Page 1 of Road Rash

Day one…

There’s a collective rumble shaking the road, making the pebbled pieces of asphalt bounce from the vibrations. But there’s nothing like it. The sight of a hundred Harleys rolling into town. No bike in the world sounds like a Harley. Those chrome tailpipes just do something to me. It’s magical. It’s…orgasmic.

I’m already ten minutes late for my first shift this year at the Road Rash, a local bar all the brothers, no matter the club, refer to as The Rash. And with the kind of men who hang out here, not to mention the kind of women, I’m sure plenty of those get spread every minute for the two weeks of the year when Backwoods, a small town in the Carolina Blue Ridge Mountains, grows from a population of twenty-five hundred to twenty-five thousand, or more. But I can’t tear my eyes away from the leather spectacle riding into town.

The payday is so good that I’ve driven down from Michigan every year to wait tables for the last ten years. It’s how I spend my vacation from my regular job as a manager at a crappy chain restaurant. Working here never seems like work. I can't beat the perks, either. The food’s cheap, as are the accommodations because I sleep in an old trailer on Old Man’s property. Old Man is definitely a perk. He owns The Rash. I don’t know why they call him Old Man, he might be older, but he sure as hell isn’t old. Never seen an old man work a tight pair of jeans and a tight T-shirt quite as good as him.

When the first glimpses of flaming skulls with devil’s horns come into view, I scurry my ass into the bar. Flaming skulls with devil’s horns means The Brimstone Lords have arrived and those brothers are some of my best tippers.

It takes me a minute for my eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. The walls have been stained by decades of nicotine and there’s a permanent haze of smoke hanging in the air. I wouldn’t trade this job for anything.

“Where the fuck you been?” Old Man barks at me over the bar, slinging whiskeys to the shriveled old-timers who keep permanent residence on the stools they’ve occupied for years.

Damn, he’s hot. Old Man takes my breath away. All that sandy brown hair pulled back in a bun, graying at the temples, salt and pepper beard, more pepper than salt. He has a face that’s seen wind and sun. The shallow lines creasing his forehead, crinkling at the corners of his soulful eyes so blue they’re almost the color of ice, and when he turns them on you… he stares right into the heart of you. Or at least he does me. Sometimes I have to just stare at the man, biting my lip while talking myself down from taking a flying leap over the bar top and landing right on his dick. I’ve never had the pleasure, but I hear it’s a thing of beauty.

“Jonesie,” he barks again. “Get your ass moving.”

“Roger that, boss.” That lights a fire under me. I walk down the hallway that leads to the office where we stash our purses and sling mine in my locker before clocking in. Then I plump my boobs in my bra to make them look good. The perter the boobs, the better the tips. And let’s just say, the Lords are tit men to the extreme.

When I emerge from the back, I spy the lot of sexy outlaws sitting in my section. “My day just got brighter,” I say as I saunter up to their set of three tables pushed together.

Rex, the president of the Lords MC turns his bearded smile on me. “Jonesie, missed seeing your face, beautiful.”

“Ah—” I wave his words away. “You say that to all the women who bring you beers.” And orgasms. I’d hooked up with Rex once upon a time, but he lives in Kentucky and doesn’t do commitment. The first part I could’ve handled for the right man, the second not so much. It was good while it lasted.

He snickers, eyeing me up and down. Not going down that road again, no matter how the years have been kind to him. Dark hair, dark eyes, covered in tatts. But I’ve reached the point in my life where I’m done with quickies in a restroom stall. Or middle of the night booty calls. That’s all a girl can expect from Rex.

“Where’s Duke?” I ask, searching the tables for Rex’s younger brother and vice president.

“Dawna’s sick again,” he answers in a somber voice that breaks my heart. It sucks. As much as Rex avoids commitment, Duke is the exact opposite. He and his wife Dawna are the sweetest people, well, Duke’s sweet in a gritty, badass biker sort of way—if you could call that sweet. Dawna has cancer. She’s been fighting it for a while. I’m sorry to hear she’s in a bad spot again.

“Right,” I say, clearing my throat. “Then shots for Duke and Dawna!” The men cheer, bringing the rowdy, happy atmosphere back, exactly as I hoped it would. I walk away knowing those men’s shot choices as well as I know my own.

“And so it begins…” Brandi, one of the veterans of the rally chuckles, pinching my arm while passing me with a tray of drinks. Brandi has been here as long as I have. She’s a local. She and her husband own the one motel in town. It’s a comfort to see Brandi and her platinum blonde, mile-high hair and Spread Your Cash at The Rash T-shirt suction-cupped to her curvy figure. Today, for the first day, she’s broken out her micro mini denim skirt.

I throw my hand up, shooing her off, laughing along with her while filling a row of shot glasses, twenty strong, with Fireball, and load them on my tray before grabbing up twenty bottles of beer from the cooler.

With my loaded down tray and carrying three bottles by their necks over to the Lords’ tables, I saunter, swaying my hips, working for my tips and I hand off the three bottles to the first three bikers I come to.

About the time I reach for the first shot, the front door cracks, flooding the room in bright, natural light causing an automatic response of whipping my head up to see who’s walked in and oh,shit!The Bedlam Horde walk in. Rage, their president, scares the hell out of me. That thick scar dissecting his eyebrow and running down the length of his cheek on other men might look sexy, on him, it’s menacing. That man’s not right in the head. I’m relieved when they sit in Brandi’s section, but again, I feel sorry for Brandi. The Horde men are known for only providing tips to the waitresses who are willing to debase themselves for their enjoyment. They treat this bar like a strip club, pulling the women on their laps for lap dances and wanting them to go topless altogether. It’s humiliating to work their tables. Brandi’s married, she won’t do that, but even if she wasn’t married, Brandi’s not down with that. The new girls, the younger girls are usually the ones willing to do anything for a tip. I’m not judging. It’s just… Brandi and I are old enough to know there are other ways to make a buck.

One of the Lords’ brothers clears his throat. I shake my head, smiling back at him and hand him off his shot.

“Want you ridin’ my dick,” I hear Rage’s loud words along with the rest of the bar. When I look over, he has Brandi’s wrist locked in his meaty grip yanking her down. Even though she resists, he’s definitely stronger causing her to stumble forward. She presses her hand against his chest to stop her fall.

“Get off!” she shouts, and oh shit again! A whole group of Brimstone Lords shove back from the table hard enough to send all their chairs crashing to the ground at the same time Old Man comes running around the bar with his shotgun in hand, ready to fire.

“Know damn well that’s not how you treat our girls,” Old Man growls the words from some low, ominous place in his throat.

The rest of the Horde stand, corralling around their president, ready to take the shells for the man should Old Man get trigger happy.

Old Man uses the tip of the gun to gesture toward the door. “Out,” he orders. “You can come back tomorrow once you got shit outta your system.”

At the image of Rage getting “shit” out of his system, I shudder. A plethora of women show up to the rally every year, anxious to get their rocks off with a biker. Some give it away for free using their time with these men as almost a badge of honor while others sell it for the right price. Again, I’ve never judged either group. I don’t walk their paths. We all have to do what we have to do to go the distance in this life and finally make it to our destinations.

What I do judge is Rage, his behavior. No means no. Period.

Rex and his brothers, including a crop of new prospects, shove past me coming to halt only mere feet from the Horde. The abundance of testosterone and hatred between clubs grows thick enough to finger paint on the walls with. Even the old-timers who, up until this point, kept their heads bent into their glasses, crane their necks from their barstools to take in the scene. Old man tucks the shotgun under his armpit reaching his hand out to Brandi who snatches it up hastily. He tugs her with a fair bit of force away from Rage. The momentum enough to slingshot her behind Old Man’s back.

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