Page 6 of The Biker and the Loner
I’m sleeping with the boss’s man.
I’m a Den of Heathen’s club mattress.
I have herpes.
I would smile and apologize to the customer and tell them I hope it didn’t ruin their experience. To which they would return a smile along with some encouraging words like “keep your head up” and leave me a big tip.
I know I'm pretty and sexy or whatever, but I'm not the only pretty and sexy woman in the world, am I? Cheyenne, one of the three female servers, is drop-dead gorgeous and hasthemost beautiful green eyes I’ve ever seen. But I’ve learned long ago that it’s not about me, but about them.Theirself-esteem and insecurities. Where I used to believe something was wrong with me, I came to understand that I’m not the problem, they are. Confident women don’t behave like that.
Aside from Kendra, I have zero female friends. For whatever reason, women are intimidated by me. They usually fake-friend me with meaningless words and feigned smiles, then try to sabotage or hurt me. As a result, I no longer make efforts to befriend women.
Kendra told me once that if I wanted female friends who wouldn’t secretly hate me, then I should look for the vain, conceited ones, the selfish, narcissistic ones, the all-about-me ones. Because those women are too busy being obsessed with themselves to care.Better to have a friend who believes she’s better than you than one who believes you’re better than her, she’d told me.
Weird logic, but it’s probably true.
“Gosh, you'rereallypretty,” a preppy, blue-eyed guy with a sharp jawline tells me as I’m processing his purchase.
“Thanks.” I offer a polite smile. “Will that be all?”
His lips curve upward in a suggestive smile. “Yes. But I’d take your number, too, if it’s on the menu…?”
For the umpteenth time today, I hold up my hand and wiggle my fingers. “It’s not, sorry. I’m married.”
He shrugs. “That doesn’t bother me. I’ll take whatever parts you’re willing to give me.”
“Only if you’re willing to die for me.” I jerk my chin to the plexiglass where a cohort of Den of Heathens bikers can be seen loitering outside the shop. “My husband’s a biker.”
His head swivels to look outside at the big, brawny, intimidating jeans and leather-clad men. Then he looks at me again and gulps. “Oh, um...well, have a great day then.” As if to make up for his err, he sticks a twenty into my tip cup before rushing out of there.
Works every time.
When the ring isn’t enough of a deterrent, I pull the “husband is a biker” lie. Which also never fails. At least two bikers can always be found hanging outside Tipsy Scoop and across the street at Cookie’s Treat. That’s because Grunt used to be a Den of Heathens member, and Toni, my boss, is Grunt’s woman. Also, Cookie, the owner of Cookie’s Treat, is the club president’s sister.
Yep, I’m working for the same woman who ordered Grunt to abandon me.
Over a year or so ago, I took this job not because I needed it, but because I was bored, restless, and needed something to do. To get out of that damned house lest I went insane. In addition to speaking four languages, I have an MBA and a Bachelor’s degree in IT earned through accelerated private studies. Yet here I am, working in secret as a part-time cashier. Becauseshedoesn’t want me to work.
Eleven. That’s how old I was when my father breathed his last. My life hasn’t been the same since. I was pulled out of school and homeschooled instead. Becausesheneeded to be able to see me at all times, monitor me, “keep me safe.” And whatever she wants, she gets.
That’s one reason I’m such a loner. I can’t allow people too close. Because of her.
But I feel so alone. All the time.
Working at Tipsy Scoop fills a small gap. The job is easy, and I get to smile and talk to people every day without having to form relationships with them. Better than being at home contemplating whether I should use a noose or a bottle of pills.
Toni sashays from the back office just then, an Hermes purse dangling from her arm, her shiny bob-cut curls bouncing with each click-clack of her Louboutins. Her observing gaze narrows at the serve-bar, where two of the server girls are huddled together, whispering and throwing dirty glances my way.
No customers are in queue at my station at the moment, so she directs her steps over to me. “I'm stepping out for about an hour or so,” she tells me. “Keep an eye on things for me, okay?”
“Sure, sure,” I say quickly.
She nods then lowers her voice to whisper, “And don't fret about the ‘gossip girls’ over there. Jealousy’s a disease.” With that, she throws me a wink and walks out.
Toni’s so amazing it’s insane. When I first decided to get a part-time job, I wasn't above asking her for one. What surprised me was that she was willing to hire me. She scored a crap ton of cool points in my book for that.
Despite my affiliations with her husband, there was never any animosity or acrimony between us, and there’s none now. The past is the past. We have a healthy employer-employee relationship. Besides, I’m here for just a short few hours a day. If I’m out of the house for too long,shewould start freaking out.
Later, when it’s nearing the end of my shift, I return from a quick dash to the bathroom. “Thanks, Bhud,” I mumble to the Den of Heathens prospect who held the station for me while I was gone.
