“Yo, Vivian! What does a guy have to do to get a drink around here?” the Hulk Hogan look-alike grunted.

 “Just need to ask me nice, Mr. Fitzpatrick.” I shouldered a large, round tray with a few dirty glasses and made a beeline to his four-top table on the right side of the bar. I cocktailed at Mugshots, a beer-scented, hard rock 'n' roll playing, leather jacket-clad bikers’ bar.

Mr. Fitzpatrick and his buddies were in their late sixties with bandanas tied over their long, white hair. They were my favorite regular customers; rough around the edges but incredibly sweet. I picked up a few more empties. “What can I get you?”

“Vivian, my angel,” Mr. Fitzpatrick said. “I need three Jack and Cokes and one fake lemonade with no sugar for Artie. He’s on the wagon.”

“Got it. Artie. You okay? Not another ’bout of the gastritis?”

“It’s a blood sugar thing.” Artie tapped the heels of his scuffed, black leather biker boots on the scratched, wooden floor. “My wife keeps asking, ‘Why don’t you stop riding? When are you going to stay home, watch Jeopardy and play with your grandkids?’ Seriously, Viv. I’m already retired. I spend twenty-two hours of almost every day at home. I hit the road with my buddies one afternoon each week and after that I feel alive again. I don’t think quitting our rides will affect my blood sugar.”

“Those rides are good for you Artie,” I said. “Fresh air. Oxygen in your lungs. Getting out in nature is healing.” 

“When are you going to ride with us, Viv?” Artie asked. “We keep asking.”

Never. I would never ride a motorcycle again.

“I appreciate the offer, but life is so busy these days with school. One sugar-free lemonade coming your way my friend.”

I weaved around the sober customers, the tipsy folks, and all the in-betweens on my way back to the bar. 

I hoisted my tray onto the counter and delivered my order to Buddy Paulsen, the bartender and co-owner. Buddy was thick around the waistline, covered in tats, and sported a ruddy Irish complexion. Fifty years ago he could have been the poster child for a Rebel Without a Cause. Now he was a businessman who desperately wanted to keep his waning crowd of aging bikers happy while he catered to the bar’s newcomers. I unloaded the dirty glasses onto a rubber mat.    

My BFF, Lola Consuela Campillio, she of the tall legs and the dangerous curves, strode up in the same uniform I too had recently been forced to wear: a tight pleather mini, a deep V-neck Lycra top, fishnet stockings and black pleather, thigh pinching, high-heeled boots. She rested her tray on the bar next to mine. “I’m filing an official complaint, Buddy. I hate these new uniforms.”

“I second Lola’s motion.” I tugged my mini lower onto my legs to better cover my private girlie parts. “These outfits make us look like sluts from Slutsville and I fear I’m getting a bunion. How come we can’t wear our Mugshots T-shirts and jeans?”

“You both know why. I’m not in charge of this place anymore. Mike Woodman is.”

“Woodman doesn’t care that I have to change clothes in the bathroom because God forbid I go home wearing this and my kid wakes up and sees hooker mommy,” Lola said. “I’m putting meals on the table. I cannot deal with Child Protective Services.”

“Lola, you gotta play nice with the new guys. It was sell a stake in the place or close the doors. I love Mugshots. It wasn’t an easy decision.”

Buddy sold his majority share of the bar to thirty-something businessman Mike Woodman. He came from family money and parlayed his trust fund into making a shit-load more dough in the stock market. Woodman got bored and then bought up his favorite interests like they were Tonka toys. His purchases included a bowling alley, a Harley-Davidson dealership, a strip club, a Baptist church along with its charismatic leader, and finally, a biker bar—Mugshots.

Which pained me.

While I’d only worked here since the day I turned twenty-one—nine months earlier—I’d hung out here for far longer. My dad used to frequent the joint with his buddies. And before it was considered child-abuse to take your kid to a bar, he’d bring me along on the nights Mom was working. I hung out with the bikers, heard the stories about the rides, and the Sturgis’ outings. After my folks died in a motorcycle accident four years ago you’d think I’d want to get away from a biker bar. But the problem was this place felt like family. And I didn’t have a lot of that left.

So I started bugging Buddy to let me waitress at Mugshots. At the end of my first night he opened a bottle of Korbel, the regulars sang “Happy Birthday”, someone popped for cupcakes and Mylar balloons, and I had my first legal drink.

You’d think I’d like the new clientele at the newly remodeled bar. They were, after all, closer to my age. But Woodman’s crew was privileged and the majority of them were asshats. They always hung out at the biggest table in the middle of the cozy sized joint. Woodman would make his nightly appearance and buy a round or two for the snotty boys. He’d play with his gold pinky ring like he was a short, chubby version of Marlon Brando in The Godfather, sucking up all the cloying compliments about how he was “the man.”

“Hey princess!” a twenty-something metro dude seated at Woodman’s table yelled. “Get your primo behind over here. I’m parched.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m on it.” I loaded my tray with drinks. “You’re sure this lemonade doesn’t have sugar, right?”

“No sugar,” Buddy said. “Hurry up. Stop spending all your time hanging with the old crew and wait on the new guys. They’re our future. Be nice to them.”

“The new guys tip like shit.”

“They’re filling seats and buying booze.”

“They’re assholes.”

He shrugged. “The bar wouldn’t be here and you wouldn’t have a job if I hadn’t taken Woodman up on his deal. Be nice to my new business partner and his friends. Please?”

“I’m not answering to Mike Woodman. He’s got attitude to rival an elephant’s behind. You hired me, boss. I’ll answer to you.”

Buddy cleared his throat.

“I’ll take their table,” Lola said. “I’ve already got the four-top next to them.”

“Are you sure?” I asked. 

“If they give me a problem I’ll just smile and delicately curse in Spanish. They won’t have a clue what I’m saying.” She winked at me and walked off.

“Yeah but I will. You taught me all the good Spanish swear words,” I said.

I dropped off the round to Mr. Fitzpatrick’s crew. I picked up a half-empty pitcher and some water glasses that had barely been touched on a recently vacated table. I poured the water into the pitcher, stacked the glasses, and was on my way back to the bar to stock up on pretzel mix when I heard Lola holler, “Beso mi culo, pendejo!” 

She edged away from Woodman’s table, a big fat frown on her pretty face, but the sweaty metro dude latched onto her wrist and stopped her in her tracks. “Do you not know who you’re dealing with? This margarita tastes like someone pissed in it.”

“Let go of that girl,” the guy seated next to him said and grabbed his arm.

I strode toward Woodman’s table and couldn’t help but stare at the guy trying to shut the asshole down. He wore a fitted black T-shirt and jeans and scuffed biker boots. He had hazel eyes, the highest cheekbones, and a cleft in his chin that a nickel would gladly dive into. He was a ginger, his hair cropped medium-length. Hello—this might be the best-looking man I’d seen in my entire life.

“Get me another drink, Ms. Cinco de Mayo,” the metro dude said to Lola. “Now.”

My attention turned from the hot guy to the matter at hand: harassment.

“I’ll get you a new drink, pinche idioto,” Lola said, “as soon as you let me go.”

I hustled in Lola’s direction.

Woodman ambled out of Mugshots’s back office into the main bar and eyed what was going on at his table.

“You own this place,” I said. “Do something.”

He shrugged.

“I know what the word ‘idioto’ means,” the metro dude slurred.

“So much for mastering your Berlitz course,” the hot ginger said. “Remove your hand from the young lady or I’ll remove it for you.”

I pushed through the crowd toward them, my tray still on my shoulder, righteous anger bubbling up with each frantic step.

“Fine.” The metro dude released Lola. “You stupid—”

She stumbled, dropped her tray, and glasses flew and broke. She broke into tears and kneeled to clean up the puddled mess of shards.

“Go.” I put down my tray on an adjacent, empty table, held out my hand, and helped her to standing. “Grab some towels, a broom, and a dustpan. I’ll help.” 

“Thanks.” She wiped her tears and walked off.

“Why do we even come here?” the metro dude said. “We could be hanging on Rush Street.”

I shouldered the tray, edged toward the table, and managed to toss my long brunette hair coquettishly over one shoulder. “I’ve got that drink you requested.”

“You see?” Metro leaned back in his chair, addressing his friends at the table. “You don’t put up with lower class bullshit and you do the help a favor. You school them on how to cater to people like you and me. Help them learn their place in life.” He smiled at me. “Thanks, princess.”

“No. Thank you. We brought you a pitcher of margaritas to apologize for your inconvenience.” I held it out to him, smiled…and then poured it on his head as he squealed. “Sorry! But you looked so thirsty.”

“Well played!” The gorgeous ginger burst out laughing. “Pawn takes rook.”

“Vivian!” Buddy yelled.

“Vivian!” Mr. Fitzpatrick and Artie jumped up from their chairs and sprinted toward me.

“Oh no, Vivian!” Lola’s hand flew to her mouth and she dropped the towels and the broom.

Mike Woodman strode toward me—his piggy nostrils flaring faster than he turned his pinkie ring. “Vivian DeRose you are banned from Mugshots forever. If I ever see you in here again I will have you arrested for assault. And, oh yeah, you’re fired!”

“It was worth it, loser,” I said.