Biker Babe in Black

“If you need anything else, please let me know.” Margie Butter placed two plates overfilled with shrimp linguini on table eleven.

The customers paid her no attention and continued their conversations on the cell phones plastered to their ears. She walked away from the table and headed back to the kitchen to pick up the next order. It didn’t matter to her if they ignored her, but she hoped they’d leave a tip after they finished.

She pushed through the swinging doors and squinted up at the clock. Sweet. Only a half hour more and her shift ended.

Her calves ached, and her lower back clenched in a spasm strong enough to bring a grown man to tears. She placed both her hands on her lower back and stretched. The artillery pops from her spine brought her a moment’s relief.

“Order up, Parkay.”

“Be right there.” Margie waved her hand in the cook’s direction.

The obnoxious man rang the silver bell with the same excitement as a drummer in a marching band.

“I’m coming, I’m coming.” She hurried over to the pick-up counter.

The cook pointed his spoon. “Hey, look. I can’t believe it’s butter.”

Margie picked up one plate, then flipped him the bird with her free hand before gathering up the other plate. The cook laughed so hard he coughed over the food he’d prepared. She curled her lip and groaned.
Yeah, like I’ve never heard that joke about my name, you idiot-stick.

She held the plates above her shoulders, using her butt to push through the doors.
Come on, clock. Move faster.

One step into the dining area and she ran into a massive wall. Plates flew out of her hands. She screamed. A man’s strong arms circled her waist and kept her on her feet. She clutched the shirt of the man in front of her.

The clatter of dishes on the tile floor and the collective hush in the restaurant gave Margie a premonition of her future. She hunched her shoulders and shrunk herself smaller behind the man she held on to with a death grip. The man stood at least a foot taller than her and was twice her width, so he hid her well. She peeked around him and assessed the damage.

Oh, shit, not again.

The manager of Georgia’s Restaurant, whose walk resembled a penguin on ice, hurried across the floor. Margie laid her forehead on the man’s chest and wished the whole accident away.

“Margarine Butter, you’re fired.”

Snickers and coughs among the diners grew, and heat traveled up Margie’s neck and settled on her cheeks. She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. It’s one thing to lose a job, but the laughter from the diners over her name irritated her.

The mountain of a man in front of her flinched. Margie patted his chest. No fault of his she’d rushed through the swinging kitchen door without a look through the window.

“Look, Mr…” The man leaned over to read the nametag on the manager’s coat. “Mr. Warren. This was my fault. I snuck back here to talk with an acquaintance and didn’t realize I had blocked the kitchen door.”

Once the man spoke, Margie leaned her head back to find out who had come to her rescue. Her mouth fell open.
Holy shit.
Standing in front of her was the hottest man she’d ever ran into—and she’d run into a lot of men.

His swept-back, dark wavy hair, chiseled cheekbones, perpetual five o’clock shadow, and killer smile left her breathless. But, it was his chivalrous attempt at placing the blame on himself that qualified him as hero material. She gazed into the depths of his Frank Sinatra blue eyes, and her body instantly melted in an I-want-to-have-your-baby way.

Her hero laid his hand on her shoulder and gave it a squeeze. She forced herself to loosen her grip on him but lingered to smooth out the wrinkles she’d made. The silk of his shirt allowed her to grope his chest and find the hard curves of his muscles. She sucked in her lower lip. With her job crumbling right in front of her eyes, how in the world could she be checking out this man’s body?

The manager tapped his foot against the floor and pointed to the kitchen door, his orders clear. She’d seen it many times in the past. On the way home, Margie would pick up a newspaper and begin her search for a new job.

Her champion stepped toward the manager, but she stopped him with a hand against his chest. She shook her head and summed up enough strength to smile up at him. Jobs come and go, no big deal, and she didn’t want to see him thrown out of the restaurant for disorderly conduct.

The kitchen door stood less than five feet away from Margie, yet it seemed to stretch a mile. She straightened her back, held her chin up, and walked out of the dining room. Her performance beat any Employee of the Year award.

Only the whoosh, whoosh, whoosh of the kitchen doors flapping followed her dramatic exit. She headed straight to her cubby and picked up her oversized purse. The faster she left, the better.

The rush of a cool breeze outside greeted her. She leaned against the brick of the restaurant, and the calmness of the night washed over her. The small stash of tips in her purse gave her approximately forty-eight hours before she went hungry. She let her head fall back against the wall and cast her eyes to the sky. Two days for her to make a decision about her future: move on to a different city or go back to her family and admit defeat.

A light cover of smog against the black background hid the stars. She squinted and studied the night sky. She needed a wishing star, since hard work and a good attitude wasn’t enough to bring home the money.

A dim sparkle shone through a break in the evening cover. She exhaled and smiled.

“May I find the highest paying job and never get fired.” Her gaze never wavered.

The star blinked. She frowned and followed the direction the star moved.

“Damn planes. Figures. I can’t even wish on a star right tonight.”

The unlit parking lot behind the restaurant stood deserted and gloomy. She clutched her purse and hurried toward the one streetlight that worked. She never enjoyed the solitary walk behind the restaurant after work.

Her hair net—she forgot she’d left on her head—started to slip off. She slowed to a walk, snatched the awful thing from her hair, and let the blonde curls cascade down her back.

“Excuse me, Ms.?”

She screamed and fumbled for her purse strap. Strap in hand, she swung her arm in a wide circle and aimed at the voice in the shadows.
Oh, God.
“Stand back or I’ll smack you with my leather studded bag.”

“Whoa, lady, it’s me…Remy.”

A dark outline of a big person stood in the shadows between two parked cars. She continued to swing her purse. She didn’t know anyone named Remy, and in the dark, she aimed to disable anyone who came close enough to hurt her.

“I’m the man who got you fired.” The man stepped closer. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Palms in the air, he ambled out of the shadows and into the light. Her arm fell to her side. The buckle of her purse slammed into her knee. She groaned.
That’s going to leave a bruise.

“What are you doing? You scared me half to death.” She bent over and rubbed her knee without taking her gaze off him.

“I wanted to apologize and offer to find you another job.” Remy removed his billfold from inside his suit coat and fingered the bills.

She stood back up, her pained knee forgotten, and wrinkled her nose. No way! Where the hell did he get that idea? She held her tongue and thought to herself.
Do I look like a whore?

He held out his hand, dangling a fist full of dollar bills between himself and Margie. She snorted and stepped around him, disappointed that the best-looking man she’d ever met joined the ranks of just another jerk on the bumpy road of life.

Margie marched over to the light post and extracted a set of keys from her purse. She unlocked the saddlebag of her motorcycle, removed her helmet, and threw her purse in the side compartment.

Bending at the waist, she gathered her hair in a messy bun atop her head and slipped on her helmet. Remy, or whatever he called himself, didn’t have a clue. She’d rather purchase an oversized, gas-guzzling, ozone-killing machine than sell her body to the highest bidder.

Margie hiked her skirt up to her thighs and straddled the leather seat. Behind the face shield, a smile came to her lips at the touch of the smooth, familiar shape between her legs. Without a second glance back to check if he still stood in the parking lot, she revved the motorcycle to life and left the man and his ego in the dust.

The handful of crisp one-hundred-dollar bills slipped out of Remy’s hand, falling onto the asphalt of the parking lot. His mouth hung open, and he blinked.

“I’ll be damned.”

The waitress rode a Harley Davidson.

The newspapers lay scattered on the kitchen table, and Margie picked up the red pen she’d put down a few minutes ago. She drew a red circle around an advertisement for a coffee server in a downtown coffee house. Sounded easy enough, and she loved caffeine.

She held the pen in her mouth and punched in the numbers on the keypad of her cordless phone. The ringing in her ear rang on and on, and she bit off the cap of the pen. Doodling on the edge of the newspaper, she waited for someone to answer.
Maybe they need to hire me to answer the phone.

A masculine voice startled her out of coloring in the tires of a 1972 Chevy van for sale in the automotive section. She set the pen aside and sat up straight in the chair.

“Hello? I’d like to talk with the manager about the server job advertised in this morning’s paper.”

Another man came to the phone, and after she filled him in on her experience working in the food industry, she succeeded in landing herself an interview for one thirty that afternoon.

Hanging up the phone, Margie danced around the table. “Yes, I’m back in business. Watch out house, here I come.”

She arrived for the interview with five minutes to spare. She stood outside the Sunshine Coffee House and tucked the stray strands of hair back into the French twist she created to make herself more presentable. Confident, she pushed open the door and came to a complete stop.