The Harley Davidson Lawyer
Chapter 2
No one under the age of 18 has sex in this story.
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My powerful Harley Davidson had been disabled by the failure of a tiny piece of electronics. The desert heat had fried a ten-cent capacitor. Damn it! I had gone over every part of the beautiful machine and even gone to the extra precaution of having it checked by the best bike shops in Southern California.
Well, it doesn't solve anything crying over spilled milk. A couple of dilapidated buildings off in the shimmering distance offered shelter. As far as my eyes could see, there was no other shade from the broiling sun. Thankfully, most of the way looked downhill. I put the bike in neutral and coasted until a slight incline brought me to a slow stop. Now, I only had to push the 773-pound bike loaded with another hundred pounds of gear the last couple of miles. I removed my leather jacket and strained to move the heavy bike up what looked like a slight incline. By the time I got to the buildings, I was drenched in sweat and exhausted from laboring in the 110-degree heat. Somewhere along the way, my jacket had fallen off the back of the bike. I looked back down the road but didn't see any sign of it. I decided to get a drink before searching for it.
I parked the bike outside a weather-beaten wooden shack that claimed to be the "Deadman's Junction Bar and Grill." A dusty neon light blinking in the window claimed the bar was open. The deserted parking lot suggested otherwise. The only vehicle around was an ancient pickup truck parked between the bar and a small, equally rundown motel. The truck's hood was open, and its rusty cylinder head was lying in the dirt.
I pushed open the heavy door to the bar, and it banged shut after I staggered inside. My eyes slowly adjusted to the cool, dark interior, almost as shabby as the exterior. The small room smelled of stale beer, cigarettes, and wood that had been baked for the last century. For a moment, I thought I was in a black and white episode of the Twilight Zone, except the rickety, mismatched furniture would never have been shown on TV.
The room was deserted except for an older man who was sweeping the floor. The guy looked more weather-beaten than the building, but he claimed he was the bar and motel owner. He introduced himself as Ozzie and said he was also the mayor, sheriff, and sole inhabitant of Deadman's Junction.
I downed a couple of ice-cold bottles of spring water at five dollars a pop before ordering a two-dollar draft. Ozzie offered to fry up a hamburger, but all the water had made me too nauseous to eat.
I nursed my beer and asked about the nearest Harley-Davidson dealer. Ozzie pulled out an ancient and very dusty phone book. I would have searched on my cell phone, but there wasn't any service. I used some of the remaining charge on my cellphone to take a photo of the dealer's advertisement in the yellow pages. Next, I got a room at the motel next door.
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It was the most enjoyable shower I've ever had, and I didn't want to get out. My body seemed to suck up moisture as I washed off the crusty sweat the sun had baked onto my body. I paid particular attention to the skin under my breasts, which are almost too big for my tiny frame. My underwire bra had combined with sweat and the desert heat to produce a painful rash. I wouldn't be wearing the pushup bra again anytime soon. I should have packed a change of clothes, but I had planned on buying a couple of new outfits with my anticipated winnings at the poker tables.
I took some time to wash my sweat-stained cotton muscle shirt and my thong while luxuriating in the refreshing shower. I opened the bathroom window and hung the garments to dry in the desert air.
When I finally got out of the delightful shower, I had to spend thirty minutes getting the snarls out of my long dark hair. I was shocked at the image reflected in the mirror. The sun had aged my face, and I no longer looked like a fourteen-year-old. I turned my head from side to side and grinned at my reflection. Now, I looked at least sixteen.
My panties were dry enough to put back on before I collapsed on the lumpy queen-size bed. I used the landline to make a phone call to the closest dealer some forty miles down the highway in Needles. They had the part in stock since it often failed in the desert heat. They were willing to deliver it for a small fee until I said I was staying at the Deadman's Junction Motel. There was a long pause, and I thought I'd lost the connection.
"Hello, are you there?"
"Sorry, we don't deliver there."
"Why not? I'm willing to pay."
There was another pause before he said, "It's too dangerous. My delivery boy won't do it. You'll have to come in and pick up the part. Goodbye."
He hung up before I could argue. I lay back and tried to think about how I was going to get my bike running again. I quickly fell asleep.
At one point in my slumbers, I thought I heard thunder. I rolled over and fell back asleep. I woke up ravenous around nine at night. I remembered Ozzie's offer of a burger. I hoped the bar was still open. I fixed my hair and put on makeup. I doubted Ozzie would care what I looked like, but it was an old habit. My ripped skinny jeans were dusty, but the sweat had dried. I pulled on my white cotton muscle shirt without the bra that had chaffed my tender flesh. I could see a hint of my dark areoles surrounding my protruding nipples in the bright bathroom lights. I didn't want to give Ozzie a heart attack, but I remembered the bar was dark. I figured I should be OK.
When I stepped outside into the dark desert night, I was overwhelmed by the beauty of the stars. The Milky Way made an arc across the sky. I heard a coyote howl in the distance, and one of his kin answered. I was so absorbed in the celestial display that I didn't watch where I was going. I almost stumbled over the line of Harleys parked next to mine. The big bikes explained the thunder that had disturbed my sleep. I laughed at my brilliant deduction. Maybe, I should add 'private investigator' to the list of skills on my business card.
This time the bar wasn't deserted. Six rough guys were sitting at the bar with two biker women. It was a good thing I'd gotten the message that it was muscle shirt night because I fit right in, except I lacked in the muscle and skin art departments.
As soon as the door slammed behind me, every eye in the shit-hole bar focused on me. A thirty-second staring contest ended when a short guy with a huge beer gut suggested I sit on his lap. Catcalls and rude suggestions followed his remark. Maybe I'd had too much sun because I walked past the knuckle-dragging assholes with one hand raised in an age-old salute.
I rotated the hand with the extended middle finger and said, "Perch and twirl dickheads."
It probably wasn't the most brilliant idea because I doubted I could take on more than one of them at a time. In the movies, the bad guys circle the hero and attack one after another. If a couple of the testosterone-fueled apes jumped me at the same time, I would be in serious trouble despite my brown belt.
