he leans back and kicks his feet up onto another chair. “For what’s it’s worth, I think he got off light with just a cut on his head. Sounds to me like he needs his balls cut off.”
“Good thing all I had was a music stand,” I say, nearly choking on the anger I still feel.
Charlie grins. “Like I said, there’s more to you than meets the eye. I bet you can be a real hellcat when you get mad.”
I snort at his comment. “Fraidy-cat’s more like it.”
“Uh-huh,” Charlie grunts, his grin showing his amusement.
I glance at the clock on the wall. “Thank you for the sandwich and the company, Charlie,” I say sincerely, “but I need to start my next set.”
I watch as the strangest emotion plays over Charlie’s face. It’s there only a fleeting moment and then is gone. “Thank you for sitting with me Alicia,” Charlie says quietly, “I enjoyed it.”
I feel my lips twist into a grin. “You know, so did I.”
The next two weeks, Charlie is there every night, either alone or with the Hawks. When he is alone I sit with him during my breaks, sharing a dinner with him during my first one. On Fridays and Saturdays, I usually join the Hawks once or twice each night. I learn a little more about the Neon Hawks and Charlie shows me his bike. His “hog,” he calls it. What I know about motorcycles I can scribble on the back of a nickel, but I can tell by just looking that these are no run-of-the-mill bikes. Slathered in chrome and neon, the bikes have a certain classiness all their own. They remind me more than anything of the art deco movement of the 1930s.
As I begin to get comfortable with the Hawks, I discover that they aren’t at all what I thought a motorcycle gang would be. Sure, they’re a rowdy bunch with their ribald jokes and coarse language, but I also find out they care about one another and the razzing is all in good fun. And no one is immune. The first time I call them a gang everyone instantly falls silent, staring at me with open malevolence. I nearly shit myself and I could feel my face going pale. Just as I open my mouth to apologize, the entire group bursts into boisterous laughter. As the Hawks poke gentle fun at my panicked expression, Charlie explains that they’re a club , not a gang. I’m not sure of the difference, but the distinction seems important to them, so I take extra care to never call them a gang again.
From that day forward, I have Bobbi or Christine give me a signal when the Hawks rumble into the parking lot. It takes them a couple of days to notice that I’m playing the opening bars of Born to be Wild as they come through the door, but once they do I can tell by their big grins they’re expecting it. They always give me a salute in acknowledgement and I give them a wink and a smile in return.
Friday, as I’m setting up, I try to contain my disappointment that the Hawks will be with Charlie tonight and I won’t be able to sit with him. Well, I could, the Hawks having kind of adopted me, but it isn’t the same when the rest of the Hawks are around. Except for the occasional expletive, Charlie is the perfect gentleman around me, but he seems more relaxed when he’s at the bar alone, and I wonder why.
I’m well into my second set when I finally accept that Charlie isn’t going to be here tonight, and as loath as I am to admit it, I am disappointed. I can’t explain why, because Charlie and I are as different as oil and water. We might mix when shaken, but we will always separate again. Still, even knowing that, I can taste the bitterness of my disappointment from his absence.
Saturday I’m sitting at my usual place at the end of the bar, sipping my Sprite, when I hear the rolling thunder of motorcycle engines. For the life of me, I can’t hide my smile. I’m still grinning when the Hawks stride in, but my smile quickly fades. I hop off my stool and hurry over to where the Hawks, what
“Good thing all I had was a music stand,” I say, nearly choking on the anger I still feel.
Charlie grins. “Like I said, there’s more to you than meets the eye. I bet you can be a real hellcat when you get mad.”
I snort at his comment. “Fraidy-cat’s more like it.”
“Uh-huh,” Charlie grunts, his grin showing his amusement.
I glance at the clock on the wall. “Thank you for the sandwich and the company, Charlie,” I say sincerely, “but I need to start my next set.”
I watch as the strangest emotion plays over Charlie’s face. It’s there only a fleeting moment and then is gone. “Thank you for sitting with me Alicia,” Charlie says quietly, “I enjoyed it.”
I feel my lips twist into a grin. “You know, so did I.”
The next two weeks, Charlie is there every night, either alone or with the Hawks. When he is alone I sit with him during my breaks, sharing a dinner with him during my first one. On Fridays and Saturdays, I usually join the Hawks once or twice each night. I learn a little more about the Neon Hawks and Charlie shows me his bike. His “hog,” he calls it. What I know about motorcycles I can scribble on the back of a nickel, but I can tell by just looking that these are no run-of-the-mill bikes. Slathered in chrome and neon, the bikes have a certain classiness all their own. They remind me more than anything of the art deco movement of the 1930s.
As I begin to get comfortable with the Hawks, I discover that they aren’t at all what I thought a motorcycle gang would be. Sure, they’re a rowdy bunch with their ribald jokes and coarse language, but I also find out they care about one another and the razzing is all in good fun. And no one is immune. The first time I call them a gang everyone instantly falls silent, staring at me with open malevolence. I nearly shit myself and I could feel my face going pale. Just as I open my mouth to apologize, the entire group bursts into boisterous laughter. As the Hawks poke gentle fun at my panicked expression, Charlie explains that they’re a club , not a gang. I’m not sure of the difference, but the distinction seems important to them, so I take extra care to never call them a gang again.
From that day forward, I have Bobbi or Christine give me a signal when the Hawks rumble into the parking lot. It takes them a couple of days to notice that I’m playing the opening bars of Born to be Wild as they come through the door, but once they do I can tell by their big grins they’re expecting it. They always give me a salute in acknowledgement and I give them a wink and a smile in return.
Friday, as I’m setting up, I try to contain my disappointment that the Hawks will be with Charlie tonight and I won’t be able to sit with him. Well, I could, the Hawks having kind of adopted me, but it isn’t the same when the rest of the Hawks are around. Except for the occasional expletive, Charlie is the perfect gentleman around me, but he seems more relaxed when he’s at the bar alone, and I wonder why.
I’m well into my second set when I finally accept that Charlie isn’t going to be here tonight, and as loath as I am to admit it, I am disappointed. I can’t explain why, because Charlie and I are as different as oil and water. We might mix when shaken, but we will always separate again. Still, even knowing that, I can taste the bitterness of my disappointment from his absence.
Saturday I’m sitting at my usual place at the end of the bar, sipping my Sprite, when I hear the rolling thunder of motorcycle engines. For the life of me, I can’t hide my smile. I’m still grinning when the Hawks stride in, but my smile quickly fades. I hop off my stool and hurry over to where the Hawks, what
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