She stormed into the hotel bar, fuming. Her company had sent her down to Dallas for a conference at the last minute. What no one had taken into account was the big race at the Texas Motor Speedway. Because it was a big race, and a big race always drew out all the dumb rednecks (actually, any race at all drew out all the dumb rednecks), every good, decent, or half-way decent hotel or motel was filled to capacity.
So, now she was stuck in possibly the worst hotel this side of a Mexican slum. Even worse, she had gotten the very last, and quite possibly the very worst, room. The damn thing was a hole in the wall with a tiny, single bed and no bath tub in which to soak her tired and sore body from the incredibly long flight.
She had gone to the bar, hoping for a strong drink and a cigarette. At first she had raged. Texas had gone the same route as so many other states; smoking was no longer allowed in public building. But, for once on this oh so awful trip, something seemed to be going in her favor. As she entered the seedy bar, in this seedy hotel, she saw one man sipping at what appeared to be whiskey and smoking a cigarette.
She pulled up to the bar, lighting up a Clove. The bartender opened his mouth, and by the look in his eyes he was planning on telling her that she was not allowed to smoke. Before she had a chance to protest, and she would have done so, loudly and profanely, the smoking man grunted sharply. The bartender shrugged and took her drink order.
And her disappointment returned with a vengeance. There was no wine, no martinis, none of the fruity drinks she enjoyed. Once again she opened her mouth to rage. But a soft tinkling beside her caught her attention. The rough man was shaking his nearly full glass at the bartender, the ice clinking against the glass, and nodded his head at her.
Before she knew what was going on, the bartender placed a tumbler of amber whiskey on the rocks before her. She took another, closer look at the man beside her. He had long hair, black and unkempt. His face had obviously not seen a razor in weeks. His clothes were road worn and stained. He was, to her narrow minded world view, a dirty biker.
He was, for all intents and purposes, beneath her. And that intrigued her. She was used to men her equal in society, or her betters in the corporate world. She truly enjoyed controlling such powerful men. She tipped her glass in thanks and sipped the rough liquid.
They sat there, at the bar, no words spoken and barely any eye contact made. She debated with herself on whether to take him to bed and decided against it. While he may have been fun for a mere dalliance, in truth she had no desire for any attachments. And no man could ever dally with her without becoming attached.
