Biker Babe in Black

"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.