I clear my throat and try again. "Our car broke down, and we need—"
He interrupts me, "I heard you pretty boy, but you'll find no help here." He grunts as he dries off a glass. I eye a sign on the wall near the bar that says there is free Internet and to ask for the password. Alright, maybe I can at least get the password out of him.
I point to the sign just past his head, “Could I get the WiFi password? Then we can be on our way.”
“No,” he grunts.
I try again. "Look, I don’t have cell service here, and without Internet, I can’t look up a name. So if you could help me out, that would be awesome. Do you have a payphone somewhere?" I dart my eyes around the bar, hoping to spot one. They still put payphones in bars, right?
I thank him and walk down the dark side hall where the bathrooms and back exit are. I find an old, nasty black payphone with a phonebook shoved haphazardly in a cubie under the phone. I pull out the book and flip to the yellow pages, locating the page for mechanics.
The page has been torn out.
"What the fuck?" I mutter. I don't even have the book closed when I'm pushed from behind.
I stumble forward before looking over my shoulder. A giant of a man, decked out in sleeves of tattoos and piercings, towers over me. He's got on a dingy white shirt and, of course, his black leather club vest.
"Excuse me," I say, righting myself.
"What's your problem, little man? You come into my den and fucking swear at my phone?"
Shit. The last thing I need is to pick a fight with the biker boss. I lift my hands in surrender. "I'm sorry, man. I just need a mechanic, and the page for mechanics has been ripped out.”
"You little fuck-witt, there's only one mechanic worth calling in this town, so there's no need for a fucking page of them." He's surly, and he's pissed.
I'm a little pissed myself, but I keep clam. I keep my hands in front of me and walk backward a few steps.
He closes the gap I just put between us.
"That makes sense. If I could just get that number, we could be on our way."
The biker boss growls. I pick up speed in my backward walk until I bump into a barstool. Turning slightly, I move around the bar. The bartender watches from behind the bar but doesn't say a thing. I’ve gotten in plenty of fights in my day. I know how to fight. But this hairy motherfucker is three times my size, he has back up, I don’t, not to mention, I’ve got Zella to worry about it.
I look over my shoulder, and the man is following but not as quickly. When I look ahead at where I left Zella, I come to a stumbling halt.
Just as I realize that the bar is eerily quiet, I notice at least eight bikers of all shapes and sizes gathered around her booth. I can't see her exactly, but I see hair, so I know she's there. I feel the fiery breath of the biker boss down my neck and continue slowly to gather Blondie so we can get the hell out of here.
As I get closer, I hear one of the bikers ask, "I don't understand why she would keep that from you."
Zella's angelic voice rings in response. All the men gathered around her are completely enamored with her. Shit, do I know the feeling.
"I really don't know, Stan. I don't know, I'm past that, and I can't wait to meet them." Upon closer inspection, I realize nearly everyone at the table is smiling. Yikes. Happy biker dudes, it's a strange sight.
I clear my throat, and all eyes dart to me. "Uh, yeah, Blondie. Looks like it's time to get out of here."
Her face brightens. "Oh, wonderful! I was just telling the boys about our trip."
"And her bucket list," a tiny fellow chirps from the other side of the booth.
I mutter under my breath. Leave it to her to share her whole story with a bunch of scary-ass biker dudes.
"You know, we could take care of that tattoo right here, darling," another one tells her. This particular guy is sitting in the booth behind her but turned in the booth in a way that allows him to be part of the group.
"No thanks, fellas, but we've gotta get this show on the road."
I break through the crowd. There's no way I'm letting her get a tattoo in a biker bar in the middle of nowhere. If she wants a tat that bad, we will swing by the parlor I go to on our way back home.
The biker, scooting out of the booth to let Zella out, glares at me. Great. I'm the bad guy here.
Then a gruff voice from the bar adds, "You let us help your girl mark one thing off her list, and I'll give you the contact of the mechanic."
I zero in on the bartender, and as badly as I want to get out of here, I really need that mechanic. Honestly, I will not allow a tattoo in this dingy place, so I'm wondering what they could possibly help with. I cock my eyebrow, and he grins. He's missing a tooth or two.
From the bar, he bellows, "The lady mentioned she wanted to karaoke. Let's help her check that off her list, boys."
My jaw nearly hits the floor, but I gulp and turn to Zella. She's bouncing with excitement in the booth. She's all smiles and happiness. Who am I to take that away from her?
I nod, and the group disperses in a flurry of leather vests and chatter as they set up the tiny wooden stage I didn't see in the corner.
Never saw this turn coming.
12
Zella
The last chords of the famous musical duet come to a close. I hug the burly man who just helped me nail the song. The performance was super fun and required the audience's participation when it came to singing the chorus. The man smells of outside, and there's a faint hint of cigarette, but I don't mind. We've been hanging out in Cuddle Ducks for more than an hour now, and I'm almost used to the smell.
Tiny, the man I just debuted my Grease duet skills with, picks me up and spins me around the small stage. When he sets me down, I find Ryker in the crowd. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to see that the guy is on edge. He's been cheering me on but refused to come up and sing. Every time I get up here with one of Cuddle Duck's regulars, he stiffens in his chair. I don't know if he's feeling protective or possessive, but I can't deny the thrill running through my blood.
I throw him a bone though. This has been a rough night for him, so I put down the mic and step off the stage. A few steps bring me face to face with the stressed-out Ryker.
"Did you get the contact info for the mechanic yet? I'm ready to get out of here." I can see the relief drip from him as his shoulders relax.
"Hawk is contacting him." He tosses his thumb over his shoulder back toward the bar. The bartender, who I'll be the first to admit scared the bejeebies out of me when we first came in, has turned out to be quite surprising. He's got a voice on him, too. He took a break from the bar and belted out a wonderful rendition of Whitney Houston's, I Wanna Dance with Somebody. I think the whole bar was shocked by that performance.
"That's great. What time is it anyway?" I guzzle down the water that Ryker keeps having refilled for me.
"It's nearly eight. I'm worried about how much time we lost today." He hasn't messed with his phone once since we've been here. His focus has been on me. The power of having his whole focus really boosts a girl's confidence. Now that I'm sitting next to him at the table, he pulls up his map app on his phone and studies the route.