The Biker's Wench

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This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author's imagination, and used fictitiously.

Monica gritted her teeth as someone started playing Buffalo Gals for the fifth time on the off-key piano in the corner. She stood with her back to the grand old mahogany bar, elbows propped up on either side and long, full skirts hiding the heel she hooked over the gold railing near the floor. Her feet were killing her, and she wondered for the millionth time how women in the 1800's had managed to wear the tall leather boots day in and day out. Maybe they'd be more comfortable after a few weeks of wear. She wondered if she'd be able to stay long enough to find out.

The saloon was busy, dusty wooden boards creaking as several guests exaggerated a two-step across the floor. Two of the other saloon girls were flirting with a small bachelor party in the corner, their childlike giggles ringing out over the occasional jingle of a spur. They played their parts well, laughing and sitting on the gentlemen's laps with breasts threatening to spill over tight corsets. Monica fought the urge to glance down at her own chest, slightly more covered by the chemise she'd pulled up underneath the laces of her own corset. Mavis, her boss and bartender had grinned when she saw it, but warned Monica that she needed to show more skin tomorrow night. Purely for the guests, she'd explained. While a slightly more modest costume may be more authentic, people didn't come to the Fantasy Ranch for history, they came for the fantasy. And this particular fantasy required the saloon girls to be slutty flirts. She wondered if there was a spot open on the race track. At least those girls got to wear jumpsuits, even if they didn't zip up all the way.

"Wench! Bring me a beer!" Monica stifled a groan. She was pretty sure that
wench
was a European term, but why would anyone here know that? She pushed away from the bar, glancing in the direction the command had come from.

Oh no.
Braden Thomas, the man her father insisted she had to marry, was leaning back in a chair sporting a cheap brown leather vest and a cheesy straw hat. He was staring right at her, a smug look on his cover model face. Looks could be so deceiving.
"Here you go, dear." Mavis pushed a round tray full of heavy glass mugs across the bar. "Don't keep 'em waiting now, you know how the menfolk get when they get thirsty." She winked and Monica took the tray, forcing her feet to carry her forward. How had he found her so quickly? She'd been so careful, using only cash, no cell-phone and she'd even ditched her car in Reno and gotten a ride out to the ranch. How did he keep finding her?
She set the mugs down one by one in front of Braden and his two friends. "Is there anything else I can get you, cowboys?" Braden returned the front legs of his chair to the floor with a thud.
"You know there is, darlin' - how much is horseflesh like you going for these days?" His buddies laughed while he just sat back and grinned, but she saw the anger in his eyes. His patience was wearing thin, and she knew it was a dangerous game she was playing. She needed to leave. Now.
She edged away from the table, holding the empty tray in front of her like a shield. "Let me just ask the bartender, and I'll get back to you on that." Striding quickly to the bar, she handed the tray across and motioned for Mavis to lean in. "Do you think I could take just a quick five minute break? I really need to get some air - I'm feeling kind of faint."
The older woman frowned. "You a smoker? Because I can't have the customers seeing one of my girls smoking. It just wasn't done by women back then."
Yeah, right.
She tried to look chastised. "I know it's a nasty habit, but I really need one - I could sneak out the back, go over behind the Double D?" No one would blink an eye at someone smoking outside of the biker bar next door. White vapors rolled out in waves whenever the front door opened or someone got tossed out the front window. It was surprising how often that happened.
"Fine, but cover up so no one knows you're from the saloon. And be back in exactly five minutes. We got customers to take care of."
The woman went back to wiping the wood down with a white rag, and Monica tried to walk normally through the swinging wooden doors in back and through the staff area. There was no doubt that Braden would come after her, it was just a question of when. As soon as she knew she was out of view from the main guest area, she ran out the back door and down the stairs, glancing quickly between the buildings as she raced behind the Double D.
And straight into a warm, leather-clad wall.
The impact nearly sent her flying backwards, her momentum stopped only by two steely hands grasping her upper arms. Thick fingers dug into her biceps and she cried out, instinctively struggling to get away. How had Braden gotten ahead of her? Panicked, she lashed out with her feet, kicking at his calves until he pulled her up tight against his chest, locking his arms around her.
"Dammit, woman. I'm not going to hurt you. Stop fighting."
It took a moment for the fact to sink in that the low, gravely voice did not belong to her ex-fiancé any more than the muscular physique. She stilled against the steady heartbeat at her ear and slowly tilted her face up to look at her captor. His face in shadow, she could just make out the harsh, angular lines of a strong chin and high cheekbones. A bandana covered his head, and a barely healed cut angled down beside his left eye. He was ruggedly handsome in a bad-boy sort of way, she decided as he finally lowered his arms and allowed her to step back. She shivered, the chilled night air reminding her that she'd forgotten to bring a coat. Not that it mattered. She'd have to leave now, so getting fired was the least of her concerns.
"Where's the fire?" He reached into his jacket and took out a pack of cigarettes, placing one between his lips. She waited for him to produce a lighter, but he put the pack away and then reached up to twist the filter end until an orange glow appeared at the tip.
She frowned. "What kind of a cigarette is that?"
He took it out of his mouth, blowing a thin stream of smoke into the air before he held the small stick out to her. "The kind that doesn’t make other people sick. Theoretically speaking." Turning the hard plastic piece over in her fingers, she sniffed at first one end, then the other, and twisted the end. The light went out, and she handed it back to him.
"So where does the smoke come from?" In spite of herself, she leaned forward as he turned it back on and placed it between his lips. His cheeks hollowed as he inhaled, then lowered the cigarette and blew out a long stream of smoke into the air over her head.
"It's water vapor. We tried running the bar without smokes, but the customers complained that it wasn't realistic. So the boss found these so we could smoke 'em inside." He surveyed her, his gaze moving slowly down and back up her body as if she were a piece of art. "You work in the saloon. Where were you headed just now?"
Damn. She'd forgotten about Braden for a moment. He'd be coming any minute. "Um...I need to go to the dorm." Edging to the side, she snuck a peek down the alley, turning back to find him blocking her path. "I just need to get something..." Like clothes, so she could bum a ride back to Reno with one of the guests. It was past time to go. She moved to step around him, and he moved in front of her again.
"Shifts aren't over until ten." The casual comment had an authoritative edge to it that gave her pause, even as she looked down the alley again. There was no mistaking the tall, lanky shadow coming towards them, and her heart raced as time ran out.
Glancing back at the biker, she kept her voice low. "Please - I don't know who you are, but I really have to get out of here. There's a man looking for me...well, he found me here, and I really need to go. Right now. I --"
"There you are, Monica." Braden stepped out of the alley and reached for her arm. "Let's just stop all this nonsense and go home now, shall we? You're father is very worried, and we've got a wedding to plan."
She backed away, her shoulder pressing into the corner of the saloon. "I'm not going anywhere with you. And my father can just go to hell. Leave me alone!" She pivoted on the edge of the building and turned to run, catching a heel in the hem of her dress. Hitting the ground hard, she rolled a few times, then pushed up on her elbows and got to her feet just as Braden grabbed her arm. She pulled, but couldn't twist out of his iron grasp.
Behind her, someone wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her backwards. "Get your hands off my woman."
Confusion, fear and anger all flickered across Braden's face as he let go, taking a step back. "Who the hell are you?"
The biker casually flung an arm around her shoulders. "Harley Majors - I own this place. I'd ask who you are, but frankly, I don't care. You're leaving."
"That's my fiancée you're wrapped around friend, so just hand her over and we'll get out of your hair."
Harley glanced down at the woman tucked securely under his arm - Monica, the man had called her. This close he could see the weary lines on her face and the haunted, fearful look in her chocolate-brown eyes. He wondered how long she'd been running from this guy and more importantly, what kind of trouble he was getting himself into by helping her out. The last three women he’d gotten close to had done their best to ruin his name and take him for everything he was worth. Stepping in this time had been instinctive, and it was probably going to bite him in the ass.
Then she pressed closer against him, sliding a hand around his waist, and he knew what he had to do. "You're not my friend, sir - and she's not your fiancée either. It's time you moved on. She's with me now, and you're not welcome back. Hit the road, or I'll have you escorted off my property." He moved in front of Monica, hoping Tony and Elvis would come looking for him soon. His lawyers had warned him against hitting anyone else after the last one nearly got the ranch in the law suit. It would have helped if the guy's wife hadn't lied about her role in the affair.
"You don't know who you're messing with, Mr. Majors." The man shook a finger in Harley's face, a gesture that once would have earned him a broken digit. "You just made the worst mistake of your life. And you." He peered around Harley's shoulder where Monica was standing. "This isn't over. It's never going to be over until you come home and do what's right."
"Go to hell, Braden."
Harley hid a smile at her command, relieved to see his two bouncers striding down the alley towards them. "I believe these two will be happy to escort you," he said, pointing over Braden's shoulder. Braden glanced at Monica one last time then stalked off, pushing between the two bouncers who followed him out. Harley watched until they got to the main road. Clearly the woman needed help, and a radical idea that just might benefit both of them whispered through his head. He’d been considering it for awhile now, but hadn’t been happy with the choices available. With this woman though, it just might work.
He swore under his breath when he turned to find the area deserted. He pulled his cell phone out of his jacket, shaking his head as he started walking towards the staff quarters. Out here, it made sense to have the staff stay on site all the time, so room and board was provided.
"Cindy? Harley. I need a new employee's room number - I don't know her last name, but her first name is Monica." He waited while she looked up the record, then disconnected and called the bar to let them know he wouldn't be back tonight. The more he thought about it, the more he was sure his idea would work. As long as she would agree not to fall in love with him, that is.
He found room number 502, and hesitated only a moment before rapping three times on the metal door.