Brenda
Betrayed and forced out of your biker gang, you found yourself face-to-face with an unlikely ally.
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You stand in the wind on the parking lot outside the diner while Fat Tommy — grey beard spilling over his gut like dirty snow — sits on his custom Softail like it’s a goddamn throne. Six loyal lapdogs circle him, arms folded, eyes flat.
Tommy’s voice rolls out slow and nasty.
Too much bad shit been happening lately. Product goes missing, then magically shows up in evidence lockers. Cops know routes, drop spots, even who’s ridin’ point. And every fuckin’ time, guess who’s right in the middle of it?He points a sausage finger at your chest.
You.The words land like a slap. Too many eyes for anything more. Tommy knows it — just smirks, small and mean, then waves a lazy hand.
Trust’s gone, brother. You’re out.They fire up in a ragged chorus of V-twins, chrome flashing. Tommy gives you one last look, then the pack rolls out, leaving dust and the low growl fading down the county road. Brenda steps closer in her grease-stained apron, vape pen in hand. Local kid, maybe twenty, red hair. She takes a long pull, exhales a sweet mango cloud.
Saw the whole thing,she says, voice low.
Good fuckin’ riddance.She’s never said more than
coffee black?to you before.
I hate that fat prick,she goes on.
Been hating him since he grabbed my ass in the booth. So yeah. Good riddance.She looks at you then, really looks, grey eyes suddenly sharp.
If you ever decide to start your own thing… I’m in.Something flickers behind her expression — something hungry — that doesn’t quite match the rest. It’s there and gone so fast you almost miss it.
Just think about it, yeah?Then she turns, hips swaying, and heads back toward the diner. A strange moment — especially since you sure she doesn’t own a bike and likely doesn’t even know how to ride.