The Turkish

This is a long ass story, but written at the request of a motorcycle enthusiast (funny, there's much more motorcycle implication than actual bikes). Giggle. It's hella five-and-dime, busty wenches, cheesy romance, but that's the kinda girl I can be...give it a shot and tell me whatcha think.

When he walked in, her eyes swung immediately toward the door. He wasn’t as dirty or as weathered as her regular customers, but he looked just as mean. He took a seat at the bar, set his helmet on the counter, and cocked his fingers at her.

Not even a second look. He wanted a beer and she wanted a way out.

She set two glasses of whiskey in front of Cy and Farrelly, and made her way to his end. Cy’s good eye followed her the entire length of the bar and came to rest on the stranger, narrowing suspiciously. Farrelly was making conversation quietly, but Cy was no longer listening.

She stopped in front of him and waited. He seemed to invite distance, this one, so she kept back, glancing anxiously down the bar at Cy, who was curling his meaty fists into tight, tough hammers. She nodded at the stranger.

“Beer,” he said, barely wasting movement on looking at her. She bristled a little, used to the way bikers treated her like a servant, but no more enamored with it. Her eyebrow jumped up, a sardonic twitch in the corner of her mouth.

“Yeah, fine,” she said, her hopes for him vanishing. She turned and grabbed a glass, tilted it under the tap and filled it, drifting back into her dreamy silence. Cy too, seemed to loosen up, his fists uncoiling and his eye back on his acquaintance. Farrelly chattered on with a definite stutter; he shook when he started each sentence, so it took him a long time to communicate. But the days were long in El Paso, and the nights longer. Cy had all the time in the world. What they were planning needed privacy; The Turkish was an ideal location for miscreants, deviants, criminals, and wanted men. A shadowy bar in a forgotten place where the windows were dustier than the highway outside.

She set the drink down a little harder than she intended and the foam spilled over the side and onto the bar. She swore softly. From under his breath emerged a faint, but distinctly intentional, tut, tut. She boiled, head snapping up and glaring fire at him.

“Who the fuck do you think you are, you lowlife fuck?” she hissed, throwing a towel down on the spill and mopping it furiously. His hand snuck out and caught her wrist, squeezing it tightly. He jerked her forward and leaned onto the bar. She could feel his breath on her face.

“A paying customer…and you had better watch that mouth,” he said, voice low and clipped. He peered down the bar at Cy, who had noticed the commotion and gotten to his feet. She almost smiled; an English fella in The Turkish? She had seen some odd things in the four years she had been employed here, but this was a first. She shook his hand off, glaring at him.

“Touch me again and Cy’ll snap your legs like breadsticks, you limey fuck,” she smirked, nodding at the twitching behemoth, who had yet to decide whether he would sit back down.

“What, him?” the stranger laughed, taking a big gulp of beer. He liked her sauciness; he liked her look. She was small but solid, doggedly carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders, her head still held high. She had long, thick hair and grayish eyes that had clung to him from the second he opened the door. She was too sharp to be in a dump like this. He wondered what she was doing here, but didn’t ask.

“Cy has been known to do many a bad thing, stranger. You feel free to try that again and find out how many ways he can break you before you drag your worthless ass out of here,” she whispered, grinning at the thoughts of him begging for mercy. His face darkened, but the smile did not fade.

“You don’t worry about me,” he said, finishing his beer and setting it down in front of her. Cy turned back to Farrelly, but did not sit. She got the stranger another and leaned against the bar near him, aware that Cy was dangerously close.

“What’s your name, Britain?” she asked, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it. He shrugged, preferring to drink in silence, though watching her intently. She inhaled slowly, then ran her fingers through her dark hair. Tilting her head, she studied him, quietly approving his frame and build, his dark hair and intense eyes.

“Lola,” Cy shouted, shaking his empty glass at her; she groaned and dropped her smoke into the ashtray.

Cy banged the glass on the bar and snorted impatiently. She took long, determined steps toward him, swearing profanely under her breath. She got a bottle of whiskey and set it down hard in front of Cy; without blinking, she took his glass from him, turned it over slowly, and dropped it in the trash can.

“There, fat man,” she said, irritably. Cy’s eye narrowed piercingly and he leaned forward and grabbed her by the throat. She gasped, clutching his fleshy wrist and pulling hard. His sweaty fingers tightened—then, just as suddenly, he let her go, flicking her backwards.

“Just do your job, woman,” he said, brusquely, opening the bottle and pouring the liquid down his throat. She whimpered and rubbed her neck; then, noticing the stranger’s eyes probing their little scene curiously, straightened up quickly.

She walked back over to him, and picked up her cigarettes, turning. He grabbed her arm again, before she could leave, “Not so tough now, are you?”

His eyes were more compassionate than his grip; for an instant, she wanted to cry. But instead, her lip curled and she growled at him, “Don’t ever fucking touch me.”

From her hip, she pulled out a knife and slid it easily, superficially, across the top of his hand. He let go immediately, with a look of surprise. She flicked the blade back down and pocketed it again, eyes never leaving his handsome scowl. He clutched his bleeding hand; Cy erupted with loud, jagged laughter, mean and hateful.

She turned away, grabbing the dirty bar towel and throwing it at the stranger. Though the wound didn’t hurt too much, it bled wildly. She seemed to have opened him like a fish, blade flat. He wrapped his hand, fuming. Who the hell did she think was? He prickled, torn between his desire to walk out and leave her to this dump and an itch to bend her over and thrash her until she cried. He looked up at her, she was leaning against the bar, lighting a cigarette in front of her wicked smile. He growled.

Without a word, he caught both of her forearms in his strong hands and yanked her across the bar. Lola shrieked, the cigarette falling from between her plump lips to the stained bar floor. She kicked violently, and caught herself on a barstool on the other side; she was bent precariously across the counter, her ribs digging into the front edge. He took her hands into his wounded fist and crushed them between his rough fingers.

“What the fuck are you d—”

“Shut your mouth,” he snarled, spanking her soundly on the middle of her squirming bottom. She screamed indignantly, flailing and trying to scoot over the bar. She could see Cy watching, considering; he rubbed his ample neck and squinted at her with his good eye. She gasped as Britain slapped her harder on the left side, her jeans warming under his wide, solid punishment.

“Cy, what the—oww—fuck are you—owwww—paid for youstupidfucking—ohhhh.... Pigman—fuuuck!” she whined loudly, her backside angry-hot and her face flushed with resentment. She leaned up, glaring at Cy. He took a few steps forward, but the stranger turned toward him, planting his hand firmly on the small of her back.

“Listen, tough guy…why are you taking orders from this one?” he sneered, giving her a heavy slap where her rounded cheeks met her thighs. She squealed, her hips bucking against the counter. Cy paused, not sure what to make of this implication; he was a slow man, but big, easily outweighing Britain by eighty pounds.

The stranger returned to the girl, pulling her across the bar and dragging her bodily to a nearby table. She slipped her hand in her pocket again, but he was wise to it this time. Catching her wrist, he tucked it behind her back and searched her, pocketing the knife himself.

“That’s mine, you fuck!” she cried, shaking back her hair and stomping hard on the ground.

“There you go with that mouth again,” he said, pushing her over the table and pinning her to the sticky surface. She wailed, defiantly, alternately threatening and cursing out Cy, who had stood by watching the scene with great, though removed, interest.

“Now—Lola is it? Now, Lola, I…am…a…customer,” he said, striking her aching backside with each syllable, “Cus-to-mer. I know that fucking useless brats like you don’t understand complicated things like reciprocity, customer service, or supply-and-demand—”

She turned sharply, and spit at him, hating the very sight of him.

The sight of him.

She shivered; his eyes were fire, were ice. He pulled her up and into his arms; she felt real solidity there—firm, strong, safe. She froze; he wrapped his arms around her waist and unbuttoned her jeans. Before she could really understand what was happening, he was shoving them down her thighs and pushing her back over the table.

“You refer to customers with respect. They are paying good money to frequent your establishment. You will call me Sir,” he admonished, yanking her flimsy panties down.

“The hell I will!”

When the first of the vicious slaps connected with her bare skin, she was plunged back into reality. She was a grown woman bent over a table in a dirty bar, being spanked like a child…by a stranger.

She had to get out of her life.

Her ass was scorched, bronzed patina; she was close to tears and it was infuriating. What was that big ox doing? It was his job to throw this sort of scum out of The Turkish.

“Cyyyy!” she howled, writhing in shame. The scarlet curtain of pain was falling over her backside, leaving her thighs with a dull throb. She was aware of another throb as well; it was too much, too much, “CY!!”

The mammoth seemed to have finally realized his obligations and begrudgingly began to drag his heft across the bar, grunting petulantly for a giant man. Britain gave her one more thick slap; she groaned, pushing up against the gummy surface. He turned to face Cy, Farrelly a couple of steps behind.

Cy was a wide man; his arms hung out at the sides, fleshy muscles making it hard to close them in around his belly. He wore a dirty flannel shirt and faded black jeans. His scowl was intimidating, to say the least, the glare in his eyes present despite the patch he wore over the bad one. Britain had considered each of the characters in the bar as he stepped through the door, his senses always heightened at this type of establishment. The one called Cy was only a mild concern, but he would not be stupid enough to let the big lug get close.

Britain glanced around the room, surveying the space and opportunities. He pushed the girl back, out of the way; he smiled inwardly as she yanked up her jeans, grimacing. He knew she would feel that for a few days.

“Now, now, buddy,” the stranger said to Cy, as the bigger man closed the gap between them, “You don’t want to do anything you’ll regret.”

From his pocket, he pulled Lola’s knife. Cy’s good eye went immediately to the blade; he laughed, his loud, deep chuckle rolling through his torso. He held up his arm, displaying the shredded, scarred skin. Britain knew that the girl had done that to him, most likely to keep his filthy hands off of her, and somewhere in his chest, he felt sorry for her. It would seem that this knife would not be useful in terms of damage; it’s a good thing that is not what I had intended for it, he thought, backing up against the pool table.

Cy followed, eye gleaming at the idea of smashing the foreigner’s face in. Lola was still enraged, but beginning to soften, not wanting to see this man beaten like she knew Cy would. She watched him, hugging herself, but not feeling as safe as she had felt in his arms. Britain’s face was stone; he flashed the knife low and Cy’s eye dropped to it. Before his head could roll back up to the danger, Cy felt a violent crack as the pool stick struck him in the side of his head.

Vibrant black filled his head and he reeled backwards; Britain stepped forward, swinging the stick furiously against his knee caps. Cy grunted, dropping blindly to the floor. He reached into the ankle of his boot and Lola screamed, picking up the blue two-ball and chucking it at his fumbling hands. He growled, fingers crushed, and the gun in his hand clamored onto the ground.

Britain stepped forward and kicked it away from him. Farrelly had disappeared into the shadows, but Lola knew she was done at The Turkish. Cy tried to stand, swinging wildly for the stranger. Without a second thought, Britain shattered the pool stick across the back of his neck.

Cy fell forward, unconscious.

A moment passed; only the hint of a moment, for breath. Britain walked coolly back to the bar and picked up his helmet, turning for the door. Instinctively, Lola grabbed her jacket and followed him, spitting on Cy’s slack face on her way out. Britain heard her footsteps and stopped without turning.

“Where do you think you’re going, missy?” he asked, head tilting arrogantly to the side. She was prepared for this, but she certainly could no longer stay here. Cy would kill her when he woke up; Farrelly would tell him how it had been her to break his fingers with the billiard ball.

“With you,” she shrugged, stepping past him and out the door. He caught her and turned her to face him.

“Oh, no, you’re not,” he said, smirking at her. In the light, she could see a humor in his face that hadn’t been present in the bar. She sighed, putting on her jean jacket.

“Look, Britain, you did this. I couldn’t let him shoot you dead; you owe me,” she licked her lips, squinting up at him, “Just get me out of here and you’re welcome to drop me in the next decent place we come to.”

He glanced back at the slumped man on the floor. He hated feeling responsible for her, but all those ribbons on the bouncer's skin…the slash on his own. He shook his head. Her eyes darkened, hysterically.

“He will kill me,” she said simply.

Britain sighed. Just until the next town, he thought. Her eyes were pleading but she said no more.

He nodded and shoved her out the door toward his motorcycle. It was a custom job; a soft tail chopper, black with gold leafing. She liked him more already.

She pulled her hair into a pony tail and pressed closely to him on the seat, her bottom still warm and aching. He kicked the bike on and she wrapped her arms around his waist. She felt good, he thought, promising himself he’d dump her in the next safe town, but already contented with the way her hips were hugging his body.

“What’s your name, Britain?” she called over the engine, pressing her cherry lips against his ear.

He looked back with a grin, “Johnny. But you…will call me Sir.”