A Café with a View

Part 3 of 3 - Up Close and Personal

Copyright © Kingswoman 2015

Many thanks again to Mick and to J.

*****

(Note for American readers: 'shite' is a lower class British way of saying 'shit', usually as an adjective rather than a noun.)

I was surprised to hear a car coming up the track, the Thursday after I'd lured the Fat Boy riding Harley Owner Guy into fucking me in the arse. But fuck me, I was totally gobsmacked when I looked out of the window and saw the HOG getting out of a Skoda Fabia estate car.

TBH, I never would have pinged the HOG for a Skoda driver. Mercedes-Benz cabriolet would've been my guess.

I had last seen the HOG slinking out of the café, so fucking upset that he couldn't even look me in the eye. I never thought I'd see him again. When I saw he'd come back to the café, I suddenly felt so excited and happy.

I'd been down ever since the HOG and his Italian pal had motored off out of my life. I told my mate Jan all about it, of course, about what a laugh I had fucking two blokes at once. How the HOG kissed me. How I felt totally fucking laid open. Maybe it was because it was the first time I'd done two blokes at once. Or being fucked in the arse makes you feel more ... vulnerable.

Jan laughed and said I was finally over what That Turd had done to me, which didn't make any fucking sense. (That Turd was what she called my ex. She said he was too crap to have a real name.)

I started to go for the door, to run out to the HOG. But then I felt worried. He wasn't on his Harley Davidson Fat Boy and he was dressed in a fucking suit and tie. (Some kind of shimmering pale grey. I have to say, it looked fucking fine on him - although I prefer him in his weatherproofs of course.) I knew that if the HOG had decided to come back and give me another fuck he wouldn't have come in a car, wearing a suit - on a Thursday. He'd have motored up on his Fat Boy on Saturday, pretending he was just passing through.

Although, frankly, the HOG could fucking come and fuck me any fucking day of the fucking week, if you know what I mean.

A fucking suit spelt authorities and trouble. Had someone's kids seen more than they show in the government approved sex education videos, and was the HOG a social worker come to ... no, that didn't make any sense.

I stood by the window, waiting anxiously for the HOG to come in the café. He had got distracted and was walking to the side of the clearing. Shit. I remembered then that I'd left my bike there. Usually I put it round the back of the café but as I was just working out my two weeks' notice after resigning, I'd stuck it in the front.

The HOG stood looking my wheels over. Then he turned and came up to the café. I moved behind the counter and stood in front of the red and black Gaggia espresso maker, wiping my sweating palms on my crappy little black dress.

"Hullo," I said brightly when the HOG came in, pretending like I didn't know him. "Cappuccino? Latte?"

"Is that your bike?" he said.

"Yeah, why," I said chirpily. "D'you want to buy it?"

"You'd be willing to sell that?" he asked incredulously.

"Uh ... no," I admitted.

"What is it?" he said. "Where did you get it?"

"Deus ex Machina Grievous Angel," I muttered. I hung my head and said sulkily: "It's all my ex-husband left when he died."

"Oh fuck," the HOG said, looking stricken. "I'm so sorry."

"Oh no," I said quickly, lifting my head up so he could see I wasn't crying or anything. "Best day of my fucking life when I found out he'd taken a header off a cliff and broken his neck. He always took good care of the bike; there was barely a scratch on that luckily."

The HOG looked like his face was trying to process six different emotions at once. I realised I hadn't explained things as well as I had hoped. In embarrassment I turned round and put a coffee on. He didn't really need to order. I knew the HOG wasn't a cappuccino drinker; he'd want his coffee stronger.

The HOG sat carefully down at a table and put a briefcase on it in front of him. A fucking briefcase! Jesus H. Christ. How bad was this going to be? Was he going to sue me for coercing him into that arse-fuck? He didn't look like a lawyer, in spite of the suit, but you never fucking know, do you.

I carried on babbling about That Turd, to keep the HOG from saying something that would finally show me he had not come driving all the way out here in a Skoda Fabia estate car to fuck me in the arse again.

"I met my ex-husband when I was not long out of school. I never got much out of school. I was the one they said was the fucking slag of the year, I dunno why. I didn't really sleep around, I didn't even talk about it like some of the girls did, but they made out I was a tart and would drop my knickers for anyone." The coffee trickled blackly out of the spouts. I frothed up the hot milk with a hiss. I had run a couple of cups through the machine that morning; I always did that to keep it sweet.

I went once by mistake into one of those lahdida posh cafés in the city. They did the coffee with heart and fern patterns in it! I thought that was so fucking nice. I blagged the guy into showing me how he did it. I think he just liked it that someone was interested, cuz I was so interested I forgot to offer him a fuck for it and he never tried it on, just showed me how you make those patterns.

OK! OK! yes, I was doing a fucking heart in the HOG's coffee. OMG, I'm like blushing now to think of it, how naff was that. I just did it, like I would do a fern for the regular tourists.

I lifted my head from the coffee machine and saw out of the windows a breeze make the green leaves dance. It was as if I realised for the first time that the fucking awful time I had at school hadn't been my fault. "I suppose ... I was pretty," I know my voice had a note of surprise in it, to suddenly realise that. "Maybe some of the lads wanted to fuck with me, so they pretended I was easy. Then they were pissed off if I wouldn't, so they slagged me down. And the girls were jealous."

I brought the coffee over, with my heart in it, and put the round white cup down in front of the HOG.

The HOG looked up at me as I put the coffee in front of him like he didn't want to hear more but he really did. I pushed the sugar at him but he shook his head. Only took sugar in tea, apparently, I noted.

"My ex-husband was in a bikers' gang," I said, sitting down opposite the HOG. There was no fucking nice way to tell him what I had got to say so I just tried to tell it as quickly and painlessly as possible. "You need a woman to get into the gang, you have to ... let the other men fuck her. He picked me up for that." The HOG made a move like he was going to put his hand over my hand but I moved my hand and folded it with the other hand in my lap. If he was kind to me I would cry too hard to tell him about it. I had cried enough about what happened to me. It was over. I just wanted to tell him about it so he'd understand and then I could try for an honest fuck with him.

"I was just a thing to my ex-husband. He treated the bike better 'n he treated me. But at school I was nothing. At least I was something to my ex. And I thought ... I thought it was fucking cool. When I rode pillion behind him past those tossers and frigid bitches who made my life a misery at school, they were envious.

"But a man like that doesn't treat you like a frigging person," I said, not looking at the HOG's face. "It was rough. Especially for someone young and pretty. He put me around all over; it gave him status to have this fucking young cutie who would put out to whoever he said could fuck her. I didn't mind the fucking around, I thought that was cool 'n all - 'socially subversive'," I made a face and then laughed. When they talked about 'subversion through art' on my modules, I used to just put my head down so they couldn't see me laughing. "Slowly I began to want to fuck who I wanted, not who he wanted me to fuck, and then he beat me.

"I only thought about leaving twice. Once was three months after I'd met him. This lad from school ... came looking for me. We only had a bit of a chat but my ex-husband saw us and came after him with a length of chain. I managed to hold him off. I thought he would beat me up instead. The next day, he asked me to marry him. "

I sighed and looked up at the ceiling so that the tears wouldn't spill out of my eyes.

"I thought it meant he loved me," I said. "I was so fucking happy that someone loved me. I suppose he did love me in a way. But it was bad news for me. He loved me not for myself but like I was part of him. He would do anything not to let me get away, because that would mean he would lose face. I was like his pretty face. He would do anything - beat me, even kill me - rather than lose face."

"Did he do that to you?" the HOG said in a husky voice, like he too was trying not to cry. Clumsily he gestured at my cheek.

"Yeah, sure," I said, like I didn't care. "He was drunk. He was always drunk. He was always fucking pissed off about something and taking it out on whoever was nearest. I was nearest.

"When you're living like that, you get hooked on it. The adrenaline is like a drug. It doesn't make you happy but after a while you can't function without the drama and the crises. There's the fear too, wondering when the temper is going to build up and blow and you'll get it in the neck. Sometimes it would get so bad, waiting and waiting, that I would do something to provoke him. Just to get it over with. And sometimes I thought I wanted to die. It was like living in Hell and you can't get away.

"But I got away," I said, turning my head down and looking fiercely into the HOG's watery blue eyes. "It was the second ... no, it was the third time he'd put me in hospital. I lost another baby. My mate Jan had come in to help me. My ex was nowhere to be seen, of course. He knew I wouldn't file charges. I'd never dare. It wasn't just him, the whole gang would make sure I didn't live to testify.

"Jan was sick of seeing me like it. She'd been offered a home for her and Mickey. It was all the way down here, far from where we lived. Well, that suited her. She told me, she was going. She said if I wanted, I could come with her but she would never come to see me in hospital again. I must get away somehow. She said she couldn't risk That Turd - that's what she calls him, being anywhere near Mickey.

"I lay there for a week without any visitors. I waited for That Turd to come to see me but he didn't. I realised I had to choose between him and Jan, between death and life. The police and domestic abuse workers were coming round to try to talk me into testifying. I was terrified he would find out and think I'd split on him. I skipped out one night with stitches poking out of my face and all I had in a plastic bag. I hitched down here to Jan. I got jobs in burger bars and takeaway places, working double shifts till I saved enough for a deposit on my own place.

"About a year later, a couple of the lads showed up. I was fucking shitting myself, thought I was going to be dead in a ditch with my face slashed to ribbons. But then I saw one of the lads was riding my ex-husband's bike. I knew he'd fucking bought it. I was crying with fucking joy. Laughing and crying all at the same time. Luckily the lads thought I was gutted he was a goner. They didn't blame me for running, he brought trouble on all of us because he was so out of control. I was his widow so they brought me the bike and treated me with respect."

The HOG sat in the sunny café looking like he was going to cry his eyes out. But at least he hadn't opened up the briefcase.

"Drink up," I urged him.

Mechanically the HOG sipped at his cup. Then he looked at it as if he was surprised. I felt secretly pleased. I may be a cheap slag but I can make a bloody nice coffee.

"Well then," I said breezily. "That's me. What's your story?"

The HOG looked over the white rim of his cup at me. His blue eyes were still watering. He put the cup carefully down on its saucer, frowned and then sighed. He looked like he had come to a decision and felt better for it.

"Nothing ... much," he said hesitantly. "I've been ... lucky." I waited. I knew there must be something. A bloke his age doesn't waft through the woodland on a fucking Fat Boy without something having happened. At his age he ought to be out camping by the pond down the way and teaching his kids how to cycle, not cruising alone on a motorbike to get away from it all.

"School ... I did well," he said. He was too embarrassed to say it but I knew he'd had a nice family who got him into a good school and went to all the sports days and school plays to cheer him on. "I went to university. I did well there too." He did that sideways look, squinting quickly at me then looking away. "But ... I got a girl pregnant. I married her. Our families helped us. We could have had a good life."

He lifted his head and looked out of the window. When he spoke again, his voice had a note of surprise in it. "Actually ... I wasn't unreasonable. I just ... wanted to have sex." I waited for him to say, he wanted to have sex in a public place or with other couples - swing a bit. But then I realised that was it. He wanted to have sex. With his wife. "I don't know what happened," he said. "Neither of us had much experience. I thought we would find things out together. She didn't want to. She made me feel ... dirty if I tried to talk about it. After a while I stopped asking." The tears were spilling down his face. "She always seemed to be complaining. If she had been willing to go out sometimes: to a party or barbeque, the cinema, the beach. Or if we could have gone somewhere on holiday. All she seemed to want to do at the weekend or if I had a week off, was get me to fix things around the house and mow the lawn."

I put out my hands and he put his in them. I didn't know what to say. Fuck me, I had had a bad fucking life but his was fucking brain death. He was like my fucking mirror opposite. At least I had got an occasional fucking in my fucking life. TBH, more than I fucking wanted. But he got fucking nothing, not even a snog at the cinema.

They say love can break your heart. IMHO, it's better to have your heart broken than your bones. What the fuck is fucking sex? Everyone thinks they want someone who would be so close, to have fucking amazing sex with. Sometimes people say they want someone who feels like a part of them. But some people will nearly fucking kill you because they hate themselves and if you are a part of them, they can put all their hatred on you. Others will push you away because they're frightened and can put all their fear onto you. It's hard to find someone who loves you for you, not like part of them, and hard to accept being loved like that.

The HOG took one hand out of mine and wiped it across his eyes.

"I started working long hours," he said. "I would find training courses to do at the weekends. Then my P.A. had an accident and was off sick for a couple of months." P.A.? WTF!! I cast an anxious surreptitious glance at the briefcase. Just who was the HOG?

"A temp came in to cover. She was a younger woman. At first she seemed ideal. She worked the long hours that I did and very ably supported me." (Yeah I fucking bet she did! the gold-digging little tart.) "She started bringing takeaway meals in for us. And wine. One night ... she made a pass at me.

"But I realised," (what a slag she was?) "that if I left my wife on the back of an affair there would be all Hell to pay. I told Kristen that I was sorry. I was married with a child and that was important to me. I offered her a golden handshake to go quietly. I scaled down my workload and made a final effort at my marriage, dragged my wife to counselling. When it became clear that it wasn't going anywhere, I offered her a generous financial settlement. We're ... actually good friends now," the HOG said with a wry smile.

"Oh you have a kid!" I blurted out.

The HOG looked sideways at me. I felt fucking crap then. Of course he wouldn't want to talk about his child to some cheap slapper who'd blagged him into fucking her in the arse.

The HOG got out his wallet and opened it to show me a picture of a freckle-faced boy with a toothy grin. The kid had his eyes. That kind of hit me in the gut somehow. I never cried to talk about my shite life or hear about his dead marriage but the tears spilled over when I saw the kid had his eyes.

The HOG put his wallet away and I sniffled up my stupid tears. Hopefully he hadn't noticed, or he thought I was crying over That Turd.

God. Jesus. I couldn't bear it any more.

"So," I said. "What's in the briefcase? My knickers?"

Fuck, I was pissed off when I realised the HOG had fucked off with my Rigby and Peller knickers in his pocket. I never even bought them in a sale. I paid full fucking whack for those, worked extra shifts at the burger bar, and now I was stuck with the bra and suspenders and no matching knickers.

The HOG gave me an extraordinary look. It was sort of scared and sly. It was feral, like he'd looked when I offered him my arse. He looked like a kid who'd stumbled on a secret stash of torn porno mags.

I laughed because I realised the HOG would never give me back my fucking knickers except to personally take them off me again and fuck me.

"I hope you've washed them," I quipped.

The HOG grinned and looked away. Then he straightened his shoulders and became serious. It was as if the HOG disappeared, his eyes lost their twinkle. He became the suit.

"Miss Donnelly," he said. He boggled and said: "Mrs. ... Ms. Donnelly."

I was fucking laughing incredulously. WTF? Was he going to tell me that my long-lost uncle had snuffed it and I was now fucking Lady Poo, or what? Too bad I don't have any uncles.

The HOG got very embarrassed and a bit cross. Then he reached out and took my hand again. He held my hand so gently. Even when I was dropping my knickers for him to fuck me in the arse on top of another man, he always made me feel like a fucking Princess.

"We got your resignation letter on Tuesday," he said.

We? Who the fuck was 'we'?

"At first I thought ... it was because ... of what I had done." Arse-fuck, mate. It's called an arse-fuck, or buggery is another good word for it. "Then I realised that you were leaving because Tony ... harassed you."

He spoke like he knew Tony. I felt fucking worried when I heard that. Jesus H., when you've seen men hang together in a bikers' gang, you don't even ask if one of them is going to stand out from the crowd and do the decent thing by you.

"I shouldn't have come myself," the HOG said gravely, "but ... I ... thought ..." It was fucking obvious he had thought with his dick. I was very pleased when I realised that. I began to hope I might get another fuck out of the HOG after all. I wouldn't mind screwing him in his nice suit, maybe sitting on top of him in one of the chairs. If you do it like that, you can get good friction on your clit and a sharp angle for the bloke's todger inside you - everyone's a winner.

"I spoke to your tutors at the university." I was extremely annoyed to hear that. WTF right did he have to go and ask about my private studying? WTF harm was I doing anyone, by writing a few essays and doing group assignments about bloody Romantic poetry. (That's Romantic with a capital R, fuckface, not Mills and Boon and that shit.)

"Your tutors gave you glowing references," the HOG said. "They said you have intelligence, dedication, creativity, articulate writing skills and excellent understanding of social media." I should fucking hope I would! the amount of porn surfing I do. "I decided to offer you a management position in the company."