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Experience preferred, thick skin a must.
Position starts immediately.
I’ve got experience and I’ve got thick skin. I also look damn good in denim cutoffs and a tight top. Both of which I’m wearing as I start down the street. Using my sexuality in my favor isn’t my usual style, but I’ve been well aware of how my hourglass-shaped body can earn me attention from the time I was a teenager.
In this instance, desperate times call for desperate measures.
I doubt anybody will recognize me as Pop’s daughter. Even with the same last name. While Pop rarely told me about his past as a biker, one of the few things I know is that he no longer kept in touch with anybody from that period of his life. He left his gang a whole decade before he and Mom adopted me. For the rest of his life, he stayed far away from biker anything and involved himself in the church.
But I’m going in expecting everything. Hoping for the best. Prepared for the worst.
I inhale a deep breath and nudge open the saloon’s double doors. The bar is bigger on the inside than it looks on the outside, with an old school charm about it that makes it strangely… cozy. If biker barscanbe cozy.
There are peanut shells on the floor and posters of half-naked women plastered on the walls. Some old photos of the club through the years and Steel King patches are displayed on the walls too.
Everything inside is furnished in heavy dark wood and bathed in smooth, aged leather. A huge bar area takes up the whole left side, stocked with the most alcohol I’ve seen in my life. Smoke hazes the air, its burnt stench mixing with the spicy malt notes of beer.
I don’t realize I’m standing too long in the doorway ’til someone shouts at me.
“Aye! Stop letting all that sunlight in!”
It’s a heavyset man in a stretched out muscle shirt and faded denim who complains. He’s seated at a table with two other guys equally as disgruntled and grizzly—with long beards and beady eyes.
Their stares follow me all the way up to the counter. I ignore them, rolling my suitcase along.
An older woman with box-dyed blonde hair mans the bar. The shot glass she’s wiping doesn’t seem to get clean no matter how many times she runs a rag over it. She spots me as I make my way to the counter, and one of her thinly penciled brows jumps high on her forehead.
“Hello, how are you doing?” I start off politely. “This is the Steel Saloon, correct?”
She gives me an openly judgmental once-over. Suspicion lives in her tone. “That’s what the sign says, doesn’t it?”
“Right. So does that mean you’re looking for a waitress?”
“Who’s asking?”
I stand as tall as I can and gesture to myself. The woman’s thin brow lifts even higher.
“You?” she says. “You’re serious?”
“I’m new in town. I need a job. I’ve got experience and thick skin. Seems like I fit all the stipulations.”
“Girly, listen. That advertisement wasn’t…” she trails off.
“It wasn’t what? For someone like me? No Black women? Is that what you mean?”
“Hey! Don’t you put words in my mouth!” she snaps with a sudden scrappiness about her. I can see how she makes it here. Her grip on the shot glass tightens and draws my attention to the very sharp nails she has.
Good thing I don’t get intimidated easily…
“Then what?” I ask, standing my ground. “What is it?”
“Alright, if you want me to be honest—yeah, we don’t get too many women like you who want to be here. You’re the first to apply.”
“Oh, it’s one ofthoseclubs.”
“You go talking shit without knowing what’s what and find out what it’s like on my bad side. We’ve got a couple members who ain’t White. Big Eddie and his nephew Moses are Black just like you, and Tito is like everybody’s damn long-losttío. So, take those accusations somewhere else.”
“Then you have no excuse not to hire me. I look good in these shorts. Don’t be a hater and act like I don’t. Men at these bars want their waitresses to look good serving them beer. Are you going to seriously tell me I don’t?”
