Otis looked over his shoulder as he reached into the refrigerator. “A hundred is a hell of a lot to get gathered up in the next three weeks, Slice.”

I glanced up from my notes and pressed my hands into the edge of the table as I flexed my forearms. I knew I didn’t need to flex on Otis, but it had become habit when someone questioned me. Throwing my size around was second nature, and I was a rather intimidating son-of-a-bitch to most people, Otis included. As he twisted the lid off the bottle of beer and tossed it into the trash, I began to stand from my seat.

“Well, that’s what they asked for and I sure as fuck can’t change it. So, what’s your recommendation, Otis? Give ‘em fifty? Seventy? Fuck that. We’ll look like a bunch of incompetent twats. Get a hundred of ‘em found. I don’t give a rat’s ass if you have to run an ad on Craigslist that says AK-47’s wanted: will pay top dollar, find a hundred of ‘em and get ‘em in here,” I said as I tapped my finger on the notepad sharply.

“In three weeks?” he asked as he sat down across from me.

I nodded my head and lowered myself into my chair. “Yep.”

“God damn, Slice, that’s a huge order. We ain’t got any AK’s right now. Jesus. I’ll get Hollywood on it, we’ll see how it goes.” He paused as he raised the bottle to his lips.

I shook my head from side-to-side. “No, we won’t see. Not on this deal, you’ll make it happen. Corndog gets out in six weeks. And these guys are serious players. They’re Sureños. More specifically, if I even need to say it, a bunch of ‘em are from Calle 18, mostly from Los Angeles. These motherfuckers are all about respect. They’re not an MC, but they operate under the same principles and they even have fucking bylaws. If you’re in the gang and fuck something up, they don’t shun your ass, they kill you. If we do this deal and it goes as planned, we’ll be set with these bastards for good. If we don’t, Corndog loses his credibility in the joint. Hell, they’ll probably kill him. These sons of bitches don’t fuck around. They’ll cut a motherfucker’s head off just for principal. Hell, I’ll do about anything to some prick if I don’t like him, but cut off a head? Yeah, I’m thinkin’ not.”

He pressed his beer bottle onto the table, lowered his head, and peered over the top in my direction. “You mean those MS-13 motherfuckers? This is who you’re talking about?”

I nodded my head, shrugged, and grinned. “That’s them. The notorious MS-13. You know those poor motherfuckers started down in Salvador or somewhere. The fucking cops don’t even fuck with ‘em, they just let ‘em run dope. Poor sons of bitches don’t have any money down there, so they turned to dope. Now, they’re the entire reason we can’t go to Mexico and drink coconut flavored drinks with little umbrellas in ‘em on the fucking beach. Well, not if you’re white anyway. They’re cutting off heads of their own people in the street. Fuck that, I’ll stick around in the good old US of A.”

He stood from the table and faced the door. After a short pause, he turned to face me and pressed the web of his hands into his hips. “For fuck’s sake, Axton. I hate this shit. We make a good damned sum of money selling guns to everyone else who buys ‘em from us. And those MS-13 fuckers are some crazy assed Mexicans. They’ll kill an entire family just to prove a point. Do we really need to do this?”

I stood, cleared my throat, and spoke with a tone of authority. “We may not need to for money, and we sure as fuck don’t need to for credibility, but we’re gonna do this for Corndog. Did you forget what he’s done for us? For the fucking club? Huh Otis? And since when was it your fucking place to question me?”

He stood silently, narrowed his gaze, and slowly raised his hands to his face. It was a habit he’d had since he was in his early teens when we first became friends. If he was getting ready to agree to something he didn’t naturally agree with, or when he was preparing to make a move, he always raised his hands to his face first. As he encompassed his temples in his palms I smiled, knowing if I had him on board mentally, this deal was in the bag.

Otis was a rather large man by anyone’s standards, and outside of a one-on-one meeting with me, he didn’t take shit from anyone. Our club was large enough that we had small cliques within it of fella’s that ran together, but Otis sided with no one except me. He stood alone and he stood tall. At 6’-7” and 275 pounds of muscle, he wasn’t someone to argue with. If Otis said to do something, the men never questioned him, they simply moved in the direction he pointed. His size alone was one reason he was the club’s Sergeant at Arms. Well, that and the fact he was as mean as a fucking snake. Keeping order in the club and protecting or defending the members was as easy as breathing for Otis.

“I didn’t forget, and I wasn’t questioning you, Slice. I was thinking. Fuckin’ Mexicans? And MS-13? Son-of-a-bitch. Yeah, I’ll get Hollywood on it. I’ll have a hundred AK’s in two weeks, and that’ll give you some wiggling room. Hell, even if we’ve got to steal ‘em, I’ll have ‘em in time,” he said as he lowered his hands and pulled his chair from the table.

As I heard the door hinge creaking, I immediately stood from my chair and faced the doorway. As it slowly swung open, I saw Cash standing in the narrow opening between the door and the frame.

“Hey Otis, I got a question,” he said.

“Does that fucking door have a sign on it that says come on in?” I growled.

Cash shifted his gaze from Otis to me. “Sorry, Slice. I needed to ask…”

You stupid little cocksucker.

Before he finished speaking, I interrupted him, “I asked you a fucking question, Prospect. Does that God damned door have a sign on it that says come on in?”

Cash slowly shook his head from side to side.

“God damn it, Prospect,” Otis said as he began to stand.

I extended my arm and raised my hand in Otis’ direction to silence him from continuing. A Prospect needed to understand we had rules in place for a reason, and they need to be followed at all times. If he couldn’t follow orders during a simple twelve-month initiation, he damned sure couldn’t be trusted to stand up for the club and its brethren under any and all circumstances afterward.

“Hold up, Otis. I asked this simple minded little prick a question. Now answer me,” I barked.

“No, it doesn’t have a come on in sign, Slice,” Cash responded.

I shrugged my shoulders and continued to stare in his direction. “But it does have a sign on it, doesn’t it?”

He closed the door momentarily and slowly pushed it open again. As he opened the door, he peered around the wooden frame toward where I stood. “Yes, Slice. It sure does.”

I inhaled a long breath and raised one eyebrow. “Tell me what it says.”

“Knock before entering,” Cash said softly.

“Big red and white motherfucker, gets your fucking attention kinda like a God damned stop sign, huh? Being big and red with huge white letters and all?” I asked in a sarcastic tone.

He nodded his head.

“It’s pretty fucking hard to miss, unless you’re a stupid fucker or blind. And you know what? I ain’t lookin’ to add any dumb asses or cripples to this club. You’re never gonna make it, kid. Now fucking knock,” I growled.

The door closed. Three sharp taps immediately echoed into the room.

“Go the fuck away, we’re in a closed door meeting,” I shouted as I sat down.

As his steps faded down the hallway, I turned toward Otis and shrugged. He had vouched for Cash, who grew up with a bike between his legs, and was a friend of Otis’ family. I called him a kid, but he wasn’t young. He was thirty years old and an auto mechanic, having him around would bring some benefit to the club, but everyone had to pay their respects and prove themselves through twelve months of being a Prospect. Cash certainly had his shortcomings, and not knowing when to keep his fucking mouth shut was one of them. I was often able to see what others couldn’t, and although everyone seemed to warm up to him quickly, to me he seemed weak.

Maybe that’s why I was in charge.

“I know you vouched for that little prick, but the kid’s got diarrhea of the jaw. I don’t trust his little ass any further than I can toss him,” I said as I turned around to face Otis.

“I know you don’t. He’s got six more months, though. He’s still learning the ropes,” Otis explained as he lifted his beer bottle.

I shrugged my shoulders. “He’s thirty fucking years old, Otis. He acts like an immature kid.”

“And another thing about something you said a minute ago, right before shit-for-brains interrupted us. Joking or not, I need to make this clear, you’re not stealing any guns, we straight on this?” I asked.

He nodded his head. “Yep.”

Six-years prior, Corndog had purchased fifty Beretta 9mm pistols. Unbeknownst to him at the time, they were stolen. After selling a few of them, a customer decided to use one in a murder. Local law enforcement traced the firearm back to Corndog, and questioned him on the sale of the weapon and the location of the remaining stolen weapons.

He didn’t budge. He lied, stating he found them on the side of the road. Had he provided the information to law enforcement regarding where he obtained them, he could have walked away without so much as a slap on the hand. The club’s exposure on the crime was nil. The asshole who sold him the weapons was the one who stole them, and he was the person the cops wanted. Ninety-nine out of a hundred men would have given the thief up and walked free.

Not Corndog.

In fact, he refused to tell anyone in the club who sold them to him. He looked at it as something he needed to take care of himself. I always believed after he was prosecuted and sent to prison, he’d say something to one of the members, but after four and a half years, he stood firm on his promise to resolve it himself. Corndog was an old school biker, with old school biker values. In his opinion, he made a mistake by buying the weapons and not knowing they were stolen. He felt as if he had jeopardized the safety and integrity of the club by being under investigation. In his mind, this was something he needed to resolve on his own, and after settling it, he’d without a doubt walk back into the clubhouse as if nothing ever happened. Many of the newer members could learn a lot from him in matters of protecting the club.

Now in prison and almost done with his five-year sentence, he had made a deal with a Mexican prison gang to supply guns to their outsiders on the street. Small groups of Mexican gangs had cropped up in the Midwest since the latter 1990’s, and most originated from southern California. Drugs were the primary focus of these gangs, and they didn’t interfere with our ability to do what we needed to do, so we allowed the drug traffic to proceed without any issues. 

Most MC’s in this day and age made the decision not to mess with drugs; as the risk is far too great. If caught and convicted, a kilo of cocaine under the RICO act would provide every member of the MC a thirty-year sentence. This was damned sure a chance the Selected Sinners Motorcycle Club wasn’t willing to take. Not on my watch.

Our club chose the Midwest due to the soft state gun laws. Our first chapter developed just south of Wichita, Kansas. The second chapter formed in Oklahoma City five years later. Three years after that, a chapter in Austin, Texas followed. We were of the opinion as long as our focus was legal firearms, prosecution would be by state officials, and not federal. Federal crimes and MC’s didn’t mesh well, and typically a member of a MC would have the RICO act punishment tacked onto his sentence if he committed a federal crime. The Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act, or RICO as the Feds called it, was developed to thwart organized crime. A criminal didn’t have to do anything extra to get the additional time on his prison sentence, all he had to do was be in a gang and commit a federal crime. The Feds considered an MC a gang. We knew as long as the crime committed wasn’t a federal offence, we’d never have to worry about the Feds knocking on our door. A state crime for firearms was typically a twenty-four to sixty-month sentence in prison. A federal crime with the RICO act attached was typically ten times that amount.

So, in the Midwest we had become an extremely powerful presence. Semi-automatic assault weapons, high capacity pistols, and riot shotguns were our focus. Machineguns, silencers, short barreled weapons, and sawed off shotguns were federally governed, so we stayed away from them.

Keeping up on the federal and state gun laws was my job. Having the local cops on our side didn’t hurt matters, and we strived to keep the club out of legal trouble with our gun business. Staying out of jail in general was next to impossible, but outlaw motorcycle clubs weren’t known for abiding by the law.

The Selected Sinners were no exception.

“If I’m going to get this order filled in two weeks, I better find Hollywood. Got anything else?” Otis asked as he tossed his bottle in the trash.

I pointed toward the trash can and pulled against the rubber band wrapped around my left wrist. As I released it, snapping it into my wrist, I spoke. “Take that stinkin’ motherfucker to the shop. I don’t want to smell it. And that’s all I got, Otis.”

He shook his head and leaned over the trash can. As he pulled the empty bottle from the trash he turned to face me and rolled his eyes. Slowly he began to saunter toward the door. Otis did everything slow and easy until it was time to throw down in a fight, and then everything turned to lightning speed. I always imagined him saving his energy for such occasions. To watch him leisurely make his way through the day was almost exhausting.

“Better yet, smack that Prospect upside the head with it first. Maybe you’ll knock some sense into his stupid ass,” I said with a laugh.

“Cut him some slack, Slice. He’s a good kid,” Otis said as he reached for the door handle with his free hand

“He may be a good kid, but I have my doubts that he’ll make a good Sinner,” I responded as I looked up at our motto posted on the wall.

The Devil Looks After His Own.

“We’ll see,” Otis said as he walked through the door.

“Damned sure will,” I huffed.

Damned sure will.

 

 

Our club was located in a town twenty miles south of Wichita. We’d chosen the particular town because it was close to the action of the larger city, and easier for us to conduct business without constant scrutiny from local law enforcement. Winfield was small at 13,000 people, but a fifteen-minute ride from the largest city in the state, boasting 375,000 people.

We did our best to toe the line in the city, and the local law enforcement looked upon us as a blessing instead of a curse. Frank Downtain was the city’s Chief of Police, and he had two underlings to assist him in watching over the city. Winfield wasn’t as adventurous as other large cities, but having the club operate from there was easy. Truly a step back in time, living in Winfield was almost as if we were in the 1950’s.

Frank was in his mid-forties, overweight, and underpaid. As with most small town cops, lining his pockets with a little money went a long way. As soon as we arrived in the city, filtering money Frank’s way began, and it hadn’t stopped. Having been in the city almost ten years, we’d developed a relationship allowing him to do his job, and us to do ours. We made every effort to keep our actions civil in the small town, and he looked the other direction if we ever needed him to. To keep matters palatable to both parties, we attempted to minimize our exposure to criminal activity under Frank’s watch.

For ten years, everything worked well. From time-to-time, Frank had the club resolve issues he couldn’t iron out under the limit of the law. It came as no surprise, and provided support of my belief that laws are meant to be broken every time we were asked to assist him in something he wasn’t able to do under the watchful eye of the City Attorney or the State Court.

It was three o’clock in the afternoon, and Frank and I shared a booth in the local Mexican restaurant. The only two patrons in the restaurant, we had the luxury of speaking freely. We often chose the establishment for mid-afternoon meetings for the privacy alone. I shoved another forkful of Chile Pork Verde into my mouth, chewed it slowly while I stared at Frank, and as soon as I swallowed, began to speak.

“Fuck, Frank. Child pornography is a federal crime. Why not call in the Feds?” I asked.

I wiped my mouth on the back of my hand and waited for him to respond. After looking over both shoulders, he leaned into the table as much as his beer belly would allow him to. After shuffling his elbows into place and raising his hands to his chin, he looked up. Still somewhat concerned about his little issue with a local photo collector, I fished in my bowl for another piece of elusive pork.

“Alright. I’ll tell you the whole story,” he whispered.

I lifted the empty fork from my bowl, rolled my eyes at the lack of pork, and grinned. “Wouldn’t expect otherwise, Frank. Hell, you and I been doin’ this for a bit, haven’t we?”

He nodded his head. “I know, but it’s embarrassing. It makes me look incompetent and inexperienced. It’s fucking paperwork. This was going to be a good bust. Someone turned scumbag in, and we investigated it in-house. I could have called the Feds, but I don’t like those guys any more than you do. The Feds are a bunch of arrogant pricks. You know they always stick their badges in your face and tell you they’re on the scene and head back to the station like you’re some dip-shit and don’t know anything. Personally, I have no use for them. I just wish this would have gone smoother,” he paused and rubbed his temples with his fingertips.

As he rubbed his face, I nodded my head once in agreement. “Let’s hear it.”

He closed his eyes, and after a moment’s thought, opened them and began to speak softly.

“A middle school kid told his mother he’d been going to this guy’s house for a few years posing for pictures. He said the guy told him if he ever spoke of it, he’d cut his dick off and supposedly he gave this kid a schedule to follow to return to his place for...well…you know, blowjobs. And the other kids supported these statements. So this poor kid is scared to death. You know how little kids want to please adults and they look up to them? Well, that part makes my skin crawl. That this son-of-a-bitch used the fact he was an adult to manipulate the kid. So, scared to death and wanting to make the man happy that he was doing what the sick fucker wanted him to, the kid did it for years under the fear of being dismembered. Finally, he reached an age that he began to wonder and feel guilty. The shame and guilt as he got older made him come to his mother for help.”

He hesitated and swallowed heavily.

I dropped my fork onto my plate and pushed my bowl to the center of the table. I felt my blood begin to boil. I reached under the table and stretched the rubber band until it almost snapped. As he began to speak again, I released it; snapping it into my wrist.

Snap!

“So, she came to us and we investigated. We held an awareness class at the school. Kids came forth and gave this guy up. Hell, it was almost a perfect investigation. Too damned good to be true is what it was. We typed up the search warrant, and raided his place. On his computer, we uhhm. On his computer, we found. We uhhm.” As he struggled to find the words to finish his sentence, his voice began to falter.

I raised my hand and turned my palm toward him. “I’ve heard enough.”

“Axton, you asked. Let me finish the story. I need to say it and you need to hear it anyway. So…” He paused and rubbed his temples with his fingertips.

As he sat quietly, he reached toward his eyes with his pinkie fingers and attempted to wipe tears from his cheeks. Being a cop in a city the size of Winfield, Frank would probably see a case like this one only once.

But that was one time too many.

After he regained his composure he wiped his eyes again and inhaled a deep breath. “Fuck, this is tougher than I thought; saying it and all. He uhhm. He had videos and pictures, Axton. A lot of them, hell they dated back for years and years. What looked like seven and eight-year-old kids sucking on his, you know…sucking on his dick while he told them how they were doing such a good job. He would ejaculate on their faces and make some of them swallow it. Sharpe puked when he saw it. I tried to hold myself together, being the Chief and all, but I just lost it. Broke down and started crying right as we watched it. I fucked this deal up, Axton, and I need some help.”

It was all I could do to keep from standing up and knocking all the shit off the table. Generally a reasonable man when it came to keeping my anger at bay, this was far more than I was able to contain. I wanted the address of the pedophile, and I wanted to skin the son-of-a-bitch alive.

I sat up straight in my seat and raised my hand. As Frank stared at my hand, his lip quivered. I reached into my cut and pulled out the small notepad I carried with me. I scribbled a note onto the page. I slid the open note pad to Frank’s side of the table as I held it in my hand.

Get me the information on where the fuck this motherfucker is. And I mean it this time, Frank. I’ve heard enough. I’m about to snap.

As he read the note, I began to speak, in complete contrast to what I had written. “Well, you know the club could help you find this guy, but we damned sure can’t do anything beyond that.”

I trusted Frank as much as a biker could trust a cop, but I didn’t trust him. I wasn’t dumb enough to get caught up in some conspiracy to commit murder charge, and if I spoke of the things he was asking of me, it would be all too easy for him - or someone else - to record the conversation and use it against me or the club later. To provide me a little false comfort, I always used my notepad to discuss matters which were contrary to the law.

Frank inhaled a deep breath and exhaled loudly as he lowered his hands to the table. “We made a mistake on the search warrant, Axton. And now the computer, everything – all the fruits of the search warrant – they’re gone. Basically we can’t use any of it. Everything else on this guy is clean. All we really had was the computer and three kids who were willing to testify. Now all we have is the testimony, and the parents are second guessing having the children testify now.”

The thought of someone doing such shit to a helpless kid made me feel sick. The pedophile probably selected Winfield for his home because it was small and lacked competent law enforcement, under the belief the small town kids would never say a word to anyone, and he could continue to take advantage of them for as long as he wanted.

I turned my head and stared out the window. “That’s a damned shame, Frank. Sounds like a hell of a mess. I feel for those parents and kids.”

I stared outside for a long moment. As I turned from the window to face Frank, I scribbled onto the notepad and held it under his nose. 

Consider it done. I’ll take care of it myself. Son-of-a-bitch, Frank. Fucking hell, and in this town, what the fuck, huh?

Frank reached into his shirt pocket and removed a pen. As he spoke, he scribbled onto the pad.

“I know. It makes me sick. Hell, I have kids,” he said as he continued to write.

After he finished scribbling, I slid the notepad to my side of the table and looked down at what he had written. 

If this guy disappears, no one will give a shit. And hell, anyone could have done it. I’ll write it up as a missing person, and leave it at that. He doesn’t have any family, so who cares, right?

Growing angrier by the second, I clenched my jaw, reached toward my wrist and pulled the rubber band back. After I released it, snapping it into my wrist sharply, I stretched it tight again and released it.

Snap!

I looked down at the red welt growing on the inside of my wrist. “Well, I don’t have kids, but I’m a compassionate man. That’s a damn shame, Frank. Maybe a parent will get to him and make him pay, hell who knows.”

I picked my pen up from the table and wrote under the note Frank had written. I turned the pad to face Frank.

Get me the information. I’ll need a day or so to figure it out, and we’ll get it taken care of. I’ll make it clean and as simple as I can.

As he nodded his head, I slipped the pen and notepad into my cut.

“Now I have a story for you,” I said.

“What is it?” he asked.

“It’s not a big deal, really shouldn’t matter. I’m just trying to be respectful to ya, Frank.”

He sat back in his chair, crossed his arms, and lowered them onto the top of his stomach. “Okay, what have you got?”

“We’re making a deal with a Mexican gang. They’re not an MC, but a gang. I have no idea if it’ll take place here or in Wichita, but it’ll be in about a week or so. If they come here, we’ll have ‘em at the clubhouse for a night. Shouldn’t be any problem, and they ought to be respectful, coming to our town and all.” I paused and considered what might realistically happen.

My experience with Mexican gangs was nil, and I had no idea what they planned to do regarding the delivery of the weapons. We preferred they come to us to pick them up, saving transportation and potential confiscation if stopped by the police. They may have planned on simply sending a man to pick up the weapons. Or, they might plan on coming to Winfield and having a celebration, a fucking fiesta of some sort. As Frank narrowed his gaze and leaned forward, I waited for his response.

“That’s it?” he asked.

I nodded my head. “I’ll keep you posted. Should be an in and out deal, and it’ll be legitimate. But you know, if a town local sees a gang of cholos rolling into town, they might give you a call.”

He leaned into his seat and cleared his throat. “Yeah, you do that. Keep me posted.”

“Will do,” I said as I reached for my wallet. 

Frank shook his head. “I’ll get the tip.”

“You sure?” I asked.

He nodded his head.

I chuckled as I stood from my seat. “Well, I’ve got an ongoing criminal enterprise I need to look after.”

He tossed a twenty-dollar bill onto the table and looked up. “And I’ve got to go set up a speed trap.”

I looked over my shoulder and grinned. “Utter hell, ain’t it?”

“Sometimes,” he responded.

As I began to think of the piece of child molesting shit I was going to rid the city of, I realized nowhere or no one was immune from what the bowels of society had to offer.

Society sees a man like me, wearing my cut covered in miscellaneous patches I’ve earned over the years, and they typically categorize me as scum. I had no doubt whenever the local child molester went to get groceries he was met by the girl at the checkout counter with a smile. As I threw my leg over the rear fender and dropped down onto the seat of my bike, I grinned. I couldn’t recall the last time someone smiled at me.

And I wouldn’t trade it for the world. 

 

 

The tattooed asshole behind me had reminded me no less than half a dozen times he wanted a Rum and Coke. As empty as the bar was, he could easily see I was taking the order of two nice gentlemen who sat at the end of the bar and ordered bottles of beer. I reached into the cooler for the beers and simultaneously pulled the opener from the back pocket of my jeans.

“Rum and Coke. Coming right up,” I hollered over my shoulder.

I opened two Budweiser’s, slid them along the side of the bar, and nodded my head toward the two gentlemen who had ordered them. They appeared to be brothers at minimum; potentially twins. Magically, the two bottles slid to a stop directly in front of them. I clenched my fist, pumped it forward slightly and pulled it toward my hip sharply.

Yes!

Doing my job and doing it well satisfied me to no end. I loved sliding shit along the bar and having it land where I planned. Dumb little things seemed to provide me the satisfaction I needed to convince myself I was doing a good job. My competitive nature probably fueled the need for measuring my success, but I desperately needed to know I was succeeding at whatever it was I decided to attempt. Without having a goal and reaching it, I’d go completely insane.

Rum and Coke, behind me.

I reached for the rum with one hand and a glass with the other. After scooping the glass through the ice bin, I poured a long shot into the glass and shot a splash of coke on top.

“There you go, Rum and Coke,” I said as I handed the man standing at the bar behind me his drink.

Blonde haired guy at the end of the bar.

He had a…

Gin and Tonic.

I turned toward the opposite end of the bar, pointed toward the blonde man, and grinned. “You alright on that Gin and Tonic?”

He mouthed the words, I’m good as he nodded his head, raised his half-full glass, and smiled. I smiled in return, reached for the bar towel, and began wiping down the end of the bar. I scanned the bar. A typical Tuesday night, slow as fuck. Six people certainly weren’t many to try and keep happy.

“You didn’t measure the shot,” a voice from behind me said flatly.

I turned around. Mr. Rum and Coke stood at the bar with his glass held at chest height. It appeared he hadn’t so much as tasted the drink. I made note of a faint tattoo on his neck I hadn’t seen before. It looked like some serious garage work or maybe something he got in prison. It looked like someone had taken a ballpoint pen and scribbled over a word they didn’t want anyone to read.

Nice tattoo, douchebag.

“Nope, sure didn’t. You know why?” I snapped.

He shrugged.

I smiled and began to wipe down the bar which separated us. “If I’d have measured it, you’d have about half the Rum I gave you. Taste it. And I’ll be sure to measure your next one, how’s that?”

He raised the glass and tipped it to his mouth. After a small sip, his eyes closed and he shook his head.

“Damn, that’s a Rum and Coke,” he said as he raised his glass. 

I smiled, winked, and lifted the towel from the bar. “I’ll measure the next one.”

Working at a bar as a college senior was far more entertaining than anything else I had ever done for work. I had grown up in the small town of Marietta, Ohio, and a volleyball scholarship brought me to Kansas to attend college at Southwestern College in Winfield. Winfield was a shitty little town which reminded me too much of Marietta, so I opted to find a job twenty-five miles north, in the city of Wichita. Roughly half a million people provided a reasonably diverse group of patrons for the bar, and while I worked there I was learning a lot about dealing with people. The bar was small, and seated fifty-two people according to the card the Fire Marshall required we post above the door. A long bar with a return on each end seated twelve total; five high tops, and five booths at four apiece provided the seating. I controlled the music selection, and generally listened to indie rock on Pandora. No juke box, and no dancing, just great drinks and salty bar food. A cook and a dishwasher got off work at midnight, and I worked until two am. Weekends added a second employee, who worked as a waitress and bartender.

My guess was that some small town girls would naturally be drawn to other small towns, but having grown up in a town of 14,000 people caused me to yearn for more. Living in a small town, to me, seemed counterproductive. I needed significant change in my surroundings to feel as if I had succeeded. A big city was drastically different from what I was used to growing up, and change was something I saw as an improvement. My overly religious Baptist parents would rather have me living in a cave, but given the ability to make my own decisions, I’d probably move to Wichita when I graduated.

A few more weeks, and I would be on my own. I couldn’t wait. My best friend and roommate Sloan was on the volleyball team, a senior, and would graduate with me. We’d talked about being roommates after college, and if things went the way we had planned we would both move to Wichita and live together; easing the financial burden of trying to live alone. She worked with me at the bar mostly on the weekends, and we were a force to reckon with. She at a little more than six feet tall and me at 5’-11”, together we looked like two Amazon women. Men either had a love for tall women, or seemed to hate them. I always thought men were intimidated by my height, but none would ever admit it. Sloan was a little more conservative than I was, but she provided me balance and acted as the angel on the opposite shoulder of my naturally active devil.

My strict parents attempted to raise me as a conservative girl who abided by the rules and regulations they shoved down my throat. It obviously backfired, because I was a little more adventurous than any of the other girls I met in college. Taking risks and having fun was part of my nature. Having Sloan keep me in check was something I probably needed. Without her, I’d make far shittier decisions without a doubt. 

“I’m headed home, Avery. Thanks. What did I have, I can’t remember?” Ryan asked.

I turned toward the register and pressed my finger against the screen. After jockeying through the various screens and finding his order, I pressed the total button. After the receipt belched out the bottom, I looked down at the total.

“Let’s see, you had two Jack and Coke’s and a grilled chicken with fries, Ryan. Looks like twenty-three bucks with tax,” I said as I printed the ticket and handed it to him.

“Well, here’s thirty. Thanks, I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said as he tossed the money on the counter.

I nodded my head, smiled, and waved as I scooped up the money and receipt. Ryan was a regular at the bar, and always ordered Jack and Coke. He was overly nice, but had never hit on me or even said anything alluding to the fact he was interested in me. I always respected him for that, because he was married and had children. Although he had indicated his dissatisfaction with his marriage, he made clear he had no intention of cheating on her. He did, however, come into the bar almost nightly to unwind before he went home.

To me, men were a strange guilty pleasure, and never a necessity. I wanted a man, but my desire, as far as men went, was different than almost anyone I had ever met. If a man asked me out on a date, I wasn’t interested. I wanted a challenge, and if someone was willing to take me on a date without any work on my end, I wasn’t interested. I wanted what I couldn’t have. I desired a man who wouldn’t give me the time of day naturally; or at least at first, and I wanted to earn my way into his mind, heart, and life. If a man appeared to be a challenge, I wanted to try my luck at impossibility; and through my cunning ways, good looks, and competitive nature win him over.

For my first three years at Southwestern, a professor was on my to-do list. He was in his late thirties, single, and handsome as fuck. He had no idea I was even alive. I dressed provocatively, ditched the bra, and bent over a thousand times in front of him. I tried the naïve schoolgirl act, the innocent religious girl, the I’m an old soul routine, and even sat popping my gum as I twisted my hair in my index finger for countless hours as I batted my eyelashes at him.

I got absolutely nothing in return.

After my third year of beating my head against the wall, I learned he was gay.

Overall, I considered it a win, because he wasn’t technically available. It continued to bother me, as not having him wasn’t an easy loss for me. I even considered trying to make him go straight, but Sloan talked some sense into me. She was right, there was no way I could win that battle.

“Hey, motherfucker, watch where you’re walking…”

I turned to face the voice I heard behind me.

Mr. Rum and Coke.

At the end of the bar a hallway led to the restrooms. Two men stood at the opening of the hallway. Apparently Rum and Coke had collided with one of the Budweiser twins, and was challenging him on his ability to find the way to his barstool without bumping into him. One thing I didn’t stand for on my shift was fighting. My parents worried about me being a bartender at a bar in a city the size of Wichita, and especially working alone. I didn’t really worry about it at all. I wasn’t big enough to fight men, but I certainly wasn’t afraid to break up a fight.

Additionally, I had a false sense of security.

Immediately after taking the job as a bartender, I applied for a concealed weapons permit, took the course, and obtained one. Now, I carried a 9mm Glock in my purse, and I wasn’t afraid to use it if I needed to. Using it to settle a dispute in the bar was out of the question, but I made me feel more secure. Ultimately, if I ever needed it, I had it as an option.

“You bumped into me,” the Budweiser twin responded.

Rum and Coke arched his back and clenched his fist. As he blinked his eyes and stared, probably attempting to clear his mind enough to speak legibly, the second twin slipped off the edge of the stool and stepped beside his double.

“Oh, you gonna get your buddy to jump in, huh? Well, I tell you what,” Rum and Coke howled.

He unclenched his fist and reached for his back pocket.

You motherfucker, don’t you dare.

As I stepped toward the end of the bar, and my purse, he pulled a knife from his pocket and began swinging it toward the two men.

“What the fuck!” the first twin screeched.

The second twin began stepping backward, away from Rum and Coke. As he slowly stepped rearward, his brother followed, and the knife wielding tattooed idiot was right behind them. I reached for my purse, and rested my hand on the Glock.

“Put the knife up, sir,” I hollered over the bar.

Rum and Coke glanced my direction and immediately turned back to face the two men.

“You fucking bumped me on purpose, you big dumb fuck. Do you know who I am? I’ll fuck you up,” he growled.

I’m sure you were a bad ass in county jail, but seriously?

You’re a douche.

“Sir, put the knife up, come on. Drinks are on the house. Just put up the knife,” I said calmly.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Gin and Tonic and my Hamburger and water come up to the side of the bar to watch the fight.

Fucking people.

“Listen. I’m going to guess, and this is just a wild assed guess, that you’re on parole or probation. Put the knife in your pocket and leave, your drink is on me. If you don’t, I’m going to call the cops. They’ll be here in about sixty seconds; the sub-station is all of half a mile from here. You don’t want the cops in here questioning you, do you?”

He gazed in my direction and alternated glances between me and the Budweiser twins. To be honest, I had grown to have minimal respect for cops. Every time I turned around, there was one on the television who had shot someone or choked someone to death for no real reason. Because I’m a cop and it’s within my rights, in my opinion didn’t make it right. Protect and Serve wasn’t necessarily the motto anymore. Although he didn’t need to know it, the last thing I wanted was a bar full of cops.

“Fucking bitch,” he grunted as he folded the knife and pushed it into his pocket.

Fucking bitch who makes a bad-ass Rum and Coke, thank you.

“Pussies,” he hissed as he walked past the twins.

Yes!

Another win for Avery.

As he grumbled to himself and stepped toward the rear exit, I sighed and released my pistol. I wouldn’t have shot him for being in a bar fight, but the gun gave me a little more courage than normal. I smiled at the twins, and shrugged my shoulders. As I raised my hand in the air in my own little imaginary victory pose, I swung the bar towel in a circle and shouted a celebration of sorts for having ended the little disagreement without any bloodshed.

“This round, gentlemen, is on the house!”

Okay, that’s two Budweiser’s, a Gin and Tonic, and a glass of water.

Wichita was a far cry from the quiet town of Marietta, Ohio, but overall I loved it. The wilder the better I have always said.

And, for the most part, I meant it.