“Excuse me, Sir. Is there a problem here?” I pasted a smile on my face while my eyes shot daggers at the diner whose hand is still resting on Claire’s behind.

“I don’t remember calling you over, waiter,” he said, spitting out the last word like an insult he obviously meant it to be. He squeezed Claire’s ass while he was staring me down.

Fuck this guy.

That’s what I wanted to say. Fuck off, asshole. But it was my workplace and I had to stay professional. Which apparently meant just grinning and bearing it, no matter what kind of shit customers threw at you.

Claire stepped away from the table. She stood behind me and whispered, “It’s okay, Jacob. I’m fine. Let it go.”

“I’m going to have to ask you to leave the premises, Sir. Claire here has repeatedly asked you to stop touching her and you obviously haven’t been listening.” I balled my fists and dropped them on the table to show him I meant business.

“What are you talking about? You don’t have a problem with me, do you, sweetheart?” He raised his eyebrows at Claire, who was still standing behind me, using me as some sort of a human shield.

“She’s too polite to say it, but we want you to leave, please,” I repeated. I leaned closer and looked straight into his beady eyes, making it clear that there was going to be trouble if he didn’t comply.

He drew back, fear overtaking his features for a few seconds before his face grew red with anger—and perhaps embarrassment, as other diners were starting to cast curious glances toward us.

He knew better than to pick a fight with me. Most people do. I’m bigger and meaner than most people.

He grabbed his coat and gathered his belongings. “Your manager is going to hear about this,” he said in a low voice to avoid attracting even more attention.

I often saw him come in with his family, so it was incredibly stupid of him to try to pull something like this here, if he didn’t want his wife to find out about his wandering hands. There were hundreds of other restaurants in town.

As he made his way toward the door, he looked back over his shoulder and shot me an impotent glare. The door slammed loudly when he left. He didn’t pay, of course. Cheap, dirty fucking bastard.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Claire said as she stacked the plates of half-eaten food on the table. “Now you’re in trouble.”

“He was asking for it,” I said, shrugging.

“I’m used to it, Jacob,” she said. “Dealing with difficult customers is just part of the job.”

“It shouldn’t be.”

“Well, like it or not, it is. And now you’ve just made things worse. Malcolm isn’t going to be happy to hear from the guy. And you know what kind of a manager he is. He’ll fire you.”

Claire was right, of course.

The very next day, Malcolm, the manager of the diner, approached me with a sour face. Standing behind a tall counter to keep a safe distance between us, he told me to collect my stuff and leave. “The customer is always right,” he said with finality when I tried to explain why I had to do what I did.

Well, good riddance. There’s nothing I hate more than dealing with entitled people who think they can make me do whatever they want, like I’m a fucking puppet on strings.

With that kind of attitude, I don’t know why I ever thought it was a good idea for me to join the Navy. Live and learn, I guess.

To be fair, I don’t regret it. I’m glad I served as a Petty Officer in the Navy SEAL, but I’m also glad that I got out. It’s just that finding my place in civilian society isn’t easy.

At first, I tried working in a garage because I’m pretty good with my hands. The owner told me to stop coming to work because I’d told a particularly entitled customer to leave when he’d started screaming at one of the young part-timers.

After that, there was the hardware store. I got fired for pretty much the same reason.

I thought working in a less testosterone-charged place, like a diner, would mean fewer infuriating incidents, but nope.

No matter where I worked, there were always assholes who’d come in and think they were royalty and I was just some peasant they could kick around.

Not that I ever fit in very well in the Navy either. I got along great with the guys I served with—they were practically my brothers—but my superiors were arrogant, self-righteous dicks.

It was just a matter of time until they kicked me out, so I did a pre-emptive strike and quit as soon as I could. Honorable discharge, they call it.

After my string of failures at shitty, minimum-wage jobs, I met another ex-Navy SEAL guy for a beer. After hearing my story, he taught me some skills I could use to work on my own.

I’m lucky my parents had insisted on me finishing college before enlisting. I’m also pretty comfortable with risks, having spent a few years in the Navy SEAL. Both college and the Navy make me good at what I do now, so I have no regrets.

I quickly realized I could work from anywhere as long as I had a computer and Internet connection. The first thing I did, as soon as I could afford it, was to buy a Harley Davidson Fat Boy to ride across the country, make my childhood dream come true.

Now, with a lot of things, often the reality doesn’t even compare to the dream. But owning this bike totally kicks ass. I love the promising vibrations when it’s at rest, the roar of the powerful engine between my legs when I take it to the road, the wind hitting my skin through my jeans, the utter freedom of being able to go anywhere I want.

I even love it when something goes wrong with the bike and I have to get down and dirty to fix it. It gives me great satisfaction to bring it back to life every single time it breaks down.

I don’t remember every little town I’ve visited, and I have no idea where I’m going either. I’m looking for something, I suppose. I don’t know what it is, but I’ll know it when I find it.

I don’t have much company, which is both the best and the worst part of this lifestyle. I like having the freedom to do whatever I want whenever I feel like it, but it can get lonely on the road.

Every once in a while, a woman takes a liking to me and we spend a passionate, orgasmic night together. Sometimes, I see her for more than one night, but the itch to move on never goes away.

Even though I always make it clear that I’m on the move and I won’t stick around, some of them get it into their heads that they’re different and I’m going to stay this time. Then they kick up a fuss when I inevitably leave. It’s not my fault you don’t listen, honey.

According to my map, the next town in my path is called Ashbourne. I’ll grab breakfast there and check out the town, maybe spend a few days there if I can find a good place to stay.

I never make long-term plans these days. Hell, I don’t have what most people would call short-term plans. For now, all I know is where I’m eating my next meal. If there’s nothing interesting in Ashbourne, I’ll move on to the next town.

I’m way off the highway now, with thick woods on either side of the country road. Nobody but locals would normally traverse these roads. It’s a nice morning, with the sun just sleepily getting up, the first rays of light hitting the ground in blotches, filtered by the trees.

I squint my eyes to see through the smoky shield of my helmet. There’s a car stopped by the side of the road. A white sedan. As I get closer, I notice a woman standing in front of it, waving at me. The boot is popped up, the universal sign of car trouble.

I slow down and prepare to pull over. It always feels warmer when my bike comes to a stop because the wind doesn’t pummel into me anymore. But as soon as I can make out the shape of that body, the features of that face, it gets veritably hot.

Could that be her?

She looks different now. No heavy makeup, for one. And her hair is different, too. I remember the way her long, fiery red waves lit up the night, all those years ago, and now she has short, honey brown hair instead.

But it’s her. I’d bet my life on it. She gave me the best night of my life, and I’d recognize her anywhere.