.”
My eyebrow goes up. Marcy was the one who suggested flashing the bouncer. I tell her, “Have fun on the sidewalk then. I’m going to the club.”
Riley sighs, bares her chest, and the bouncer lets her through. She and I wait for a few seconds on the other two, but even though this was their idea, it doesn’t look like they’re too keen on following through.
“They can find us inside, right?” I ask.
Riley nods and we make our way into the club. The moment I open the door, I’m hit with the force of 100 decibels beating against my body. Riley taps me on the shoulder. She says something, but I can’t hear a word of it.
“What?” I yell.
She points toward a table across the room that’s just opening up, and we make our way that direction. We sit down, and I’m past the point of regret. I’ve already gone further than I planned to, but a person’s twenties are supposed to be full of overindulgence, right? Besides, I can’t imagine I’m going to have to flash anyone else tonight.
I’m watching the door when Marcy and Jenna come through, huddled close together with scowling faces. I smile. This isn’t a story I want to spread around the office, but I’m actually looking forward to talking about it among the three of us. “Hey, remember that time we flashed a bouncer to get into the club?”
Yeah, I remember. It’s not something I see myself doing again, but at least I’ll have a good story tomorrow. Jenna and Marcy spot us and come over to the table. It’s a little quieter in the booth, but Marcy still has to yell when she says, “I can’t believe we just did that.”
“The way you were talking about it made it seem like this was something you did all the time. If I knew you weren’t serious, I would never have—”
“You wanna get some drinks?” Jenna shouts over me.
I nod.
It’s loud enough maybe I can get away ordering something non-alcoholic. I’ve never had an alcoholic beverage, apart from the sip of champagne I had at a cousin’s wedding a few years ago. I don’t know what the big deal is about champagne. It tastes like spoiled grape juice with bubbles in it. Anyway, I’m not sure I want to get all wasted—that’s the proper term, right?—when I can’t easily express to my cohorts if I need to go home.
Jenna waves down a waiter. I can’t hear what she’s saying, but as the waiter’s walking away, both Jenna and Marcy make that same “WOO!” noise they made in the cab. Perhaps it’s the mating call of the twenty-something club-goer. I nudge Riley. She leans her ear in to hear, and I ask, “Should I be doing the whole ‘WOO!’ thing, too?”
Riley shakes her head, and while I can’t hear anything she’s saying, I can read her lips well enough to make out, “Oh, hell no.”
There are dynamics at work here I don’t begin to understand.
Jenna leans over the table, shouting, “I got tequila shooters to start us off!”
My stomach churns. I’ve never drank tequila, but I’ve smelled it before. The scent struck my nose like salty gasoline. Ten minutes and $40 later, I now know tequila tastes different than it smells. It tastes much, much worse.
Before the waiter leaves, Jenna orders up four more. Ugh. I wanted “a crazy night with the girls,” though, and I guess that’s what we’re having. I don’t know why we’re just sitting in the booth, though. We’re not really talking, and when we are, it’s not like we can really understand each other anyway. Maybe it’s time to call it a night. I’ve already exposed myself to a stranger, and drank something that tasted like it came out of an engine.
Something happens after that second shot, though. Riley, who up until now has been my quiet little helper, grabs a napkin and writes something on it before sliding it over to me.
“Are you my boss tonight?” the napkin reads.
I look at Riley and shake my head.
She writes, “You sure?”
I nod.
She nods back, and now she’s grabbing my wrist, pulling me out of the booth. We’re walking to the dance floor. The next thing I know, Riley’s let go of my wrist, and she’s moving her body in a fluid manner I can’t properly describe. Every motion is right on beat, and there’s no way I can move like that.
I can see her mouth form the words, “Come on!” but I don’t even know where to start. After another couple of seconds just standing there, Riley decides to take matters into her own hands.
It starts when she rests one hand on my shoulder, and then she’s grinding—I think that’s the term: certainly feels like what she’s doing—on me. A moment later, her lips are against my ear, and I hear her say, “I’m not coming on to you. Just let go! Isn’t that why you’re here?”
I hate it when people tell me to “just let go.” Let what go, and exactly what am I supposed to put in its place?
I feel funny, kind of warm, and maybe a little sick, but before I know it, I’m moving my shoulders, my hips. My feet are stationary, and I don’t know what to do with my arms, but it feels kind of nice.
Riley smiles and nods her head emphatically. Her mouth forms what I think are the words, “There you go!”
This isn’t so bad. In fact, I think I could get used to this if it weren’t for the sweaty guy with his hands resting on my hips while he—I hate that I even know this term—dry humps my leg. My eyes feel as wide as my gaping mouth, but Riley just smiles at me.
Her mouth forms the words, “Just go with it.”
So I do.
I’m looking around the dance floor for ideas on what to do, but from the look of things, it doesn’t really matter as long as I’m moving and there’s some kind of physical contact. Without warning, Riley grabs my wrist again and pulls me to another part of the dance floor where my other two coworkers are dancing more on than with some guy with huge muscles, unnaturally white teeth, and a permanent look of confusion on his face.
Riley puts her arm around me and right into my ear, she says, “We’re getting out of here.”
“We just got here!” I tell her, but she points to her ear and shakes her head. She can’t hear me. Of course she can’t hear me. Getting in here cost more than I was planning on; and I haven’t spent a dime. Now she wants to go. Go where?
“Fine!” I shout to Riley who’s not paying attention anymore. It’s not like she would have heard me anyway.
Jenna and Marcy must really see something in the guy whose pupils stay dilated even when the lights come up. They’re jockeying for position around the front of his pants when Riley gyrates her way over to them. A couple minutes later, we’re walking out of the club, and Jenna’s saying, “Wherever we’re going better be bomb. That guy was hot.”
“Too bad he was into me and not you,” Marcy tells her.
Riley hails a cab, and I’m wondering if the problem is I’m judging men by all the right criteria when social convention goes the other way with it. Of course, I’ve only ever really had one kind-of boyfriend. We “dated” for about a month when I was in grad school. The whole thing culminated when I lost my virginity to him. At least I think I did. I remember twenty seconds of pain and a lot of awkward flopping around, and then it was over: not just the “sex,” but the relationship as well. And he fit all my criteria.
“Where are we going?” I ask Riley, trying to get out of my head.
“It’s a different kind of place,” she answers.
The cab pulls up to the curb. I get in the front again, not wanting to go against social convention. Marcy’s asking me, “Are you having a good time, Jules?”
I’m too far out of my element to even know, so I pretend I can’t hear her.
We’re driving a while. Marcy and Jenna are in the back, gabbing about other times they went to the club. Riley’s quiet behind me.
“Where are we going?” Marcy asks. “This is like the crappy part of town.”
“This is the exciting part of town,” Riley corrects.
For the first time tonight, I have to side with Marcy. The tall office buildings have given way to boarded-up gas stations, overgrown parking lots, and the occasional clowder of feral cats.
“No, seriously, where are we going?” Jenna asks.
I’m thinking the same thing, but Riley’s the one of the group I’ve almost kind of bonded with, so I don’t say anything.
“Low Dive Bar,” the cabbie says. I’ve heard of dive bars before. This may be above my paygrade.
There are at least two dozen motorcycles parked out front, and a few leather-clad, brawny men standing outside smoking. Marcy asks the same question that’s on my mind: “Wait, is this a biker bar?”
Riley pats me on the shoulder, saying, “You up for something different, Julie?”
Biker bars are supposed to be dangerous, aren’t they? This is what I wanted, though. I convinced myself I’d gotten to twenty-seven without actually living. What’s life without risk?
“Sure,” I say and open my door.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Marcy says as I’m getting out.
“Seriously,” Jenna adds. “We go in there we’re going to get killed or something.”
It’s the “or something” that almost makes me want to laugh. Almost.
“Well, we’re going in,” Riley says when she gets to my side of the car. “You guys do what you want.”
“We are not going in there,” Jenna says. “If the two of you want to get violated by a bunch of hairy biker guys, that’s on you.”
“Yeah,” Marcy says. “Driver, take us home.”
The driver says, “Could you be more specific?”
Riley shuts my door and the cab pulls away. Okay. This is going to be okay. I’m sure these guys are normal people just like everyone else. They like riding motorcycles, and they like being around other people who like riding motorcycles. There’s nothing wrong with that.
“Julie?” Riley asks.
“Yeah?” I ask, pulling myself out of my head.
“Are you coming?”
She’s halfway to the door, and I haven’t moved an inch. As if independent of my control, my feet are carrying me toward the only person I know in a five-mile radius. Scared as I am, it would be worse were I alone.
I get to Riley and she puts her hand on my shoulder, saying, “Don’t worry. You’ll do fine.”
I don’t know what that means. It looks like I’m going to find out, because we’re walking through the doors now. Inside, the bar is packed, but it goes eerily quiet. Every eye in the place is fixed on Riley and me, and my limbic system is screaming at my legs to start running. But I don’t. I’m frozen.
After a few seconds, everyone returns their attention to what they were doing. Riley pats me on the back and says, “Why don’t you grab us a couple of drinks? I’m going to go say hi to a couple of people.”
In a voice so small even I can’t hear it, I answer, “Okay.”
I walk up, and a woman who looks like she could hold her own in a fight with anyone in the place sidles over to me on the other side of the bar. “What can I get ya?” she asks.
“Uh,” I start. I don’t know what to order in a biker bar. “What would you suggest?”
“I’ll come back when you know what you want,” the woman says and walks away without another word.
“Okay,” I mutter to myself.
I pat my legs. Well, I’ve been in here for nearly a full minute, and I haven’t been assaulted yet. That’s a good sign, right?
“Can I buy you a drink?” about three hundred pounds of pure muscle and beard stubble asks me.
“Oh, I’m just waiting for my friend,” I tell him.
“You came in here with Riley,” he says. “How do you two know each other?”
“We work together,” I tell him. Should I not have said that? Is that too much information? Does that mean this guy’s going to show up in the parking lot at work one day, straddling his bike, wielding a machete? “How do you know Riley?” I ask.
He scoffs, smiles. “Everyone knows Riley,” he says. “Free drink on me. Whaddayawant?”
“I don’t know,” I tell him. “A beer?”
“Hey, Chas!” the man says, knocking on the counter. “Two beers!”
“I’m actually supposed to be getting a drink for my friend—I mean, Riley, too. I mean, I don’t know if you’re getting that for—”
Somewhere behind me, a man shouts, “Man, fuck you!” and the whole bar goes quiet for a long half second. I’m not sure whether I should turn around, or if it’s safer to just ignore it. Before I can decide, all hell breaks loose.
Men are shouting at each other, fists are flying. In no time, everyone in the bar except me and the bartender has picked a side and now they’re all fighting. A metal chair flies halfway across the room, hitting one man in the back. Bottles shatter, and the bartender walks over carrying two large glasses of beer, saying, “Two beers,” before she walks away again as if nothing’s wrong.
I want to run, but the path to the door is blocked by two large men hammering each other so hard I can’t believe either of them is still standing. I step back to avoid a pair of men who are trying to slam each other’s heads into the bar. Someone runs into the back of me, and I’m all but thrown into the middle of the chaos. I’m ducking, covering my head. I try to get out, but I’m surrounded.
If I make it out of here, I’ll never take my stupid boring life for granted again. I look for an opening, some way out, but there’s no way. Right in front of me, one man throws another with such force he clears one of the pool tables. A second later, that man’s back on his feet, throwing fists at someone else.
“Riley!” I shout, but the sound doesn’t travel far over the cacophony. “Riley!”
Next thing I know, someone’s hand closes around my wrist, and I’m being jerked, pulled through the bedlam. It takes a second before I can see who’s leading me. It’s not Riley. I can only see the back of him, but the man’s about a foot taller than me, with long, dirty-blond hair, arms thick with tattoos, and muscles like a heavyweight boxer.
I tug a
gainst the hand leading me, but the man has more strength in his grip than I seem to have in my body. There’s nothing I can do but keep my feet beneath me as I’m led through the brawl.
He doesn’t say anything, or if he does, I can’t hear him over the fighting. He leads me back behind the bar and through the tiny kitchen, and suddenly we’re outside. I can still hear the fighting, but it sounds muffled and a mile away.
“You need to be more careful,” the man says, releasing his grasp, and I’m running toward the road.
This is more than I signed up for, and I’m not wasting another second risking the life I’ve built.
I make it to the road, and I look both ways, hoping for a stray cab to magically show up right now, but it doesn’t. A moment later, there’s an arm around my shoulders. I spin my head to look.
It’s Riley.
She’s laughing.
She says, “Now tell me you’re going to forget your birthday this year.”
Chapter Three
Russ
I’m working at the shop across from the bar when a dark purple lowrider comes rollin’ up. I don’t know the car, but I know the driver, and we’re about to have some words.