5 Bikers for Valentines

by Rye Hart

  I snorted with laughter, nearly doubling over from it. Tommy wasn't so impressed, and his face darkened. He wasn't a man who liked to be laughed at. No, he was a man who wanted to be fawned over and adored. He wanted to be held up and admired.

  Oh well, life, as they say, is a bitch.

  “Sorry, it's just – you're cute and all, but Tommy, you can't be a sugar daddy when you're living off your parents,” I said. “That's not how it works, kid.”

  I turned and walked away, still chuckling to myself. I could feel Tommy's gaze on my ass. I gave my hips a little extra swish just to tease him.

  “Who you calling 'kid'?” he called after me.

  He was right. He wasn't much younger than me, but it felt like we were separated by decades. That's what happened when one person had to live in the real world and the other person got to live and party like he was still in college. Not that I was bitter or anything.

  Sometimes it was easy to forget that I was only twenty-three myself. Some days, I felt more like I was forty-three; worrying about a mortgage, making sure my siblings had clothes and food, paying all the bills. It took a toll on me. Tommy might have only been a year younger than I was, but life experience-wise, he had a long, long way to go before he caught up with me.

  “Hey, chica,” Raya called out to me, her long, hennaed hair falling down around her bare shoulders. “How was it last night?”

  “Boring without you here,” I said, playfully punching her in the arm.

  She was off the clock still, sitting at one of the booths. Her feet were up on the seat and she moved them away, motioning for me to sit down. I was still technically off the clock too, for five more minutes, anyway, so I joined her. She was munching on some celery and what looked like some disgusting orange mush, and it smelled strongly of garlic, which was almost a blessing since it covered up the strong patchouli scent wafting off her. Almost.

  Neither scent was particularly pleasant. But, that was Raya. Take her or leave her.

  “What in the hell is that?” I asked, scrunching up my face.

  She pushed the container over to me, and I pushed it right back.

  “It's hummus,” she said with a laugh, and when that explanation didn't help, she continued, “Chickpeas with some garlic and tahini.”

  I looked at her blankly. She might as well have been speaking Chinese to me. She scoffed and rolled her eyes.

  “You've seriously never had hummus?” she asked as if I'd just told her I'd never seen a car before.

  “Sorry, I'm not familiar with vegan foods,” I said. “I mean, if that actually qualifies as food.”

  “It's not just for vegans, silly,” she said, dipping a piece of celery into the mush and holding it in front of me, making pretend airplane sounds like parents do with a toddler. “Try it. You know you want to.”

  I shook my head. “No thanks, it's a hard pass,” I said. “I think I'm allergic to chickbeans.”

  “Chickpeas, silly. Not chickbeans – oh, whatever, more for me,” she said, munching on the celery loudly, a wide, goofy smile on her face.

  “Working in the back again tonight, eh?” I asked.

  “How can you tell?”

  I motioned to her attire. Instead of the typical waitress uniform – which consisted of a short black skirt and a white crop top – Raya was wearing a maxi skirt and a sleeveless shirt. Which meant there was no way she was working the front of the house.

  “Yeah, after I protested about the uniform, they shoved me to the back,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Typical patriarchal bullshit. But at least I still have a job, so there's that.”

  “You'd prefer to wash dishes over wearing this uniform?”

  “Hell yeah,” she said with a laugh. “I don't need to be eye candy for thirsty, handsy men to pay my bills.”

  “If only all of us had that option,” I muttered.

  Dishwashing might pay Raya's bills, who like Tommy, had parents who could help her out – and often did. The real money in this place, however, came from tips – which you only made if you were working out here on the floor.

  Raya's newfound distaste for skimpy clothing came only recently, when the owners decided the wait staff needed to show even more skin than we had before. They'd switched out our regular tops, which weren't exactly conservative to begin with, for crop tops and shortened the skirts by several inches, making it impossible to bend down without showing off your panties. Which, was probably the idea. Gotta keep the men drinking and gawking at us.

  That was when Raya moved to the back of the house and got stuck washing dishes. I couldn't say that I blamed her some nights. I often felt like a piece of meat by the end of my shift. Not to mention the fact that some of the damn grope-monkeys who came through the door thought the price of a beer entitled them to a little squeeze of my ass. Yeah, no thank you.

  The trouble was, I needed the tip money. It was the only way I was going to keep things afloat on my end. So, as much as I would have loved to have told the owner to take his crop tops and micro-skirts, and shove them, I didn't have that luxury.

  “So, did Mr. Handsome come in last night?” Raya cooed, munching on another piece of celery.

  “That rich guy, you mean?”

  “Uh yeah, the one who only has eyes for you, girly.”

  “He doesn't have eyes for me.” I rolled my eyes. “He has a girlfriend. She's even come in with him a few times.”

  “Doesn't mean he's not into you.”

  “Sorry, not into that free love, polyamory thing,” I said. “And I highly doubt his girlfriend is either. She seemed like the possessive, bunny-boiling type to me.”

  “Suit yourself,” she said with a shrug. “Free love is a beautiful thing. You don't know what you're missing, babe.”

  We both looked at our phones at the same time.

  “Shit,” I grumbled. “It's time to clock in.”

  “Here's to another night in hell,” Raya mumbled.

  You could say that again.

  ~ooo000ooo~

  “Hey, hot stuff, here's your drinks,” Tommy said, pushing a tray of cocktails toward me.

  “Thanks, Tommy.”

  I would have grumbled about being called ‘hot stuff’ and put him in his place, but at the moment, I had bigger things to worry about. Like the group of men who'd just sauntered in and were getting a little handsy with the waitresses.

  A tall man with no neck grabbed Sasha's ass, and then looked over at me with pure lust in his eyes. He looked familiar, and while I couldn't place him, I knew he was famous for one thing or another. His entourage parted like the Red Sea as I walked over with the drinks they'd ordered – originally from Sasha.

  I took over the group for her when I found her hiding behind the bar, nearly in tears. Sasha was just a petite little girl, too shy for her own good. She couldn't handle a rowdy group of guys groping her. No one should have to, but, some of us were able to handle it better than others. Some of us knew how to put them in their places.

  “Vodka tonic?” I called out, handing out the orders from the tray of drinks in my hand.

  They'd moved over to a private table, clearing the middle of the bar they'd been clogging before, and proved what I suspected – the guy with no neck was someone I should know. Or at least, somebody I should've heard of.

  “Charles, I think that's yours,” No Neck called out. “I had a scotch on the rocks.”

  “Yes, sir, right here,” I grabbed the drink from the tray and handed it over to him.

  “Where's Sasha?” he asked, meeting my gaze with a cocky-ass grin I want to smack off his dumb looking face.

  “She's on break,” I lied, feigning a smile. “So, you have me now.”

  “That's fine with me,” No Neck said, giving me a once over, his eyes sliding up and down my body so intently I could almost feel the touch. “I like curvy brunettes as much as I like petite blondes.”

  As he spoke, he reached out and stroked my dark brown hair, twirling it around his thick fingers.
Everything about this guy was huge. From his chest to his hands, he was one of the largest, most muscular men I'd ever seen in real life. He was like a paler version of the Incredible Hulk or something.

  I ignored his comment, moved my head so I could get his fingers out of my hair, and returned to handing out the drinks to his party.

  No Neck asked, “What's your name?”

  “Casey,” I answered.

  “Do you know who I am, Casey?”

  I smiled sweetly, placing the now empty tray down on the table, and faced No Neck.

  “I assume you're someone important. Probably someone who thinks very highly of himself,” I said. “But I have a feeling you're going to tell me exactly who you are.”

  The guys around him laughed uncomfortably. One patted him hard on the back.

  “She got you, Johnny-boy,” he beamed.

  No Neck, otherwise known as Johnny, cringed. As he looked at me, he clenched his jaw, grinding his teeth together. I turned to leave, but he grabbed hold of my arm, forcing me to turn back around and meet his gaze. He was clearly not amused by my antics.

  “I'm Jon Lincoln,” he hissed. “Does that name ring a bell, now?”

  “Ah yes, it does,” I said, slipping my arm free from his grasp. I smiled, leaning toward him. “I've read all about you.”

  Jon Lincoln was a football player, for either the Rams or the Chargers – one of the LA teams. I couldn't keep them straight. Honestly, I never really cared for football. I just knew the name. More than that though, I knew his reputation, and it wasn't a good one.

  I knew I should stop myself. Knew I should have just walked away right then and there. But, the little devil that sat on my shoulder – I'm relatively certain he killed the angel because there was no balance there – egged me on. My mouth was open, and the words were falling out before I could even think to stop them.

  “I hear you like to beat women, Johnny-boy,” I said. “A big, strong man like you against your five-foot-three fiancé? No wonder she ended up in ICU. You must be very proud of yourself for handling such a big threatening girl like that.”

  His face dark with rage, Jon stood up, nearly knocking the table over with him as he moved. He was at least six-foot-five, if not taller, and had at least two hundred pounds on me. He could have crushed me like a grape with one hand if he wanted to. But, if there's one thing I don't do, I don't back down.

  Men like him don't scare me. Especially in public. As I stared up at the mammoth man, not flinching, and not giving an inch of ground, a voice called to me from behind. My boss.

  “Casey, come here, will ya?”

  I winked at Jon and his friends, “Sorry, I have to get back to work,” I said. “I don't make millions of dollars playing a game.”

  I turned to leave, and Jon reached out for me again. This time, I was expecting it and dodged his grip, waltzing over to my boss, Leon-- Tommy's father. He was standing there with his hands on his hips and a frown that went all the way up to his eyes. He was shaking his head. He didn't look happy.

  “What is it?” I asked, giving him my most innocent, doe-eyed look.

  “Were you antagonizing our VIP again?”

  “No,” I scoffed. “Me?”

  Though I knew if given a chance, Jon Lincoln would have a different story to tell. I just hoped Leon didn't ask him, because even though that massive pig bastard was way in the wrong, Leon was always going to err on the side of his paying customers. Especially customers like Jon Lincoln, who made millions of dollars each and every year, and spent a good chunk of it in this bar. “We were just messing around,” I said. “Telling some jokes. Isn't that what I'm supposed to do? Entertain the customers?”

  Leon looked past me at the table of VIPs, then back to me again. He was not buying it. Shit.

  “What have I told you about your attitude, Casey?”

  I repeated exactly what he'd told me many times before, “If you want to keep this job, you can't get into fights with the customers. It's bad for business, no matter how cute you – err, rather I – look in a mini-skirt.”

  I chuckled to myself picturing Leon in a mini skirt, but he didn't find it as funny as I did. Pity. I wish Leon had a sense of humor.

  “You're on real thin ice here, Casey,” he said. “This is your last warning.”

  That got my attention – and made my blood boil. That behemoth over there was the one who was in the wrong. He touched Sasha inappropriately and manhandled me – and yet Leon, let's that slide. The son of a bitch.

  “You don't even know that I did anything wrong back there. ”

  He motioned for me to look, and when I did, I saw the large group getting up and leaving the club. Jon was looking over at me with a look of pure hatred, as if he could shoot death rays from his eyes. Man, ‘roid rage makes people pissy.

  “Err, well maybe that has nothing to do with me?”

  Judging by the look on his face, Leon wasn't buying it. But still, I wasn't the one in the wrong. Leon just shook his head, his frown deepening.

  “This is your last chance, Casey. One more incident and you're gone,” he said, his voice grim. “I should fire you right now, but Tommy insists you're one of the best we have. I'm only cutting you some slack because he's vouching for you.”

  I looked over at Tommy and he waved, a big, goofy grin on his face. He'd been listening the entire time, and he was the reason I'd kept my job. Jesus Christ, I never thought I'd owe that brat a favor. I turned faced Leon.

  “Got it. I'll be better, I promise,” I said, snapping him a little salute.

  He grumbled and turned away, walking to the other end of the bar. I was left standing there simultaneously feeling like I'd dodged the Grim Reaper's scythe – again – and entirely pissed off because I hadn't done anything wrong but stand up for myself.

  Keeping my mouth shut wasn't going to be easy. I've never been very good about submitting to others – especially powerful men. But, this job kept a roof over our heads and without it, I'd have been screwed. Sure, I could have gone to other clubs in the city, but Obelisk was the hottest nightclub in Beverly Hills, and the tips were unbelievable. To pay Los Angeles rent prices and to feed my siblings, I needed to stay there. That meant that I was going to have to do my best to zip it and keep my temper under wraps.

  Why, oh why, did I have to get my daddy's temper?

  It was the only thing I'd inherited from that son of a bitch.

  CHAPTER THREE

  MALCOLM

  Mom and I were sitting at an ocean-side restaurant in Santa Monica that overlooked the Pacific. The air was saturated with the aroma of the sea as the waves crashed on the shoreline below us. In the distance, you could see the world-famous Santa Monica Pier, where my dad had brought me when I was little.

  That was long before he'd become obsessed with his business; back when he used to have time for frivolous things like that. I had so many memories of the two of us walking the pier, eating funnel cakes, and riding the roller coaster over and over again. Memories I cherished. Treasured.

  Memories I'd hoped to share with my own children. One day. Judging by everything that had happened and everything that had been done though, those memories would apparently be brought to life sooner, rather than later. Ready or not, here they come – and I most definitely wasn't ready.

  Mom took my hand in hers, a serious expression on her face. “We can't let Adam take over the company.”

  “I agree,” I said. “I didn't spend my entire life working for Dad just to get tossed aside like that. Especially not by somebody like him.”

  “You're not being tossed aside, Malcolm. It's just – well – your father and I believe it's about time for you to settle down,” she said, a wistful smile on her face. “When he initially told me his plans, I thought it was fantastic. I thought it would encourage you to take the next step with Danielle. But now –”

  “Now that you know the truth about her, you mean?”

  She nodded. “I had no idea she was using you l
ike that.”

  “All this time, she's only cared about my money,” I admitted.

  I stared down at my hands, feeling the hurt growing inside of me. I bit the rage and the bitterness all back though, not wanting to let it get out of hand. I did not want to lash out at my parents. They didn't deserve that.

  “Five years with her, and for what?” I asked. “To find out she doesn't even love me.”

  I'd read the text messages on her phone. I knew it was wrong, knew I was violating her privacy, but I just had to. She'd just been so secretive and distant over the prior few months, that I knew something was up. She wouldn't communicate with me and just kept brushing me off.

  So, one day, when she was in the shower, her phone started going off. It was buzzing like crazy with incoming text messages. Even though I knew it was wrong, I picked it up, and well, I found out how she really felt about me. Or rather, how she felt about somebody else. The texts came from a guy named Tyler. A guy she had no problem telling she loved. And, a guy who knew all about me. I was the idiot. The sugar daddy who was supporting their life together.

  “She had us all fooled, Malcolm,” my mom said. “There's no way you could have known.”

  Mom squeezed my hand. The only person in the entire world that could see me at my weakest and never judge me for it was my mother. She was the one person who knew the real me. It was something I didn't know if I was truly going to be able to share with anybody else. I had real doubts that anybody else would be able to see me for who I was, faults and all, and not just the guy with the big bank account.

  “Yeah, but I don't like being played for a fool,” I said.

  I downed my drink, finishing the last of my wine. My mom flagged down the waiter, bringing him over for a refill. Her glass was close to empty as well.

  “Do you think you could talk to him?” I pleaded. “Ask for more time, perhaps?”

  Mom looked down at her hands, and I knew that look all too well. She was submissive to my father, so asking her to speak up for herself – let alone me – was asking a lot, and I knew it. But, there was a lot at stake here. Too much to make a rash and stupid decision. Not only was my entire life hanging in the balance, but, so was the company that my parents had built over the years.