The high afternoon sun on the grey cinderblock building made it less intimidating. The neon signs boasting beer brands were dull, dark, and dead during the day. The heavy black, windowless, dented, door was propped open.
She swallowed hard as she approached. Rusty's was one of the few places that were hiring in this town. It was the only place that didn't require some education. Sarah hadn't finished high school; her options were very limited.
She pulled down the short skirt and lifted her chin. She needed this job. She needed to get out of her aunt's house. There was the only way to do it. So she sauntered into the bar feigning confidence.
It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the lack of light once inside. The smell of cleaning products assaulted her nose. It was surprising. She had expected to smell smoke, beer, and perhaps vomit. Rusty's had a reputation of being a rough place.
Once her eyes adjusted, Sarah saw that it was a pretty non-descript. Inside, to her left were a series of pool tables; to her right, a series of small tables with their chairs turned up; and in the center, was an aisle that led straight to a large bar. The bar stools were similarly upside-side down atop it, save for three.
The walls were painted black. Bolted to them, so they could not be removed, were various metal signs: old marketing items for motorcycles, gas, oils, and other items geared toward mechanics. This place was decked out with gearheads in mind.
Her nerves calmed, she could do this. It wasn't bad. She knew full well; it wasn't the location, the building, or even the decor which made the place rough. It was the clientele.
At the bar, she leaned against one of the barstools. A lanky man, wearing torn, greasy stained, acid wash jeans and a black vest was stocking beer bottles. There was a white patch above his left breast: Prospect. She cleared her throat.
He lifted his soft brown eyes toward her with a furrowed brow. He stopped his task, and came closer, leaning his tanned body over the bar allowing his gaze to sweep over her. It took a moment before he smiled. "Yes?"
She swallowed. "I have an interview." She declared.
He raised a brow intriguing. "With?"
She pulled at her skirt. She had made the foolish assumption that a short skirt would be wise to wear. She was now self-conscious and afraid her butt would come falling out. However, she continued to hold her head up high when she answered: "Charles Brunt." She declared.
The young man bit his lip, obviously trying to stifle a laugh. He pushed off the bar top and folded his arms over his chest. "Charles?" He repeated. "Brunt?" He added as if this was the most absurd thing he had ever heard.
Sarah's cheeks flushed warm, turning crimson. "Y-yes?" Her voice slightly cracked as she faltered.
Had she forgotten the name of the man she was to meet? Had she gotten it wrong? She had written it down. She had checked three times before coming in. Charles Brunt. That was what it said.
The prospect's eyes left her face and drifted lower. They seemed to settle on her low-cut top. What was she thinking? She shifted uncomfortably in the silence. Applying for this job was a bad idea.
A door, off to the side from behind the bar, swung open. Sarah jumped. The prospected turned his attention toward it.
A large man, clearly over six foot, strode out from behind the bar. He had short, cropped salt and pepper hair. The lines around his slate eyes were a sign of his time spent squinting into the sun, as did his tanned skin. He wore a full leather jacket over a plain white T-shirt. Both of which were straining to keep in the bulging biceps of the powerful man. The well-worn, dirty, patch above his left breast read: President.
He strode into the bar area with purpose. He had an air of importance, arrogance perhaps, and ownership. His gaze fixed on Sarah while stalking toward her. Her pulse quickened, and her body warmed. He was very attractive in a dangerous kind of way.
Sarah shifted her weight and clutched her small handbag. She had stopped breathing, and her heart pounded in her chest. He was an intimidating man.
His gaze was locked on her as he approached. Was she trembling? What for? The man had done nothing but walk into the room. She needed to get a grip.
He stopped beside her. He hooked his thumbs into his pockets. He looked her over. He said nothing. She said nothing. The prospect said nothing. It was the heaviest nothing she had ever experienced. With her heart hammering, it was also the loudest.
"Prospect," He drawled, eyes on her intently, "What do we have here?"
Her gaze flickered between the two men. She said nothing. They didn't address her directly.
"Says she has an interview."
"Did she?" The man arched a brow.
"With Charles Brunt." The amusement in the prospect's voice was clear.
Again, Sarah's cheeks flushed.
The smile on the man's face was smug. "Charles, eh?" He stroked his chin.
"So she says." The prospect resumed clanking bottles.
Sarah's eyes fixated on the large man. She couldn't look away anymore. She continued to say nothing. For some reason, the way they spoke about her, while she stood there, as if she wasn't there, turned her on. How embarrassing.
The man took one more step toward her, now in her personal space. Her first instinct was to step back. She felt crowded. However, her feet just couldn't move. So she stood. Awkward. Blushing.
"Pretty little thing." The man said as he brought his hand up and ran his knuckles over her arm.
She sucked in a breath nervously. She didn't move away from the man. She also said nothing while the two of them spoke about her like she wasn't even there.
"Oh yeah," the prospect agreed, "love 'em all plump like that. Look at those tits! I could drown in those and die a happy man."
Her eyes widened at the words. The warmth of her embarrassment flew up through her chest. She still couldn't move. Her brain was all but broken. She now knew what a deer in headlights felt.
"I'm more of an ass man." The man close to her said, and with that, his hand went to her behind.
The large, calloused, paw gripped her left globe. The man's fingers dug into her ample flesh and gave it a shake. It knocked her off balance, both emotionally and physically. Physically, it was only slightly, so she wobbled. Emotionally, she was terrified but determined.
"I-I-I am here for the job." She found her voice.
His hand still on her butt, she nodded slightly. "I heard, thus the interview with Charles."
She knew the reputation of this place. She had expected the men to be a little handsy. She could handle handsy. What shocked her, was that it was so soon. But she needed this job. So she tried to keep her chin up. "Yes." She asserted and tried to pretend his hand was not groping her.
His hand slid up from her rear and went to the small of her back. "Come." He demanded. "I'll show you to the office."
It was a demand. It was not a request. It was an order. Sarah did as she was told. The man didn't push her. Rather, he guided her through the door, into a small kitchen and eventually to a small office.
The walls were paneled, a pair of rough chairs with metal arms and green fabric, faced a desk littered with papers. A few framed pictures of men in similar black leather vests around motorcycles decorated the walls. A pin-up calendar from 2007 was on the wall as well, stuck on June. Two tall file cabinets were in either corner behind the desk, framing his large chair.
His hand left the small of her back, and she found she missed it already. She stood between the chairs as he rounded the desk. The office was smallish, but there was enough space for business purposes. He sat back in the chair and put his feet on the desk, crossing them at the ankles. He clasped his hands together over his stomach.
