Den of Vipers

Flicking off the water, I climb from the shower and wrap a fluffy towel
around my body before brushing my teeth and moisturizing. I manage to get
a brush through my hair, and it decides to lie nicely for once and hang
straight after I dry shampoo it to hell. I take more time with my makeup,
applying my signature red lipstick, dark liner, and eyeshadow, making my
brown eyes pop. Some call me a typical rocker chick, fuck, I even have the
piercings to go along with the tats and makeup.
It started out as a form of rebellion, a way to piss off my asshole father
before I ran away. Then I grew to love this look and, well, now? Now it’s just
me. But that’s enough dredging up ghosts from my past before breakfast.
Letting the towel drop to the floor, I head into my bedroom again and get
dressed. I slip into matching red, front closing bra and panties. My one
vice...well, that and band merch.
I add a signed tour shirt from The Killers and tie it at the side before
slipping into some tattered black shorts and my trusty high-heeled biker
boots. Checking myself out in the mirror once more, I grab my keys and head
out, locking up behind me. I trudge down the stairs and flick on the lights in
the bar.
I saunter through the kitchen and check the alley, but it seems the
assholes from last night got picked up. It makes me wonder who they were,
but it wouldn’t be the first time someone has jumped me. Nor the last, I’m
betting. I leave the back door unlocked for Cook and return to the front.
I turn on the jukebox and get to restocking and tidying up, mad as hell
when I have to throw the broken stool out back. One goddamn rule. Jumping
me I can understand, but breaking my furniture? Not fucking cool.
Right on time, I hear the telltale rumble of Cook’s bike as he pulls up out
back, and it makes me smile, least I know he’ll feed me…unlike Truck, who
works weekends, bastard is colder than a snake, even to me, who pays his
bills and employs his ex-con ass.
I meet Cook at the back door, smiling sweetly at him as he swings off his
Harley. He groans. “Let me guess, sausage with ketchup?”
“You’re a doll.” I blow him a kiss, but he stops dead when he sees the
broken stool lying on the ground.
His head comes up slowly, his eyes widening. “Fuck, is he dead?”
“What?” I ask, way too tired for this.
“The man who broke the stool?” he queries seriously, making me laugh.
“He wishes he was, don’t worry.”