A week had passed as calmly as the morning fog burning off the harbor. The Cantina rocked every night. Signs of winter evening chills brought the brothers out in droves. They wanted to party before the misty cold prevented all but the hard-core from riding. Some bikes were headed for teardowns and rebuilds.

It was Friday afternoon and Marko was busying himself around the property sweeping up peanut shells, and cigarette butts. He had been training regularly and came back from a diving exercise off the coast of Catalina Island. Marko was feeling fine, but he had a hankering for a woman as he swept out the patio with some of the kitchen help.

It was during that afternoon lull that Marko watched the lunch crowd clear out. The Cantina was nearly empty. He observed a mammoth Cruise Ship pass as it headed to Catalina then south to Mexico. The water under the brilliant sun showed a turtle green almost hinting at a clean spirit, hiding the oily pollution the harbor was known for.

Since Steve’s departure, Mandy had trained to take over as the morning shift bartender position. She stumbled some learning the tricks of the trade, but her supple feminine form behind the bar made the difference. Her red hair splashed into half the drinks she concocted until she wised up and pulled the natural amber waves into a ponytail.

Just one customer remained at the bar. He was a rider on a older custom Softail still parked in the ?Bike Only? parking outside, so Marko could keep an eye on it. The young rider with stiff dirty blond hair leaned heavily on the bar. He had lunch with an attorney who announced that his wife wanted a divorce and laid down the parameters of her outlandish demands. The slippery attorney took advantage of the fact that Clay had no representation at his side. He poured the incessant claims on Clay almost to the point of requiring the keys to his Softail. That’s when Clay unwrinkled his dower features and told the sonuvabitch to fuck off. He pushed his heavy oak Cantina Mexican style chair back abruptly and jarred the table knocking over his margarita glass. The short, suited attorney was shocked by his outburst. “Get the fuck out of my sight,” Clay snapped.

The attorney, a clean shaven kid had the appearance of a rodent in a suit. He was small, demure looking with a face that scrunched up like the whiskered nose of a startled mouse. He yanked his papers off the rattled table into his briefcase and headed toward the door. Out of range of Clay’s fists he turned as if hiding behind a block of cheese, “You’ll be served…”

“So will you, muthafucker,” Clay snapped startling the other patrons. “Get the hell out of here.” Clay lunged in the weasels direction and the little suit shoved his tail between his legs and scampered out the door.

Clay ignored his half eaten Enchiladas Rancheros and stepped up to the bar. “Gold Margarita on the rocks,” Clay spat, “It’s one of those days. Make it a double.”

Mandy had features that would make any man smile and forget his woes. This was Clay’s first time in the Cantina and he had never set eyes on the redhead with Cherry Ice-cream skin and a light smattering of freckles. Her cheeks glowed with warmth naturally. She had soft green eyes that said everything would be all right.

She stumbled around the bar looking for the Triple Sec and Margarita mix. She poured the drink stiff and slipped in onto the thick lacquered bar on a Cantina napkin. “What happened?”

That was all Clay needed to unleash his wheel-barrel of woes, “My wife of 15 years left me today. No note, no face to face, just this fuckin’ weasel of an attorney. Plus, I had to take my Rottweiler to the vet this morning. He’s in bad shape, getting old. And my best friend had a motorcycle accident last night and I spent all night at the hospital.”

“Will he be all right?” Mandy said wiping down the thick wooden bar top.

“The dog or my brother?” Clay said perking up some.

“Gimme a report on both,” Mandy said, “I had to put my dog down recently.”

“Knucklehead the Rott will be all right with a pile of money,” Clay said. “My brother will also survive. He broke a couple of ribs, but his bike is a mess.”

“I’ll ask Bandit about a good lawyer,” Mandy said and giggled. “He’s been married five times. I suppose that means five attorneys he’s been through.”

“Thanks,” Clay said, “I feel like I’ve been through a ringer.”

“You’ll get your say,” Mandy said and patted Clay’s rough callused hand.

—-

Marko worked out side the Cantina with their upkeep man who kept the Cantina detailed. They roamed the grounds looking for paint that needed touching up, rot iron that required repairs or landscaping fixes. The shop was open where the tools were kept and the thoughtful Hispanic gentleman drew a can of paint and a brush from the shed and went about his careful touch-up operations.

Marko was inspecting the grounds in the sunlight when he felt a soft tap on his shoulder. He spun instinctively lifting his left arm slightly in an automatic defensive maneuver. Generally he was careful never to be caught off guard. He faced the woman who accompanied her drunk sister to the bar a couple of weeks prior.

“Did I startle you?” Marge said in a voice that was brisk, but compassionate. She wore a form fitting white t-shirt with tight black spandex pants that looked like her shapely legs had been painted flat black. She was over 5’6″ tall and her breasts stood directly out from her chest . They weren’t big but well shaped and held tightly to her form with a workout bra. She had a hint of sweat around the soft edge of hair on her forehead.

“Working out?” Marko said.

“Running,” Marge said, her light brown eyes boring into him. She was standing close, very near. She looked at him in a curious fashion, like they were in an ongoing relationship during the infatuation stage, and she was wondering why Marko didn’t snatch her into his arms.

Marko was inquisitive as hell. He didn’t know whether to run his big arm around her waist and pull her to him? All the body signals were telling him affirmative, but he didn’t even know this chick. Only met her once, and he didn’t fare well during that encounter.

“Need some lunch money, lovers?” Salty Mary spat on the recently swept and hosed asphalt startling the couple. She was the toothless bag lady who roamed the water front picking up cans and panhandling. The lovers’ moment was burst like a pin to an over-inflated balloon. Marko’s standard tough, agile demeanor was rocked with sexual tension and Mary recognized her intrusion. “I’m on my way,” she said turning to her rusting grocery cart stacked high with plastic trash bags packed with her collections.

“Yeah,” Mark said unable to grasp a more appropriate retort, then remembered the five spot he found in the parking lot, “Wait Mary,” He said digging deep in his work out pants, “Here,” he said his voice box still tied in knots.

Mary stepped forward and took the money gratefully, shoving it deeply in a small tattered leather hand bag. Usually she would try to kick off some meaningless conversation about cops picking on her, but when she looked in Marge’s eyes she recognized the passionate steam rising in the young slender girls torso. Sex was pulsating around her like radar beams from a war ship. Mary backed off, scratched her ruffled mane of gray hair, bowed slightly and stumbled away pushing the cart. Her feet were graced with two completely different shoes, her thin ankles wrapped in rags to keep her warm while she slept on concrete.

Marko looked at Mary like a symbol of how life can turn on you in the blink of an eye. One wrong drink, one terrible temptation to snort an unknown drug, one wrong wicked relationship that destroys a person forever. It made him shutter and avoid all three.

Marge looked at the woman as if in a Zen session. She was disturbing Marge’s Wa, her area of pleasure. Marge was less the philosophical scholar haunted by the history of others. She wanted the distraction to disappear like a disgruntled parent wants a yapping teenager to go outside. Marge knew what she desired and dismissed the vision of the down-and-out and turned back to Marko. The second she had his full attention she touched his arm and cemented her gaze to his. She was on a sexual mission.

——

Inside Mandy washed glasses from the bustling lunch service and broke one from time to time as she listened to Clay ramble about his wife. He was torn and the news was just beginning to set in. He was so deeply startled by the revelation that his sensors that edited his stories from one woman to another were turned off. He blithered unencumbered by his attraction to the redhead. He needed a pair of ears to listen. He downed the Gold Margarita and ordered another, then began to spill his guts again.

“I’ve been married 15 years and unhappy most of the time. I’ve had more affairs than I can count,” Clay began, and Mandy’s ears perked. “I had one girlfriend for over seven years. She recently dumped me. Didn’t even call, she just dropped me a note, and now this,” Clay’s head drooped closer to the polished bar top.

Mandy didn’t know what to say or do. Her concern for the man’s dour day had slipped into the trash can with the peanut shells, cigarette butts and busted beer bottles.

“I know,” Clay said lifting his face to rest his blue eyes on Mandys hardened features. “I’m not worth the powder to blow me to hell.”

“It’s the honesty thing,” Mandy said.

“I know,” Clay said and his face turned ashen as if suddenly he would light up his scooter and ride off a cliff.

“No,” Mandy said, “You don’t understand. I do. You rarely can be honest with a woman. It forces men to find other outlets for their natural drives.”

Clay looked at her astounded.

———-

“I’ve got some work to do,” Marko said turning, but sensing every millimeter of her lingering touch on his triceps.

“Mind if I hang with you?” Marge said following him into the shop that was used to house motorcycles when customers were too drunk to ride. It was the size of a three-car garage, but only one door was open. Marko strolled deep into the garage where his bike and the work bench was located. She was stride by stride with him. She seemed to be magically and magnetically attached.

When Marko reached the bench, he turned and she slide up next to him. He immediately felt her nipples pressed against his chest. He recognized that she was a sign of the times. Not a sign he rejected, but appalled. The sexually aggressive female. He didn’t turn her down so she pressed in closer until their lips met.

They hadn’t exchanged a dozen words, yet a novel in body language, touch, chemistry and pheromone dueling. They were two tingling beasts who found their match. Marko wasn’t one to play by chemistry. He had been in love once and was dumped. That was enough for him. He hit on chicks for limited sex and moved on. That was the extent of his involvement, but this hit him like a heroin packed needle. As he pressed her tight muscular torso against his equally toned body his bone marrow began to melt. It was a foreign reaction, but a damn pleasant one. He pulled her tighter to him and ran his hands over her smooth ass as his tongue searched her mouth for the meaning of life.

As she felt his erection grow against her toned stomach muscles, she noticed her soft shaved mound arch and reach for his member. Her back was against the bench and with her mouth a suction cup against his bearded face she worked her elastic pants down over her pliable thighs while kicking off her tennies. In a matter of seconds she was nude from the waist down and Marko’s hands slipped into an area of pleasure so overwhelming that man cannot describe the touch of a woman’s ass.

Marko grabbed the sheet that covered his chopper, quickly folding it and laid the soft cloth on the bench. With their mouths locked in the dance of tongues, he lifted her to the top of the bench and drop his sweats. She was so wet he slipped neatly into her as if they had been lovers for years.

Simultaneously they sighed, engulfed in a level of pleasure only new lovers understand. The break from lip contact allowed Marge to yank at the hem of her top and pull the tight white shirt and athletic bra over her head, tossing it down the stainless steel topped bench. For the first time he saw her jutting breasts as he thrust into her naked form on a Friday afternoon in broad daylight in the Cantina garage. For them, there was no clock, no riders pulling up outside the bar for a beer, no workman wandering dangerously close to the open garage door, no daylight, just them connected in a way that removed the rest of the earth from their sexual galaxy. It was just the two to them memorizing every sensation, touch, smell, feel and thrust. She came the first time in less than a minute. “Don’t stop, Marko,” She murmured almost unconscious, “please don’t stop.”

He didn’t want to as he looked at her wonderful form, her bouncing boobs and her euphoric facial features. He didn’t ever want to stop. He wanted it to never end…

—

Clay looked at Mandy dismayed. For the first time in his life, he was rapidly scrambling into a deep depression that was kicked in the ass several weeks ago when he received a ?Dear John? letter from his seven year old fling. The girl was tight, nice and married. She was in a crappy relationship, but other than sex, she had little to offer Clay. He had been married for 15 years to an attractive professional who unknowingly gave him all the financial freedom in the world to hunt the opposite sex while bouncing from one part time gig to another. His wife thought he was playing with his motorcycle, if he wasn’t working.

At first he didn’t think that loosing this girl would bother him, but it did. He was still screwing three other women, but something about the relationship haunted him. Although it wasn’t practical to save her from an abusive marriage, he wanted to be the one, just didn’t have the balls to take the chance.

His life started to slip into a 45-year-old garbage disposal after that with one bummer after another. Everyday his depression seemed to loom like a tsunami building in the Pacific with an earthquake tremor on the sandy bottom that kicked a swell in the ass and sent it rolling and building for devastation once it slammed into the coast. Then Mandy said that shit and suddenly he was standing in the eye of this terrible emotional storm, his world twisting around him, but he was momentarily detached. “What did you say?” he muttered nearly unable to speak.

“Look,” Mandy said. “It’s ridiculous, and I can only say that because I’m not in a relationship.” She paused and looked around as if she was a Nazi about to give a secret to the allied side. “Men are built to chase women. We spend all our lives trying to lure you, then cut you off, once you’re roped in. It’s bullshit to take away sex, then get mad if you look somewhere else. If we were honest, we’d admit it. You’re just caught in the midst of dealing with the outcome of what is natural but not politically correct. It’s cool, you’ll get over all the hurt and be on the prowl in a couple of months.”

Clay looked at her as if she was the Virgin Mary and had cured his life-long blindness. Suddenly he was sober, gave Mandy a twenty dollar tip, spun on light boots and headed for the door.

Mandy looked after him, giggled and continued to wipe the bar down.

—

Marge screamed as she climaxed for the fourth time. Marko couldn’t hang on for another second. His cock was squealing for release with each thrust. It was like a high-powered automatic pistol and he had just stumbled into the perfect holster. He didn’t know whether he would die or explode when he came. His toenails felt loose and rattled as he began to shutter.

She sensed him swell, his taut arm vibrate under her grasp. Her wet mound quivered and she raced toward another climax. They perceived in their lust that the garage was enduring the effects of an ongoing California quake. Marko had never known such a responsive girl and it was a thrilling experience. He was a man of knowing. He knew every aspect of his life like the calloused palm of his hand, except the Cantina clientele. That was the only unknown. He knew his motorcycle stem to stern, his abilities, his workouts, his stunt work and his writing efforts. This was different. He didn’t know anything as his body shuttered and he began to groan completely out of control. She screamed simultaneously as they climaxed together.

Marko was at a mental loss. He wasn’t sure if he had died and gone to heaven, whether he would be the same man when it was over, or if he would be a mere fraction of his former being. Sweat ran over his body freely dripping on the cold concrete of the garage.

As he slipped from her body he felt scared as if his life source would come completely unplugged, but it didn’t. He stood there in a daze and held onto the edge of the bench as she slipped off the bench, stumbled, her legs weak and pulled up her drawers. He glanced at her glistening ass once more as she squirmed into the elastic covering. She snatched the blouse from the far end of the bench and turned toward Marko for final effect as she lifted her arms above her head and revealed her jutting jiggling tits one final time. Then the sweat soaked fabric was pulled over her trembling nipples.

Marko still had his trousers around his ankles as she came near, patted his dripping member, kissed him and laid a card on the bench. “Call me,” she said and strolled out of the garage fussing with her damp hair.

Marko tried to speak, but his throat was dry as a popcorn fart. Nothing came. He watched that spandex engulfed ass sway back and forth as she disappeared out the door.

—–

Clay made his way to his stripped Softail, unlocked the rotor lock and bumped into a lovely form as he inadvertently stepped around the bike to straddle it while he pulled his gloves on. The girl was wet with sweat and smelled of musk. She was in a world of her own as they collided. She looked at Clay and their eyes met briefly. “Excuse me,” Clay said.

She tried to speak, but no words came as she grappled with the small handbag that came loose in the collision. She walked on, but dropped a card from her purse to the pavement. Clay picked it up gingerly.

Her name was Marge.

Nyla squirmed against the hard porcelain surface of the washer as it jiggled violently beneath her. She was aware of the rapists threat to American women as they were constantly covered, analyzed and their courtroom dramas were detailed in the news. John Walsh recently was interviewed on Larry King and warned women of the rapist’s lair, his car, a van or a storage shed where he would rape and kill his victim in the comfort of his own space. She was startled that over 850 priests had been charged with pedophile attacks, far more than the rest of society. The reports had never felt as close as the man with his groin thrust against her plump ass. She never took threats of violence or rape seriously until two minutes ago, when she felt his coarse hand on her soft neck and the slimy scent of his drunken breath assailing her nostrils.

Her face was throbbing from the pistol whipping. Her ankles were bruised and bleeding from boot kicks to spread her shapely legs apart. She heard him fumbling in his pants for his cock. Terrified she could sense that he was stroking it and his frustration that he couldn’t release her and play with her ass. It made him mad and he shouted, “Fuckin’ bitch,” and drove the butt of his automatic against her lower back. Her knees buckled with the pain and slammed against the shaking washer. He continually called her a “bitch” and “no good”, but his words rarely formed coherent sentences. She didn’t recognize the voice. Then she felt the head of his cock pierce the softness of her ass. She jerked. She wasn’t a virgin and had been fucked, even in the ass, but as the head of his joint pushed into the crack she tensed. Every muscle tightened in a natural reaction to the unwanted onslaught.

She thought for a moment that what he was attempting to do was natural, a man fucking a woman, and yet she was fighting with all she had. She wanted the touch of another woman and that wasn’t generally accepted as a natural act. Her confusion with society didn’t expel her desire to run from the intruder. His cock slid deeper in her crack to her lips that were bone dry. “Fuckin’ bitch,” he murmured in a low anxious voice trying to force his throbbing cock inside her. He spat on her ass several times and rubbed the head of his cock in the warm spittle and began to thrust it between her lips.

Her eyes filled with tears as she realized that she might have little choice but to succumb to his power and pray that he didn’t kill her, although statistics generally support murder over freeing victims.

Marko took his rounds around the perimeter of the Cantina in the slippery, fog coated darkness picking up trash and looking through the landscaped bushes for drunks, lovers or homeless who wandered the streets of San Pedro looking for spare change or a place to crash. He noticed the empty van in the parking lot under the Harbor Boulevard street lights and was aware that it could belong to someone other than a Cantina customer. Marko wandered past the patio to where the Cantina over looked the underside of the massive Vincent Thomas Expansion Bridge. He wandered to the edge of the dock and looked at the water and the incoming mist of fog that hid what the harbor contained in a blanket of dark, looming wet mist. He thought about fishing for a while, but shortly it would be too cold and wet.

Nyla twisted her ass knowing full well that it could mean that she would raise the ire of her assailant and she might be killed instantly. She couldn’t help it. Her fight came naturally, ardently and without concern. “I’ll kill you, cunt,” The voice was a harsh whisper like the hiss of a rattle snake. The weapon suddenly left the arch of her lower back and she sensed that he had cocked an arm was going to strike her again. “You fucking…” he hissed.

His left arm with the heavy automatic clinched in his calloused hand swung above his head. His face was white and freckled, but a bomb of red anger. His head was scattered with light red hair, but generally balled. The thin wisps of shabby strains stuck out from his head, as if electrical wires reaching for some connection. Unable to grow strong facial hair his puffy haunting appearance and pot belly was obvious shackles to normal relationships. His animosity towards his looks and upbringing drove him into a wild uncontrollable rage. Her head rattled against the washer as he lifted the .45 into a full round house from behind his head.

His snake like breathy words hissed then halted like someone unplugging an air compressor. A whoosh of air drained from the tank, then another sound followed like an abrupt gargle and the crack of something small like twigs. “Arrrrg,” the attacker’s last attempted to groan, was stifled. The hard cock fell away without entering Nyla and she heard his weapon fall to the floor. There was another sound that she couldn’t figure out, then it dawned on her. It was the same sound the wire ties made as they cinched her wrists. She began to stand, but felt a hand on her back gently nudging her against the washer again, but then a soft caress lowered her skirt. Unknowingly, still shaking from her adrenaline surge, she obeyed and didn’t move.

In the darkness of the restaurant storeroom things were happening fast, but she didn’t know what. She stood against the vibrating washer awash with lost emotion. She heard the stockroom door open and before it closed another sound like something large splashing in the sea water across the driveway in the harbor. The door closed with a comfortable thud and she stood alone in silence for a long moment. She expected to hear something more, be relieved of her bound, something, but for long seconds she stood suddenly alone. She was stunned and relieved, yet full of questions. She shook and pulled at her bindings, then heard footsteps outside and the large iron door pulled open from the outside. She sensed someone was standing in the doorway assessing the dark galley. “Nyla?” Marko said.

She stomped one foot against the wooden grating in front of the washer. Marko turned and poked his head carefully into the storeroom.

He moved closer in his soft leather fighting shoes that he always wore around the Cantina. He could be agile on his feet at a moments notice. He spotted her panties torn and lying at her feet and approached her quietly. He quickly cut the wire ties from her wrists and turned her toward him. He worked painfully, but quietly removing the duck tape from her tender face. Her appearance was swollen with pain and her eyes puffy with tears and fear. She looked at him in desperation. “I heard something splash in the channel?” Marko asked anxiously.

“A man,” Nyla huffed and gasped for her words, “A man attacked me. That might have been him. I don’t know. Someone…” Marko turned and dashed back out the door that was lined by an alley for trucks to deliver goods then just a few feet empty asphalt before the wooden pillars of the docks bordering the West Bank of the channel. He looked over the edge but didn’t see anything, then a shoe floating in the water. He stepped back inside.

“Are you alright?” Marko said.

“I suppose,” Nyla said unsure of herself or anything she said.

“Did he..?” Marko asked. “Do I need to call the cops?”

“No,” Nyla said in her confused state, “I don’t know.” Marko saw in her watering eyes that she was going to collapse. He guided her back into the bar.

“Where’s Bandit?” Nyla asked.

“I’m not sure,” Marko said, “he was out of town on business. I’ll take you up to his apartment and you can take a bath. I’ll stay down here and make sure the coast is clear. Call me if you need anything?”

He carried her up the stairs and opened the door for her. She stumbled but found her footing and made it directly to the bathroom where the water was running. There were candles lit on the counter and the edge of the tub. A tall delicate glass held a White Russian made with her favorite, Absolute, rested on the sink, ice still clinking against the sides. He couldn’t be far away.

Nyla squirmed against the hard porcelain surface of the washer as it jiggled violently beneath her. She was aware of the rapists threat to American women as they were constantly covered, analyzed and their courtroom dramas were detailed in the news. John Walsh recently was interviewed on Larry King and warned women of the rapist’s lair, his car, a van or a storage shed where he would rape and kill his victim in the comfort of his own space. She was startled that over 850 priests had been charged with pedophile attacks, far more than the rest of society. The reports had never felt as close as the man with his groin thrust against her plump ass. She never took threats of violence or rape seriously until two minutes ago, when she felt his coarse hand on her soft neck and the slimy scent of his drunken breath assailing her nostrils.

Her face was throbbing from the pistol whipping. Her ankles were bruised and bleeding from boot kicks to spread her shapely legs apart. She heard him fumbling in his pants for his cock. Terrified she could sense that he was stroking it and his frustration that he couldn’t release her and play with her ass. It made him mad and he shouted, “Fuckin’ bitch,” and drove the butt of his automatic against her lower back. Her knees buckled with the pain and slammed against the shaking washer. He continually called her a “bitch” and “no good”, but his words rarely formed coherent sentences. She didn’t recognize the voice. Then she felt the head of his cock pierce the softness of her ass. She jerked. She wasn’t a virgin and had been fucked, even in the ass, but as the head of his joint pushed into the crack she tensed. Every muscle tightened in a natural reaction to the unwanted onslaught.

She thought for a moment that what he was attempting to do was natural, a man fucking a woman, and yet she was fighting with all she had. She wanted the touch of another woman and that wasn’t generally accepted as a natural act. Her confusion with society didn’t expel her desire to run from the intruder. His cock slid deeper in her crack to her lips that were bone dry. “Fuckin’ bitch,” he murmured in a low anxious voice trying to force his throbbing cock inside her. He spat on her ass several times and rubbed the head of his cock in the warm spittle and began to thrust it between her lips.

Her eyes filled with tears as she realized that she might have little choice but to succumb to his power and pray that he didn’t kill her, although statistics generally support murder over freeing victims.

Marko took his rounds around the perimeter of the Cantina in the slippery, fog coated darkness picking up trash and looking through the landscaped bushes for drunks, lovers or homeless who wandered the streets of San Pedro looking for spare change or a place to crash. He noticed the empty van in the parking lot under the Harbor Boulevard street lights and was aware that it could belong to someone other than a Cantina customer. Marko wandered past the patio to where the Cantina over looked the underside of the massive Vincent Thomas Expansion Bridge. He wandered to the edge of the dock and looked at the water and the incoming mist of fog that hid what the harbor contained in a blanket of dark, looming wet mist. He thought about fishing for a while, but shortly it would be too cold and wet.

Nyla twisted her ass knowing full well that it could mean that she would raise the ire of her assailant and she might be killed instantly. She couldn’t help it. Her fight came naturally, ardently and without concern. “I’ll kill you, cunt,” The voice was a harsh whisper like the hiss of a rattle snake. The weapon suddenly left the arch of her lower back and she sensed that he had cocked an arm was going to strike her again. “You fucking…” he hissed.

His left arm with the heavy automatic clinched in his calloused hand swung above his head. His face was white and freckled, but a bomb of red anger. His head was scattered with light red hair, but generally balled. The thin wisps of shabby strains stuck out from his head, as if electrical wires reaching for some connection. Unable to grow strong facial hair his puffy haunting appearance and pot belly was obvious shackles to normal relationships. His animosity towards his looks and upbringing drove him into a wild uncontrollable rage. Her head rattled against the washer as he lifted the .45 into a full round house from behind his head.

His snake like breathy words hissed then halted like someone unplugging an air compressor. A whoosh of air drained from the tank, then another sound followed like an abrupt gargle and the crack of something small like twigs. “Arrrrg,” the attacker’s last attempted to groan, was stifled. The hard cock fell away without entering Nyla and she heard his weapon fall to the floor. There was another sound that she couldn’t figure out, then it dawned on her. It was the same sound the wire ties made as they cinched her wrists. She began to stand, but felt a hand on her back gently nudging her against the washer again, but then a soft caress lowered her skirt. Unknowingly, still shaking from her adrenaline surge, she obeyed and didn’t move.

In the darkness of the restaurant storeroom things were happening fast, but she didn’t know what. She stood against the vibrating washer awash with lost emotion. She heard the stockroom door open and before it closed another sound like something large splashing in the sea water across the driveway in the harbor. The door closed with a comfortable thud and she stood alone in silence for a long moment. She expected to hear something more, be relieved of her bound, something, but for long seconds she stood suddenly alone. She was stunned and relieved, yet full of questions. She shook and pulled at her bindings, then heard footsteps outside and the large iron door pulled open from the outside. She sensed someone was standing in the doorway assessing the dark galley. “Nyla?” Marko said.

She stomped one foot against the wooden grating in front of the washer. Marko turned and poked his head carefully into the storeroom.

He moved closer in his soft leather fighting shoes that he always wore around the Cantina. He could be agile on his feet at a moments notice. He spotted her panties torn and lying at her feet and approached her quietly. He quickly cut the wire ties from her wrists and turned her toward him. He worked painfully, but quietly removing the duck tape from her tender face. Her appearance was swollen with pain and her eyes puffy with tears and fear. She looked at him in desperation. “I heard something splash in the channel?” Marko asked anxiously.

“A man,” Nyla huffed and gasped for her words, “A man attacked me. That might have been him. I don’t know. Someone…” Marko turned and dashed back out the door that was lined by an alley for trucks to deliver goods then just a few feet empty asphalt before the wooden pillars of the docks bordering the West Bank of the channel. He looked over the edge but didn’t see anything, then a shoe floating in the water. He stepped back inside.

“Are you alright?” Marko said.

“I suppose,” Nyla said unsure of herself or anything she said.

“Did he..?” Marko asked. “Do I need to call the cops?”

“No,” Nyla said in her confused state, “I don’t know.” Marko saw in her watering eyes that she was going to collapse. He guided her back into the bar.

“Where’s Bandit?” Nyla asked.

“I’m not sure,” Marko said, “he was out of town on business. I’ll take you up to his apartment and you can take a bath. I’ll stay down here and make sure the coast is clear. Call me if you need anything?”

He carried her up the stairs and opened the door for her. She stumbled but found her footing and made it directly to the bathroom where the water was running. There were candles lit on the counter and the edge of the tub. A tall delicate glass held a White Russian made with her favorite, Absolute, rested on the sink, ice still clinking against the sides. He couldn’t be far away.

Picking Up Love In All The Wrong Places

Marko closed the Cantina down after the last drunk had moseyed out of the parking lot. A couple of Softail riders were too hammered to straddle their black scoots. Marko slipped them into the Cantina garage and called them a cab. Bandit had a regular account with Yellow Cab of Long Beach. Marko scratched his short graying waves as the last car pulled out of the lot. He watched a fighting couple depart, pick-ups with new girls or guys, new affairs blossoming and wished he was in one of those cars.

He needed a woman rarely and usually just for sex. They were generally too much trouble and not good at being male companions. He was a loner who moved fast and enjoyed being free to do whatever he wanted whenever, but he felt alone. As the fog pushed on shore from the west at 2:30 in the morning, he wanted a woman to touch, just for the night. He wandered through the parking lot picking up trash and looking for drunk strays. There was one van still in the parking lot empty. He checked it out and wandered on.

Inside Nyla wondered about the flirtatious girl at the bar and what it would have been like to make love to her. She was seriously attracted to women, but a novice at being a lesbian. She grumbled to herself as she wiped down the bar with a wet soapy cloth and followed it with a dry one. She took a great deal of pride in the Cantina and her relationship with Bandit. In general, she disliked and distrusted men except for Bandit and Marko. Bandit rescued her from an abusive marriage and allowed her to pursue her penchant for women unabated. She went to the back of the kitchen into the supply room and put a handful of bar rags in the rusting washer along with aprons and table cloths. The washer rumbled and it reminded her of a motorcycle firing to life. Something disturbed her and she spun in the empty storage room just off the galley. She peered in the darkened kitchen of tile and stainless steel but couldn’t see anything and didn’t notice that the door leading to the trash containers outside the Cantina was ajar. She could smell the wafting disinfectant used to clean the kitchen and a dampness filled the air with dense humidity. Everything was still wet from the cooks cleaning the kitchen.

Nyla sighed thinking about Sparkle’s tender cleavage. She pulled her card out of her breast pocked and reviewed the line, “Your Fetish Is Mine”. It made her tingle and she grazed one of her own soft breasts with her hand. Her nipple hardened and she thought about the girls pierced nipples and her smile that said she wanted Nyla to do anything to her she desired and boy did she. She could still smell the girl’s soft feminine perfume as she turned back to the washer and slipped the card into the pocket on her skirt. She heard something again and began to turn. It was too late.

The sticky-backed duck tape blurred her vision in a instant and lit on her lips sealing her voice for ever more. She instinctively reached for the tape tearing at the edges with her manicured nails, but two muscular hands snatched hers away driving her pelvis against the washer causing it to jump then continue to vibrate beneath her. He yanked her hands behind her waist tearing her limbs at her shoulder joints and snapped a tie-wrap around her wrist pulling it painfully tight, then another matched the first one only tighter. The silent intruder shoved her face against the warm porcelain coated washer top and pushed her short ruffled skirt up over her ass. He spoke for the first time as he yanked her panties down. He huffed like a valve releasing steam, “Oh, nice ass, bitch.”

She could hear the fly of his pants opening. She attempted to stand and push away from the jiggling washer. He cracked her along side the head with a blunt instrument. “Don’t fight me bitch, if you want to live to see the morning,” he snapped. “You should have been a better bartender. I like my Jack quick!”

Picking Up Love In All The Wrong Places

Marko closed the Cantina down after the last drunk had moseyed out of the parking lot. A couple of Softail riders were too hammered to straddle their black scoots. Marko slipped them into the Cantina garage and called them a cab. Bandit had a regular account with Yellow Cab of Long Beach. Marko scratched his short graying waves as the last car pulled out of the lot. He watched a fighting couple depart, pick-ups with new girls or guys, new affairs blossoming and wished he was in one of those cars.

He needed a woman rarely and usually just for sex. They were generally too much trouble and not good at being male companions. He was a loner who moved fast and enjoyed being free to do whatever he wanted whenever, but he felt alone. As the fog pushed on shore from the west at 2:30 in the morning, he wanted a woman to touch, just for the night. He wandered through the parking lot picking up trash and looking for drunk strays. There was one van still in the parking lot empty. He checked it out and wandered on.

Inside Nyla wondered about the flirtatious girl at the bar and what it would have been like to make love to her. She was seriously attracted to women, but a novice at being a lesbian. She grumbled to herself as she wiped down the bar with a wet soapy cloth and followed it with a dry one. She took a great deal of pride in the Cantina and her relationship with Bandit. In general, she disliked and distrusted men except for Bandit and Marko. Bandit rescued her from an abusive marriage and allowed her to pursue her penchant for women unabated. She went to the back of the kitchen into the supply room and put a handful of bar rags in the rusting washer along with aprons and table cloths. The washer rumbled and it reminded her of a motorcycle firing to life. Something disturbed her and she spun in the empty storage room just off the galley. She peered in the darkened kitchen of tile and stainless steel but couldn’t see anything and didn’t notice that the door leading to the trash containers outside the Cantina was ajar. She could smell the wafting disinfectant used to clean the kitchen and a dampness filled the air with dense humidity. Everything was still wet from the cooks cleaning the kitchen.

Nyla sighed thinking about Sparkle’s tender cleavage. She pulled her card out of her breast pocked and reviewed the line, “Your Fetish Is Mine”. It made her tingle and she grazed one of her own soft breasts with her hand. Her nipple hardened and she thought about the girls pierced nipples and her smile that said she wanted Nyla to do anything to her she desired and boy did she. She could still smell the girl’s soft feminine perfume as she turned back to the washer and slipped the card into the pocket on her skirt. She heard something again and began to turn. It was too late.

The sticky-backed duck tape blurred her vision in a instant and lit on her lips sealing her voice for ever more. She instinctively reached for the tape tearing at the edges with her manicured nails, but two muscular hands snatched hers away driving her pelvis against the washer causing it to jump then continue to vibrate beneath her. He yanked her hands behind her waist tearing her limbs at her shoulder joints and snapped a tie-wrap around her wrist pulling it painfully tight, then another matched the first one only tighter. The silent intruder shoved her face against the warm porcelain coated washer top and pushed her short ruffled skirt up over her ass. He spoke for the first time as he yanked her panties down. He huffed like a valve releasing steam, “Oh, nice ass, bitch.”

She could hear the fly of his pants opening. She attempted to stand and push away from the jiggling washer. He cracked her along side the head with a blunt instrument. “Don’t fight me bitch, if you want to live to see the morning,” he snapped. “You should have been a better bartender. I like my Jack quick!”

When The Stars Ain’t Right

Half-hour before last call, Marko roamed the Cantina floor. He wasn’t a bad looking guy, about 6’2″, weighing 215. He was constantly in fighting shape, training and taking stunt work on the side. He had little use for women since he was dumped in his mid-20s. That was enough for him. He learned lessons well and only once, but when he wanted a piece of ass his senses were on alert.

Two hot babes were bellied up to the bar and one was knocking back sweet drinks like a kid in a candy store with an unlimited budget. The other one, her sister, slightly taller and much more trimmed, sipped at a glass of water sporting a lemon wedge and listened to her younger sister snivel about the men who had plugged her only to dump her pregnant and leave her to handle the rest. She had two kids with two different dads. She was a woman who didn’t learn lessons ever when it came to sex. Marge on the other hand, had played all her sexual cards much closer to her slight chest. She trained, went to school and ducked most relationships.

After Marko was cut to the quick by the brunette’s acerbic response to his blunt approach, he stepped back, took his rounds and regrouped. “Whatta ya say we have a quickie after the bar is closed,” Marko said, trying to capture her attention over the blaring jukebox.

“What did you say?” Marge said, spinning in his direction. Her sister lifted her liquor-soaked eyebrows and tried to assess the man that was disturbing her conversation. “Isss he cute?” she muttered, unable to focus.

“You heard what I said,” Marko spoke in his over-confident manner.

“No I didn’t,” Marge said directly; her eyes were a bright crystal blue as if inherently cold.

Marko had little or no patience in his formula that lead to no tact. “How about a quick blow job so you can drive your sister home.”

“Isss heard that,” the sister slurred, spinning and almost falling off her stool. She had bigger tits that flopped around in her blouse unhindered and her ass was larger, but she was still cute.

“It’s OK, Sheila,” Marge said, pushing her back toward her drink. She was fuming, her face was flushed and her eyes were slightly red from the smoky Cantina interior. “I don’t know how to acknowledge that last ridiculous statement.”

“It’s just sex,” Marko said. “We’ll just have a little fun. Hell, if you can’t drink you might as well fuck.”

“Are you always this subtle?” Marge questioned, looking at Marko’s fair, to the point of being blotchy, skin. He was young for salt-and-pepper hair and moved with confidence.

“I’m generally not so cordial,” Marko said. “I don’t have a lot of time. Is the answer, yes?”

“No,” Marge snapped. She couldn’t believe the audacity of this bouncer. “What future is there in a bouncer?”

“Future?” Marko said smugly. “I was talking about a blow job not an investment partnership.”

The conversation was going no place and Marko reviewed the interior of the Cantina. People were rambling toward the door except for the diehards who drank till the last minute. He rubbed his goatee and pondered the situation. He needed to watch the door, and the parking lot for fender benders. He liked to see that the patrons got home safely. He tried to ensure that the right person was driving or taking a cab.

“Excuse me,” Marko said. He bowed slightly as though he was leaving a martial arts dojo mat. He backed away.

Marge turned to her sister who said, “Who the fuck is that?”

“I’m not sure,” Marge said.

“Isn’t theee just the bouncer?” Sheila slurred, rolling her eyes.

“I don’t think so,” Marge said, watching him head for the door.

Nyla poured drinks for Mandy and watched the bar as she went to the ship’s bell and rang for last call. “Last call everyone,” she hollered as Mandy rounded the inside of the bar and let her palm graze Nyla’s ass. She jumped, but a portion of her response was delight.

“We need another night,” Mandy whispered, slinging her wonderful crop of auburn waves around her shoulders.

“I can’t,” Nyla said, heading toward all the outstretched hands reaching across the bar for one last alcohol fix.

“Ah shucks,” Mandy said, smiling and heading back into the dining room with her tray and pen ready to take orders.

“Is she your girlfriend?” a girl said from across the bar.

Nyla blushed slightly and shook her head, moving to grab the Quervo bottle to make margaritas. She had been watching this girl all night. She was with some guy, so Nyla didn’t give her a second thought, but did continue to glance. She had her lower lip pierced and her ears were dangling with multiple rings. Her tits were nice and she could sense the pierced rings through the nipples that pressed against her tight top. The girl was hot, her shirt unbuttoned enough to allow her soft cleavage to jiggle into the opening seductively.

“Is that your boyfriend?” Nyla said, passing her to reach the tall tap spigots. For the first time in a couple of weeks, Nyla sensed a mutual attraction. Each day, she was horny for an untouchable girl. She wanted another woman like an alcoholic wants another drink, but she felt out of reach. She didn’t hang at lesbian joints and didn’t know how to. She just wanted the touch of a woman and the thought of it made her nipples swell and a warmth fill her loins. She knew that she watched the girls in the Cantina with the same interest as guys. She loved cleavage, a nice round ass and miniskirts that revealed long, slippery legs.

“Sometimes,” the girl said. She leaned further onto the bar. She had a punk look of too many piercings, but beyond that a cute little face with creamy Italian skin and dark, wavy hair. Her lips formed words in the shouting noise of drunks reaching for Nyla and ordering their last drinks. Her lips mesmerized Nyla and her boobs grazing the top of the bar enticed her. Suddenly the room seemed to go quiet. It was just her and this smile that would melt iron.

“Can I get a goddamn drink,” a boisterous loot shouted and embarrassed Nyla but pinched her back to reality. She shook her head and turned to the bearded biker pounding on the bar top.

“What the hell do you want?” Nyla spouted.

“Gimme a Jack on the rocks,” he barked, glaring at her, “and make a good one.”

“Yeah, sure,” Nyla returned as another patron ordered a rum and coke, then a Bud and the orders kept flying. She had a tough time focusing, but she knew time was fleeting. She bustled up and down the bar, stopping only to take furtive glances at the lovely young lass that teased her madly.

“Well,” Marko said, coming in the door after helping a couple into a waiting taxi.

“Well what?” Marge said, turning away from her sister.

“Are you interested?” Marko spat, heading to a table of drunks.

Marge just watched him move across the room with a confident air that he could handle anything. She was attracted to his tough, wide-shouldered looks, but not his mouth.

“I hate to see you go home to a puking sister and not have some fun tonight,” Marko said casually.

Her sister spun off her barstool as the lights went up in the bar and slipped and fell. Marge and Marko helped her to her unsteady feet. Marge was beginning to admire Marko’s distinct honesty, but it still rubbed her the wrong way. “Want to help me get her to the car?”

“That’s my job,” Marko said indifferently, hauling her into his arms and heading for the door.

“I’m surprised you didn’t slap her and kick her out the door,” Marge said, her ass swaying one way then the other as she lead them out into the cool night air.

“I would have,” Marko said, his eyes focused on the outline of her muscular ass cheeks dancing in the delicate cloth. “But I’m sure that would have ruined my chances of getting laid.” Marko set Sheila’s feet on the asphalt and guided her onto the passenger bench seat.

Marge looked at the big man over the top of the car and enjoyed the way he moved carefully, placing her sister delicately into the interior. As he stood, Marge slipped into the driver’s seat and turned the ignition key. The lumbering mid-’70s beast fired to life. “Thank you for helping me with my sister, but you ruined your chances a long time ago.”

Marko leaned down and look across the car as she shifted it into gear, then turned and smiled as she drove away.

“She’ll be back,” Marko muttered to himself, standing and heading back to the Cantina.

As the lights came up in the bar, the busboy dashed around, picking up glasses and chips and salsa baskets. People were heading toward the door and bikes were firing up outside, except for the black-haired beauty leaning on the bar. Marko unplugged the jukebox as Nyla busied herself cleaning glasses and restocking the bar.

“I go both ways,” the young girl said as Nyla passed. Inside she jumped, but she tried to keep her sprouting nipples from revealing her excitement. She collected beer bottles and cocktail glasses and brought them to the deep sink right in front of the young squeeze.

“What did you say?” Nyla said, leaning over the sink and turning on the hot water.

“I said,” the girl looked around at her man who was deep in a conversation with a broad-shouldered biker, “I had a girlfriend once.”

“Would you like another one?” Nyla said, her toes beginning to tingle.

“Sure,” the girl said, her soft blue eyes brightening.

“My name is Nyla,” she said, drying one hand and reaching toward the girl. Her boobs were still softly pressed against the bar and Nyla was dying to reach into her blouse and touch them.

“I’m Sparkle,” the girl said and Nyla smiled but still looked at the succulent cleavage, waiting for her on the bar. Sparkle lingered as if bending her shoulders to reveal her soft brown nipples for Nyla’s inspection, then she lifted slightly, teasingly and extended her hand. As they shook sensitively, their soft skin kissing, their eyes met and Nyla could feel her knees weaken. She wanted the girl so bad she could taste her.

“What’s happening later?” Nyla said, almost pleading.

“I’ll find out,” Sparkle said, turning her head slightly in the direction of her man.

“Does he have to be involved?” Nyla said, trying to bring herself out of the romantic haze to reality.

“No, no,” Sparkle shook her head. She was still holding Nyla’s hand and they both wanted to tug closer, but the bar prevented it.

“Can he leave you here?” Nyla said, releasing her dainty grip on Sparkle’s soft hand. She knew, but ignored that she was pleading.

“I sure would like to…”

“Let’s go, baby.” A squishy male voice interrupted her sexual haze. The biker was walking away briskly and suddenly her man had a driving desire to leave. Nyla looked at him in the amber lights of the bar and tried to assess his relationship with the girl she wanted.

“Baby, this is Nyla,” Sparkle said.

“Yeah, hi,” he said in a detached voice that almost sounded too soft. “Let’s go.”

“But…” Sparkle said.

“Let’s go,” he said, cutting her off as he pulled her toward the door. Sparkle turned and dashed back to the bar, slipping a card across the sticky surface and winking.

Nyla picked up the card and read, “Sparkle, Your Fetish Is Mine.” It listed her e-mail address and a small illustration of a nasty bitch, half-naked wrapped around the words. Nyla slipped it into her bra and poured herself a drink. The card intensified her intrigue. “Goddamnit!” she spat.

When The Stars Ain’t Right

Half-hour before last call, Marko roamed the Cantina floor. He wasn’t a bad looking guy, about 6’2″, weighing 215. He was constantly in fighting shape, training and taking stunt work on the side. He had little use for women since he was dumped in his mid-20s. That was enough for him. He learned lessons well and only once, but when he wanted a piece of ass his senses were on alert.

Two hot babes were bellied up to the bar and one was knocking back sweet drinks like a kid in a candy store with an unlimited budget. The other one, her sister, slightly taller and much more trimmed, sipped at a glass of water sporting a lemon wedge and listened to her younger sister snivel about the men who had plugged her only to dump her pregnant and leave her to handle the rest. She had two kids with two different dads. She was a woman who didn’t learn lessons ever when it came to sex. Marge on the other hand, had played all her sexual cards much closer to her slight chest. She trained, went to school and ducked most relationships.

After Marko was cut to the quick by the brunette’s acerbic response to his blunt approach, he stepped back, took his rounds and regrouped. “Whatta ya say we have a quickie after the bar is closed,” Marko said, trying to capture her attention over the blaring jukebox.

“What did you say?” Marge said, spinning in his direction. Her sister lifted her liquor-soaked eyebrows and tried to assess the man that was disturbing her conversation. “Isss he cute?” she muttered, unable to focus.

“You heard what I said,” Marko spoke in his over-confident manner.

“No I didn’t,” Marge said directly; her eyes were a bright crystal blue as if inherently cold.

Marko had little or no patience in his formula that lead to no tact. “How about a quick blow job so you can drive your sister home.”

“Isss heard that,” the sister slurred, spinning and almost falling off her stool. She had bigger tits that flopped around in her blouse unhindered and her ass was larger, but she was still cute.

“It’s OK, Sheila,” Marge said, pushing her back toward her drink. She was fuming, her face was flushed and her eyes were slightly red from the smoky Cantina interior. “I don’t know how to acknowledge that last ridiculous statement.”

“It’s just sex,” Marko said. “We’ll just have a little fun. Hell, if you can’t drink you might as well fuck.”

“Are you always this subtle?” Marge questioned, looking at Marko’s fair, to the point of being blotchy, skin. He was young for salt-and-pepper hair and moved with confidence.

“I’m generally not so cordial,” Marko said. “I don’t have a lot of time. Is the answer, yes?”

“No,” Marge snapped. She couldn’t believe the audacity of this bouncer. “What future is there in a bouncer?”

“Future?” Marko said smugly. “I was talking about a blow job not an investment partnership.”

The conversation was going no place and Marko reviewed the interior of the Cantina. People were rambling toward the door except for the diehards who drank till the last minute. He rubbed his goatee and pondered the situation. He needed to watch the door, and the parking lot for fender benders. He liked to see that the patrons got home safely. He tried to ensure that the right person was driving or taking a cab.

“Excuse me,” Marko said. He bowed slightly as though he was leaving a martial arts dojo mat. He backed away.

Marge turned to her sister who said, “Who the fuck is that?”

“I’m not sure,” Marge said.

“Isn’t theee just the bouncer?” Sheila slurred, rolling her eyes.

“I don’t think so,” Marge said, watching him head for the door.

Nyla poured drinks for Mandy and watched the bar as she went to the ship’s bell and rang for last call. “Last call everyone,” she hollered as Mandy rounded the inside of the bar and let her palm graze Nyla’s ass. She jumped, but a portion of her response was delight.

“We need another night,” Mandy whispered, slinging her wonderful crop of auburn waves around her shoulders.

“I can’t,” Nyla said, heading toward all the outstretched hands reaching across the bar for one last alcohol fix.

“Ah shucks,” Mandy said, smiling and heading back into the dining room with her tray and pen ready to take orders.

“Is she your girlfriend?” a girl said from across the bar.

Nyla blushed slightly and shook her head, moving to grab the Quervo bottle to make margaritas. She had been watching this girl all night. She was with some guy, so Nyla didn’t give her a second thought, but did continue to glance. She had her lower lip pierced and her ears were dangling with multiple rings. Her tits were nice and she could sense the pierced rings through the nipples that pressed against her tight top. The girl was hot, her shirt unbuttoned enough to allow her soft cleavage to jiggle into the opening seductively.

“Is that your boyfriend?” Nyla said, passing her to reach the tall tap spigots. For the first time in a couple of weeks, Nyla sensed a mutual attraction. Each day, she was horny for an untouchable girl. She wanted another woman like an alcoholic wants another drink, but she felt out of reach. She didn’t hang at lesbian joints and didn’t know how to. She just wanted the touch of a woman and the thought of it made her nipples swell and a warmth fill her loins. She knew that she watched the girls in the Cantina with the same interest as guys. She loved cleavage, a nice round ass and miniskirts that revealed long, slippery legs.

“Sometimes,” the girl said. She leaned further onto the bar. She had a punk look of too many piercings, but beyond that a cute little face with creamy Italian skin and dark, wavy hair. Her lips formed words in the shouting noise of drunks reaching for Nyla and ordering their last drinks. Her lips mesmerized Nyla and her boobs grazing the top of the bar enticed her. Suddenly the room seemed to go quiet. It was just her and this smile that would melt iron.

“Can I get a goddamn drink,” a boisterous loot shouted and embarrassed Nyla but pinched her back to reality. She shook her head and turned to the bearded biker pounding on the bar top.

“What the hell do you want?” Nyla spouted.

“Gimme a Jack on the rocks,” he barked, glaring at her, “and make a good one.”

“Yeah, sure,” Nyla returned as another patron ordered a rum and coke, then a Bud and the orders kept flying. She had a tough time focusing, but she knew time was fleeting. She bustled up and down the bar, stopping only to take furtive glances at the lovely young lass that teased her madly.

“Well,” Marko said, coming in the door after helping a couple into a waiting taxi.

“Well what?” Marge said, turning away from her sister.

“Are you interested?” Marko spat, heading to a table of drunks.

Marge just watched him move across the room with a confident air that he could handle anything. She was attracted to his tough, wide-shouldered looks, but not his mouth.

“I hate to see you go home to a puking sister and not have some fun tonight,” Marko said casually.

Her sister spun off her barstool as the lights went up in the bar and slipped and fell. Marge and Marko helped her to her unsteady feet. Marge was beginning to admire Marko’s distinct honesty, but it still rubbed her the wrong way. “Want to help me get her to the car?”

“That’s my job,” Marko said indifferently, hauling her into his arms and heading for the door.

“I’m surprised you didn’t slap her and kick her out the door,” Marge said, her ass swaying one way then the other as she lead them out into the cool night air.

“I would have,” Marko said, his eyes focused on the outline of her muscular ass cheeks dancing in the delicate cloth. “But I’m sure that would have ruined my chances of getting laid.” Marko set Sheila’s feet on the asphalt and guided her onto the passenger bench seat.

Marge looked at the big man over the top of the car and enjoyed the way he moved carefully, placing her sister delicately into the interior. As he stood, Marge slipped into the driver’s seat and turned the ignition key. The lumbering mid-’70s beast fired to life. “Thank you for helping me with my sister, but you ruined your chances a long time ago.”

Marko leaned down and look across the car as she shifted it into gear, then turned and smiled as she drove away.

“She’ll be back,” Marko muttered to himself, standing and heading back to the Cantina.

As the lights came up in the bar, the busboy dashed around, picking up glasses and chips and salsa baskets. People were heading toward the door and bikes were firing up outside, except for the black-haired beauty leaning on the bar. Marko unplugged the jukebox as Nyla busied herself cleaning glasses and restocking the bar.

“I go both ways,” the young girl said as Nyla passed. Inside she jumped, but she tried to keep her sprouting nipples from revealing her excitement. She collected beer bottles and cocktail glasses and brought them to the deep sink right in front of the young squeeze.

“What did you say?” Nyla said, leaning over the sink and turning on the hot water.

“I said,” the girl looked around at her man who was deep in a conversation with a broad-shouldered biker, “I had a girlfriend once.”

“Would you like another one?” Nyla said, her toes beginning to tingle.

“Sure,” the girl said, her soft blue eyes brightening.

“My name is Nyla,” she said, drying one hand and reaching toward the girl. Her boobs were still softly pressed against the bar and Nyla was dying to reach into her blouse and touch them.

“I’m Sparkle,” the girl said and Nyla smiled but still looked at the succulent cleavage, waiting for her on the bar. Sparkle lingered as if bending her shoulders to reveal her soft brown nipples for Nyla’s inspection, then she lifted slightly, teasingly and extended her hand. As they shook sensitively, their soft skin kissing, their eyes met and Nyla could feel her knees weaken. She wanted the girl so bad she could taste her.

“What’s happening later?” Nyla said, almost pleading.

“I’ll find out,” Sparkle said, turning her head slightly in the direction of her man.

“Does he have to be involved?” Nyla said, trying to bring herself out of the romantic haze to reality.

“No, no,” Sparkle shook her head. She was still holding Nyla’s hand and they both wanted to tug closer, but the bar prevented it.

“Can he leave you here?” Nyla said, releasing her dainty grip on Sparkle’s soft hand. She knew, but ignored that she was pleading.

“I sure would like to…”

“Let’s go, baby.” A squishy male voice interrupted her sexual haze. The biker was walking away briskly and suddenly her man had a driving desire to leave. Nyla looked at him in the amber lights of the bar and tried to assess his relationship with the girl she wanted.

“Baby, this is Nyla,” Sparkle said.

“Yeah, hi,” he said in a detached voice that almost sounded too soft. “Let’s go.”

“But…” Sparkle said.

“Let’s go,” he said, cutting her off as he pulled her toward the door. Sparkle turned and dashed back to the bar, slipping a card across the sticky surface and winking.

Nyla picked up the card and read, “Sparkle, Your Fetish Is Mine.” It listed her e-mail address and a small illustration of a nasty bitch, half-naked wrapped around the words. Nyla slipped it into her bra and poured herself a drink. The card intensified her intrigue. “Goddamnit!” she spat.

A Cocktail Mix Of Sexual Tension And The Wrong Lines

It was a strange off-color night. The Cantina was packed with mostly bikers, a couple of service men, and longshoremen. The night was cool, although summer was lurking around the bend. There was a fog building on the harbor like bad news to a brother with the blues.

Riders roamed in from time to time, mostly locals. The locals in San Pedro didn’t ride Evolutions. Strange, but most of them rode Shovels and Pans–about 50/50. There was one brother with a full beard and long dark hair who rode an Indian rat bike. He had no voice due to cancer. He talked, but only scratchy sounds spewed out, like kicking a bike that would never start. His bike was black, some parts with paint, others covered in grease–except for his tall apes and sissybar.

Pedro was a peculiar place. If you rode to a bike joint in Long Beach, Carson, Torrance, or Redondo Beach, the place would be packed with Evos and Twin Cams, but not Pedro. There weren’t many franchise joints in town either. The whole berg on the point sticking out to sea was old school. The night was calm enough. There were no drive-bys, no hotheads in the bar, or relationship upheavals. Jimbo and Tina had become a pair. There was something in the air though, and Marko could feel it. He didn’t perceive romance. He had no driving sensation that trouble floated in the air, but there was something. And he counted the minutes till closing time. It was after midnight, and at 1:45 he would instruct Nyla to announce last call. He couldn’t wait. He even appraised his own feelings. He was cool, he thought. He was actually looking forward to Saturday and fishing on the dock in the morning, riding to the Lighthouse Cafe for a breakfast of ham steak and apricot preserves. It made him lick his lips just to think about a Lighthouse breakfast.

Indian John had been down for a couple of months. He lived on Medicare. His Indian was his only possession. He stayed close to town except on rare occasions, like the time Bandit took him into the city to be in a Rod Steward video. His bike was repaired and on the road once again, and he was all smiles, if you could only see his teeth behind his dark mustache that buried both lips. He was a grubby sort, but loveable, and Marko respected the man.

Nyla was smiling, but something lingered behind her upbeat demeanor. She was horny. Bandit was out of town, but she felt odd about starting up anything with Mandy. There was that old adage: “Never shit in you own back yard.” It rumbled through her like the sound of a scolding parent. She couldn’t let anything come between her and Bandit, although she wasn’t absolutely sure he would care. He drifted in and out like the tides in the harbor. She looked at Mandy’s waves of red hair and that nice round ass calling to be fondled. She felt her hands itch as she dried them after scouring Margarita glasses in the deep sink. She realized the drive in a man for sex when she tried women. She admitted to herself that women were wonderful under the sheets, but she needed a girl who didn’t share the job site with her. Mandy was checking her out and that made it even worse. Those green eyes sparkled with lust.

“Can I get a goddamn beer,” Tommy barked across the bar, bringing Nyla back to reality. “What’s got you doe-eyed on a Friday night?” “I wish,” Nyla said, reaching for Tommy’s regular: Bud light. Tommy was a pot-bellied beer drinker who had a birthday comin’ up in a couple of weeks.

“I’m startin’ the celebration tonight,” he announced earlier in the evening. He went through beer like a mid-’60s muscle car gobbles gas. Half his front teeth were absent, the other jagged, but he had long thick sandy brown hair pulled in a ponytail and a full gray and sand-colored beard. He wasn’t half bad looking until he smiled. Nyla handed him the beer and held her hand out for the cash. “But it’s my birthday,” Tommy said. “Not for two weeks,” Nyla said, boldly indicating for Tommy to ante up the coin. He paid, grumbled, and wandered off. He would have enjoyed running his callused paw down the front of Nyla’s loose blouse, but she was off limits.

Marko wandered to the front door and pushed it open as two girls jumped out of a mid-’70s Chrysler. He shook his head thinking to himself that the girls were losers. The car was faded, the vinyl top peeling. He opened the door for the girls who giggled and nudged one another. He recognized immediately their elevated state of alcohol consumption. The girls had no business driving. They bumped into one another, stumbled, and yet survived the entrance. Marko took a quick lap around the parking lot. He was intrigued by one of the girls, a saucy brunette who was tall and thin like Olive Oil in a mini-skirt. She had muscular arms and cut legs from working out. He didn’t see many workout freaks in the Pedro neighborhood. As he marched passed their car, he got a glimpse of a preschool on four wheels. The car was packed stem to stern with toys, games, and clothes for toddlers. It was a fuckin’ mess. He shook his head and questioned. It couldn’t belong to the trim, tight brunette with long straight dark hair pulled into a ponytail.

Marko walked quickly back to the bar and pulled the big front door open. Rock ‘n’ roll spilled out into the parking lot. Folks were dancing, grinding their drunken selves into one another. He scanned the saloon and dining room with hurried professionalism until he found the two new patrons. As he stepped forward, the one with the narrow shape, little tits, well-formed ass, and protruding triceps turned and her sky blue eyes met his. She knew instantly that he was a man who trained regularly. She tried to look back at the bar, but her eyes remain affixed to his.

Marko walked toward her with his machismo confidence. “Who’s driving?” he said in a deep, direct tone.

“I’m not, but I should be,” the tall one said directly.

“What are you drinkin’?” Marko asked.

“Water with lemon,” she said, holding up her glass to the big man for inspection.

“Name’s Marko,” he said and held out his hand. “Ditch the drunk and spend the night with me.”

“She’s my sister, asshole,” she blurted angrily. “and it’s her birthday.” She ignored his hand and turned back to the bar. “The name is Marge.”

He wasn’t a man of smooth considerate lines, but she did offer her name.

A Cocktail Mix Of Sexual Tension And The Wrong Lines

It was a strange off-color night. The Cantina was packed with mostly bikers, a couple of service men, and longshoremen. The night was cool, although summer was lurking around the bend. There was a fog building on the harbor like bad news to a brother with the blues.

Riders roamed in from time to time, mostly locals. The locals in San Pedro didn’t ride Evolutions. Strange, but most of them rode Shovels and Pans–about 50/50. There was one brother with a full beard and long dark hair who rode an Indian rat bike. He had no voice due to cancer. He talked, but only scratchy sounds spewed out, like kicking a bike that would never start. His bike was black, some parts with paint, others covered in grease–except for his tall apes and sissybar.

Pedro was a peculiar place. If you rode to a bike joint in Long Beach, Carson, Torrance, or Redondo Beach, the place would be packed with Evos and Twin Cams, but not Pedro. There weren’t many franchise joints in town either. The whole berg on the point sticking out to sea was old school. The night was calm enough. There were no drive-bys, no hotheads in the bar, or relationship upheavals. Jimbo and Tina had become a pair. There was something in the air though, and Marko could feel it. He didn’t perceive romance. He had no driving sensation that trouble floated in the air, but there was something. And he counted the minutes till closing time. It was after midnight, and at 1:45 he would instruct Nyla to announce last call. He couldn’t wait. He even appraised his own feelings. He was cool, he thought. He was actually looking forward to Saturday and fishing on the dock in the morning, riding to the Lighthouse Cafe for a breakfast of ham steak and apricot preserves. It made him lick his lips just to think about a Lighthouse breakfast.

Indian John had been down for a couple of months. He lived on Medicare. His Indian was his only possession. He stayed close to town except on rare occasions, like the time Bandit took him into the city to be in a Rod Steward video. His bike was repaired and on the road once again, and he was all smiles, if you could only see his teeth behind his dark mustache that buried both lips. He was a grubby sort, but loveable, and Marko respected the man.

Nyla was smiling, but something lingered behind her upbeat demeanor. She was horny. Bandit was out of town, but she felt odd about starting up anything with Mandy. There was that old adage: “Never shit in you own back yard.” It rumbled through her like the sound of a scolding parent. She couldn’t let anything come between her and Bandit, although she wasn’t absolutely sure he would care. He drifted in and out like the tides in the harbor. She looked at Mandy’s waves of red hair and that nice round ass calling to be fondled. She felt her hands itch as she dried them after scouring Margarita glasses in the deep sink. She realized the drive in a man for sex when she tried women. She admitted to herself that women were wonderful under the sheets, but she needed a girl who didn’t share the job site with her. Mandy was checking her out and that made it even worse. Those green eyes sparkled with lust.

“Can I get a goddamn beer,” Tommy barked across the bar, bringing Nyla back to reality. “What’s got you doe-eyed on a Friday night?” “I wish,” Nyla said, reaching for Tommy’s regular: Bud light. Tommy was a pot-bellied beer drinker who had a birthday comin’ up in a couple of weeks.

“I’m startin’ the celebration tonight,” he announced earlier in the evening. He went through beer like a mid-’60s muscle car gobbles gas. Half his front teeth were absent, the other jagged, but he had long thick sandy brown hair pulled in a ponytail and a full gray and sand-colored beard. He wasn’t half bad looking until he smiled. Nyla handed him the beer and held her hand out for the cash. “But it’s my birthday,” Tommy said. “Not for two weeks,” Nyla said, boldly indicating for Tommy to ante up the coin. He paid, grumbled, and wandered off. He would have enjoyed running his callused paw down the front of Nyla’s loose blouse, but she was off limits.

Marko wandered to the front door and pushed it open as two girls jumped out of a mid-’70s Chrysler. He shook his head thinking to himself that the girls were losers. The car was faded, the vinyl top peeling. He opened the door for the girls who giggled and nudged one another. He recognized immediately their elevated state of alcohol consumption. The girls had no business driving. They bumped into one another, stumbled, and yet survived the entrance. Marko took a quick lap around the parking lot. He was intrigued by one of the girls, a saucy brunette who was tall and thin like Olive Oil in a mini-skirt. She had muscular arms and cut legs from working out. He didn’t see many workout freaks in the Pedro neighborhood. As he marched passed their car, he got a glimpse of a preschool on four wheels. The car was packed stem to stern with toys, games, and clothes for toddlers. It was a fuckin’ mess. He shook his head and questioned. It couldn’t belong to the trim, tight brunette with long straight dark hair pulled into a ponytail.

Marko walked quickly back to the bar and pulled the big front door open. Rock ‘n’ roll spilled out into the parking lot. Folks were dancing, grinding their drunken selves into one another. He scanned the saloon and dining room with hurried professionalism until he found the two new patrons. As he stepped forward, the one with the narrow shape, little tits, well-formed ass, and protruding triceps turned and her sky blue eyes met his. She knew instantly that he was a man who trained regularly. She tried to look back at the bar, but her eyes remain affixed to his.

Marko walked toward her with his machismo confidence. “Who’s driving?” he said in a deep, direct tone.

“I’m not, but I should be,” the tall one said directly.

“What are you drinkin’?” Marko asked.

“Water with lemon,” she said, holding up her glass to the big man for inspection.

“Name’s Marko,” he said and held out his hand. “Ditch the drunk and spend the night with me.”

“She’s my sister, asshole,” she blurted angrily. “and it’s her birthday.” She ignored his hand and turned back to the bar. “The name is Marge.”

He wasn’t a man of smooth considerate lines, but she did offer her name.

Nyla had poured one after another on a perfect, sun-baked weekend, but Monday was different. A dense fog hung over the harbor in the morning.

Marko looked out of his studio addition to the Spanish Cantina and watched the cold mist engulf the harbor like an evil spirit over Salem’s Lot. He remembered that as a kid in New Zealand, cold overcast days like this indicated that he was going to get a bad report card from school. A chill ran up his spine as he pictured his father giving him what for.

He?d tried to work out, but his heart wasn’t in it, so he jogged along the edge of the harbor, returned and showered. Immediately thereafter, the first sign of the evilness of the day came in the form of a phone call from the liquor distributor. The San Pedro run was canceled because of a fatal accident on the Long Beach Freeway.

The red line on the phone buzzed and Marko picked it up.
“Marko,” Bandit said, “you may have to hit it down to Joe’s Liquor and pick up a case of Jack Daniels and Cuervo. I think we’re cool on everything else.”
“You got it, boss,” Marko said. “That?s not a good omen for the day, is it?”
“Don’t get religious on me,” Bandit said. “Let’s see how the day shapes up.”

Marko hung up and went about getting dressed and underway. He and Bandit had a thing about days like this and he would have preferred that Bandit ordered the Cantina closed. Business had been good over the weekend and the money was flowing in. Bandit didn’t like to let the regulars down for lunch during the week. They worked hard in the crummy industrial areas of the harbor and he liked to have good-looking girls and a warm meal for them at noon.

There were no new vistas to cross as the noon hour passed. Nyla wasn’t in the best mood because she was pulling a double shift while Bandit sought a new afternoon bartender. Marko noticed that about the middle of each month she would change and any additional stress wasn’t handled in her usual gleeful demeanor. She had that look today as she moved around the bar in a sullen mood, but there was something about her shape and those boobs that overcame the outward appearance of depression.

The fog was replaced by a low shroud of dismal clouds in the afternoon that gave the harbor that wintry, East Coast feel. It made Marko uneasy.

As the afternoon waned, he hoped that Bandit would shut the joint down for the evening. But as happy hour approached, Marko was immediately called back to the parking lot as two dock workers started to argue over a fender bender. The two tried to race for the same parking space with their pickups. Was it another forecast of what was to come? As he spoke to them, Marko felt a chill touch the back of his neck and he looked skyward to see the clouds become gathered and more ominous.

The Cantina had a reputation for closing during the rain as a message for riders to stay off the road and out of bars. Marko could swear that he sensed the first drop of rain, but as he looked around the graying asphalt in the parking lot he saw no black spots to confirm his evil inspiration. He calmed the two, motivated them to share information and bought each one their first drink.

By the time he inspected the remainder of the lot and returned to the interior of the bar, the two were fist fighting. He threw them out, making the more sensible one leave the premises first, then running off the hot head. It was a bad prophecy to the evening even as he watched the redhead Mandy flirt with Nyla.

Monday night wasn?t busy. It began to sprinkle at 6 p.m. but there was still no word from Bandit. Marko noticed two bikers park their matching Softails in the “bikes only” area and strolled into the bar, nodding at Marko. The dining room of 50 tables was nearly empty yet they picked a table at the back. Blackie looked at his buddy Storm, who was down-and-out, and motioned to Mandy. She popped over to their table rapidly with a basket of chips and a bowl of salsa.
“What are you going to have to drink?” Blackie asked Storm.
“Jack Daniels neat, a double,” Storm said. His face was a poster to lost loves. He was a good-looking man under a full beard and close-cropped, sandy-brown hair. He worked on the cranes that load the containers on the ships. He was restricted from sporting long hair, but they let him get away with the beard. He had been married for 15 years, and a week ago his wife announced that she wanted a divorce. Six months prior he was diagnosed with throat cancer from 20 years of smoking. He lit a cigarette.

“I’ll have a gold Cadillac margarita,” Blackie said to Mandy and she moved away. She could sense pressure at the table. Blackie barely made eye contact with her. Since her lunch with Jimbo, a relationship was beginning to spark and Mandy was taking better care of herself. Most men noticed.

The two men kept their eyes down. Blackie was 6 foot with shoulder-length black hair, black Levi?s and a black vest, hence his nickname. He was generally a light-hearted outlaw who bounced from one broad to the next without much thought. He was everyone’s fair weather friend and had known Storm since the service, 15 years prior. While Storm was the stable type, Blackie roamed constantly, but stayed in touch.

Shortly after Storm was hit with the cancer bug, his wife contacted Blackie about his depression. She complained that he had lost all his drive and desire. Blackie took her to lunch and listened. She talked about a sex life that had diminished to zip. Blackie patted her arm and she covered his hand in hers and looked him in the eyes. He avoided her attraction at first and promised to party with Storm and see if he could draw him out of his dire mood, and he kept his promise. But Storm was lost and began to drink heavily.

Storm’s wife, Nancy, was a voluptuous vixen with large round tits and curves that weren’t hidden by her clothes the second time they lunched. Always in the past Nancy wore Levi?s and sweatshirts that hid everything except the size of her pendulous jugs. She was almost in tears with the depression and abuse Storm was sliding across the table at her. That afternoon Blackie and Nancy spent their time under the sheets at the nearby Holiday Inn.

Blackie sipped his margarita as Storm downed the Jack straight. He thought back to the times he stood around bon fires drinking Jack straight. He wasn’t up to it anymore. “What the hell is on your mind?” Blackie asked.
“She wants a divorce,” Storm said barely lifting his eyes off the wooden spool table. His large round shoulders were hunched over as if to protect the drink cupped in calloused hands.
“She what?” Blackie said, expecting this to be another sounding board exercise for Storm?s depression over his illness.
“She told me she wants out,” Storm said. “The doctor says that if I stop drinking and stay on my treatments; I’ll beat this shit. We’ve been together 15 years and now, because of this shit, she wants to split.”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Blackie said. He knew in his heart that he was no good for Nancy. He was a roamer. She couldn’t handle him, but he knew she had fallen in lust with him. He felt like shit. Blackie took a large gulp of the margarita on the rocks.
“Are you fucking my wife?” Storm said, pushing his shoulders back and lifting his head to be directly in line with Blackie’s furtive blue eyes. “Tell me, you sonuvabitch.”

Blackie felt as low as the crushed peanut shells beneath his feet, but he had listened to Storm’s depressed bullshit for months. He tried to bring the sonuvabitch around to save his marriage. Sure, he fucked his wife, and put some passion and pleasure back into her dour existence. He wasn’t trying to steal his wife. Blackie pushed his wooden chair back and stood up. “If you’d fuck her I wouldn’t have to, jack ass,” he spat.

Storm threw his glass of Jack at Blackie’s face and they went to blows. Marko sensed a tension between the two, like two brothers who needed to clear the air. He jogged across the room quickly, but hesitated as he neared the two men swinging wildly at one another. Storm cleared a shot to Blackie’s jaw and spun his brother toward a booth. Blackie crashed into the heavy table, Storm tackled him and they went to the deck.

At first Storm was on top flailing away with disconnected punches. Blackie grabbed Storm’s beard and pulled him to the cigarette butts and peanut shells scattered on the floor. “You need to take care of business and quit pissing and moaning,” he shouted as he rolled, knocking over chairs and pushing tables aside.
“I’ll kill you,” Storm muttered as he spat peanut crumbs from his mustache.

It was unlike Marko, but he stood back like a referee at a boxing match. Blackie jumped to his feet and Storm followed. He hunched over and tackled Blackie again, knocking over another chair and table as they clattered to the deck. Storm’s nose was bloodied with one of Blackie’s quick jabs, but it didn’t slow him down.

Mandy stood near the bar screaming and two other guys at the bar had gotten up and moved around Mandy to watch the action. A couple of citizens who came in for lunch were scared off. The jukebox played a Santana tune about murderers turning their lights on while rain pelted the windows outside.

Panting and spewing spittle at each other, the two rolled in the dust and crap on the deck. Blackie had on black cowboy boots that slipped against the shells, but he popped Storm again and leapt to his feet. Unstoppable Storm jumped to his feet and with his head down charged once more. “Give it up,” Blackie said, sidestepping his bull-like attacker.
“Never,” Storm said as he threw an upper cut between Blackie’s outthrust arms, cracking him in the jaw. That’s what Blackie hopped for, the passion he wanted to hear from his brother. “I love you brother,” he said, grabbing Storm’s wild swinging arm as the man burst into tears and grabbed him around the waist.
“I can’t lose you both,” Storm said.
“Just go home and tell her ‘never’,” Blackie said. “She’ll understand.”

Covered in scraps from the floor, they bellied up to the bar and ordered another round. Marko signaled for the busboy to help him clean up the mess. Bandit called down to the bar and Marko answered the phone. “Now you can shut the joint down,” he said. “You got it boss,” Marko said and hung up.